Posts filed under 'All Riled Up'
As I get older, it becomes more and more clear that I have a huge chip on my shoulder when it comes to perceived elitism, and more directly, and for lack of a more gentle term, People With A Shitload of Money. It’s hard to really pinpoint my reaction, but I’ll say that it comes in the form of becoming super-defensive and twitchy when I’m in certain towns or see certain types of cars, or hear that someone I’m meeting is FROM a certain town. I have a list of towns that I’ll never live in, because I don’t want to feel inadequate, and worse, I don’t want my kids to feel inadequate.
Now, there’s something to be said for being down to earth (I am, extremely so) and grounded (ditto) and wanting to make sure that your kids are surrounded by people who have those values, and there is a strong argument to be made that in one’s formative years, confidence may be built by at least living in a geographic area where there is a relatively even playing field of economic factors. But it would be a fallacy to say that People With A Shitload of Money automatically, by way of their Shitloads of Money, don’t have those values, you know?
I don’t really know. I just know that I have this total chip on my shoulder about it, and I am at least grateful that I’m aware of it, although that doesn’t help matters much. On the other hand, when I’m at gym class with my kid and a mom who lives in one of The Towns With Shitloads of Money announces that I should move there, because although everyone lives in mansions, they are super down to earth! And their kids wear Old Navy! Rich People: They’re Just Like Us!, I kind of want to announce that yes, but we can’t AFFORD a $3M mansion, so believe me darling, you are nice, but your breath is wasted. I’d also like to note that she said this while noting that the people in the Other Rich Competitive Town Next Door are super snobby and won’t talk to her when she goes there, and all I could think was that rich people really ARE like us, in that they stereotype just as badly as we do.
This isn’t really making any sense, is it? I mean, I have friends in all of the traditionally wealthy towns up here, and frankly none of them are terrifyingly wealthy (probably on par with us, honestly, and while we’re fine, we’re far from Rich), and they are all down to earth and well-valued, etc. etc. It’s just this CHIP I have on my shoulder about those towns that when people ask me if I’d ever consider moving to them, I practically SNORT IN THEIR FACE and announce that we’re moving to [Insert really high crime bad neighborhood here], where the Normal People live. Normal people who want their kids to be illiterate and get shot on their way to school, that is. But you see, I swing like a pendulum.
Am I making it clear that this is MY problem? I hope I am.
I grew up … well, poor might be too strong a word, but my family certainly didn’t have a lot of extra money, if any at all. (And I’m talking about my bio mom’s side, and this may all get confusing, but it’s where I lived primarily and ah, divorced families, so hard to explain.) (Also things have since turned around for them, so …)
But the thing is, almost EVERYONE in my tiny town was pretty, uh, downtrodden, in a lot of ways. At least the people I hung out with, anyway, and it wasn’t a big school district. In some ways, it was utopia, because there was no competition, very few kids had cars, and we missed most expensive fashion trends because no one could afford them anyway. I really didn’t know we were in the lower end of the economic spectrum, until it came time for me to go to college, and I had to go where I got the biggest financial aid package (Syracuse, as for a myriad reasons, state schools weren’t an option, as my mom and stepdad — my primary residence — were moving out of state, ETC OH MY GOD CONFUSING).
Fine, great, off I went. And OH HO HO, Syracuse. I’d never seen money like that in my life. Did YOU know Syracuse has a super-wealthy population? Because I didn’t, and that was sure something they didn’t explain on my lame little campus tour. Kids CAME TO SCHOOL with luxury cars. To school! With leather-interior brand-new BMWs! At age 18! I was casually in conversation with a nice young man who was talking about his father, who worked in Hollywood. “Oh, what does he do?” I asked. “Um, he’s [famous character actor],” he answered. My roommate sophomore year had a $1,000/month clothing allowance. Ha ha! I don’t even think I paid a thousand dollars a month in TUITION BILLS. No — I KNOW I didn’t.
It was nuts. I was terrified. I panicked. And while I think there were a lot of contributing factors and bad choices on my part that made my school experience a flood of inadequacy and panic, I think it’s hard not to panic in that situation, and I spent the majority of my college experience feeling Not Good Enough by the simple fact that I didn’t come from Money, or even money, with the little ‘m’ and everything. After all, I didn’t even have a beat-up clunker at school, much less a Mercedes, and besides, my dining hall work study job didn’t bring in enough cash to cover anything beyond the basic beer and pizza runs, so mall trips were out.
My summer jobs paid for part of my tuition and most of the money I had to live on the entire year. I bought precisely one pair of jeans while attending college, and I used Sun-In in my hair because I couldn’t afford to color or cut it (I typically cut it on visits home). Meanwhile, my contemporaries were composing rush skits around the fact that everyone was simply HAD to buy the latest pair of Georgia boots. I remember filling out the paperwork for my sorority and choosing a big sister, and writing down, “Please, give me someone else on financial aid, too.” Knowing how embarrassed I was about my financial situation, I MUST have been desperate to admit it out loud, on paper and everything, my God.
(They did.)
(Apropos of nothing, I did spend a significant portion of my money one semester going tanning, for reasons that make no sense to me, other than I got addicted and had SAD — it WAS Syracuse, after all, which is effing DARK)
And all this is before I brought home a boyfriend and we visited my best friend from high school (who is, ironically, now quite famous in certain circles) and when we walked into her house — which was a disaster, with ratty, ancient furniture and peeling paint and falling-down cabinets in a way that I’d realized he’d probably never seen — and I saw it through his eyes, and it was a little like my whole world just fell away. I’d never NOTICED those things before, because this was just a house I spent time with my best friend in. And there I was, mortified for her, for me, for everything. Over nothing, really, for it was all quite meaningless.
I still kind of hate myself for that moment.
What’s crazy is that I still haven’t really gotten over this, and it is, I think, solely responsible for the Mount Rushmore-sized chip I carry around on my shoulder every day. My economic situation has changed, certainly, and I’m happy and we’re comfortable, and I honestly don’t want for anything — it’s not that I WANT Shitloads of Money, it’s that I am strangely afraid and hostile about the people who HAVE Shitloads of Money, because I assume that they are like the adolescents of my college experience, who were, in a word, assholes, by the simple fact that they were too young to know any better. This is, obviously, totally wrong. Well, sometimes, anyway.
I have no idea where I’m going with this, and I recognize that this is the most poorly written and thought-out thing I’ve put up here, but I wanted to work through it and think about it and be honest with myself about why I’m such a douche about this and VOILA! Here we are. Incoherent thoughts on why I’m an asshole about People With Money, by Jonna.
Have a great weekend! Twice a week, anyway, despite promises of three. Improvement?
PS, I’m glad I went to Syracuse for a lot of reasons. It pushed me to be competitive, to move beyond my comfort zone and to be better at … everything. So it was a good choice, really it was. And I met Adam there, after all, so … (Adam, for the record, had a COMPLETELY different school experience, likely because he was both a) a male; and b) came from at least some small ‘m’ money.
*Gwen Stefani
October 28th, 2010
Do you know what I did last night? DO YOU KNOW?
I watched ants crawl in and out of Terro traps. For hours. I was completely and sickeningly unable to focus on anything but the ants crawling in and out of the pool of boric acid, watching their bellies swell to the point of impeding their ability to walk, and I just sat back, procrastinating on a shit-ton of work with a glass of wine. I mean I sat on the goddamn OTTOMAN, which isn’t even COMFORTABLE. And worse! I was reporting on their progress to, um, Twitter! And Adam! OH LOOK, BABY, THE ANTS ARE EATING THE TRAPS! I was rubbing my hands together and cackling in an unironic fashion, over and over again.
It was very sad. And I’ve done it before. The Terro traps are like ANT TEEVEE.
Anyway. A few things, almost entirely unrelated:
- The last few days with Sam have been almost magical. The snuggling! The laughing! Oh, it’s been a never-ending funbag of giggles and independent play and yes, an odd attachment to our refrigerator magnets and plastic pieces of mail, but still! So enjoyable. And then, as quickly as it began, it all melted down like a nickel on the floor of Chernobyl, and today she wouldn’t leave my side, and by my side, I mean, she had to be ATTACHED TO MY HIP in the most literal fashion, and God, it’s like a constant YO YO up in here, I tell you.
- Yes, it’s true, I thought the Hell’s Angels were a philanthropic organization and that the concept of organized crime in motorcycle gangs was a total myth. This came out via a conversation as I was viewing Sons of Anarchy with Adam, which he watches regularly, though I don’t. He was attempting to catch me up, and the conversation went something like this:
So, that woman became a surgeon, then she realized that this whole biking thing is who she is, and she wants to be an Old Lady.
An Old Lady? Like the Old Spice Lady?
No, like a biker’s chick kind of thing.
Oooh! I get it! Like the Pink Ladies in Grease! Well, Grease 2, actually.
Not really like that at all.
Well, yeah, but Stephanie couldn’t be a Pink Lady after she broke up with Johnny, because it means they’re T-Bird chicks and –
No.
It turns out, after the conversation progressed, that Hell’s Angels are kind of scary — okay, fine SOME, or whatever, I don’t know, really, I just learned about this whole One Percenter thing — and on the FBI’s list of organized crime … somethings? And that they are not, in fact, like the Guardian Angels, which is what I thought they were, and I think I thought — no, seriously — that the Hell’s Angels wore berets under their helmets, and … well, that’s probably enough.
This is almost worse than the time I thought that Russell Simmons was famous because he was the founder of Russell Athletic. You know, the sweatshirt people.
I hastily add that I thought this because ADAM TOLD ME THAT, thinking that the joke was obvious, and no. No, it wasn’t. In fact, it was so far from obvious to me that the way I discovered that this was, indeed, not true was because I TOLD SOMEONE ELSE, and was all, Oh yeah! Russell Simmons! The sweatshirt guy! Which, um, ha ha, no.
Ahem.
Moving on.
– So yesterday, I was driving somewhere with Sam (back in happier moments, before she decided she hated me), and the Bee Gees came on the radio (OLD LADY RADIO AHOY), and … you guys, have you HEARD the Bee Gees recently? Have you realized how AWFUL they are? You guys! It was WORSE THAN THE CHIPMUNKS. How did they ever make it? How were they not laughed out of the recording studio? HOW AND WHY ARE THEY DOING FALSETTOS ON PURPOSE, ALL THE TIME?
It was as if I heard them anew, truly, and I was more appalled than I can accurately convey here. It was horrifying, and I was retroactively embarrassed for them, even Maurice, God rest his soul. I say this even though Andy Gibb was my first crush ever, thanks to Xanadu, which I realize he was not in, but at the time he bore a striking resemblance to Michael Beck and when you’re five, it all blends together, because all you want to do is be Olivia Newton-John on roller skates singing about magic and then getting sucked into a mural with Gene Kelly. Or something. Either way, hand to God, one of the first memories I have is of sitting on the toilet, calling for my mom and then when she popped her head in, announcing, “Mom, I love Andy Gibb. LIKE A GIRL.”
(She remembers this. Neither one of us are sure why I insisted on telling her while still seated on the toilet. I mean, I was FIVE.)
(Random aside: did you know Maurice Gibb died of something called VOLVULUS, where your intestine just sort of flips over itself and gets all twisty? OOH LOOK, something new to be afraid of! I shall now panic every time I’m constipated!)
Well, this turned into a hot mess of Old Ladies, Pink Ladies and Volvulus Panic. I hope you have a great Thursday.
*A BEE GEES REFERENCE.
October 13th, 2010
As we speak right now, there is a FIGHT brewing on one of my Facebook friends’ pages about the superiority of cats vs. dogs. I’m watching it all and thinking that THIS! This is what’s wrong with the Internet. People are upset! People are saying mean things! And I don’t even know where to go with this, frankly, except to say, uh, wow, we’re talking about pets, not children or even mosques, for frak’s sake.
Speaking of dogs, oh HO HO HO, Sunny’s back at it with her shenanigans, and by shenanigans, I mean the pooping of the blood and other sundry asshole-related things, this time because she got super worked up after I took out the garbage. I TOOK OUT THE GARBAGE. My dog is of such a sensitive petite little flower nature that I can’t TAKE OUT THE GARBAGE without her coming completely and totally unglued and POOPING BLOOD ALL OVER MY FLOORS.
So I called the vet again (OH AGAIN) to see if we could get her back on a third round of the medication that, in my totally professional opinion, because I am a Google-certified VETERINARIAN, she should be on full-time at a very low dose, and do you know how aggressive I have to get for them to listen to me? It’s like they think it’s just PERFECTLY FINE for my dog to poop blood all over my house! Don’t worry, it’s not life threatening, they explain politely. She’s fine! If it keeps up, just bring her in for some IV fluids!
This is dropped all casual-like, as though, a) blood all over my floor is no big deal; and b) dropping $250 for IV fluids every month or so is ALSO no big deal, and it was at this point that I was like, LISTEN, I CANNOT GO ON LIKE THIS. THERE IS BLOODY MUCUSY SHIT ALL OVER MY FLOOR.
(Side note: I have bleached and Nature’s Miracled, and it’s all clean, friends who visit, I swear.)
It is at this point that the vet got irritated with me and asked rather snottily if I was considering putting Sunny to sleep, and that to do so for something so minor would be unreasonable.
Ding dong, whaaa? I mean, call me crazy, but I can’t help but feel like I’m allowed to get a little irate when I’ve spent an entire afternoon cleaning up what bore an uncanny resemblance to Talbot’s geleed urned remains. It doesn’t mean I want animals to DIE, it means GIVE ME THE PILLS. THE PILLS. THE PILLLLLLZZZZZZ.
I got the pills, but my God. MY GOD.
This following a few days of horrendous guilt as you may have seen, because I spent all of last weekend complaining that my kid was acting like a tiny piece of whining toddler totalitarian hell, when it turns out she was SICK. SICK! With hand, foot and mouth disease! Which, if you didn’t know, is the grossest disease ever! It involves OPEN MOUTH SORES! BLERRRRRRGHHHH.
Also, I think it goes without saying that not only did I treat her tantrums as … well, tantrums, but I gave her ORANGES for breakfast that day, THEN took her to playgroup, THEN got home and realized she was approximately the temperature of a wood stove, THEN noticed her mouth resembled my lips after my first herpes infection and … once again, Mother of the Year, FTW!
I’m sorry Sam. I’m sorry Sunny. This week will be better, I swear.
*U2, natch
September 13th, 2010
You know, thus far, 18 months is a challenging age, to put it mildly. And yes, I know I know, all the “Just Wait!” people are going to come out and be all, wait until she’s two! Wait until she’s three! Wait until she’s a teenager! This is nothing!
Ask Moxie’s in my corner here, is all I’m saying. So is Kakaty.
It’s not that she’s not wonderful — God, the highs are so high, full of moments that simultaneously lift and shatter my heart. She’s developing a sense of humor, and is starting to do things deliberately, for no other reason than to make us laugh. She dances like a little fiend. She raises her arms to the sky and yells a toddlerese version of “TO THE FLY BOAT!” when the Wonder Pets are on. Almost every morning, she’ll walk right up to Adam and have a deep, completely garbled conversation with him about … well, we don’t know about what, because she’s shouting absolute nonsense, and the funniest part is that she’s deadly serious. She cannot be cajoled into breaking into so much as a smile when she’s on what we have begun to lovingly refer to as her Tiny Hitler Rants.
(Adam: “I’m starting to seriously wonder if this is what Hitler was like as a baby. It doesn’t make me feel good when I think about it.”)
The best/worst part is that her arm gestures are entirely mine, and her inflections rise and fall in the same intonation that I use when I’m angrily tearing into something. Reflections of ourselves are sometimes a little scary, especially wrapped in a tiny body that we’ve been referring to as “Fuhrer.”
She’s a snuggler, and when she’s tired, she likes nothing better than lying next to me on the couch, a sippy cup of milk in hand, zoning out to the dulcet sounds of Moose A. Moose. She wakes up with a smile and says, “Hi Mama!” before launching into a discussion about the zebra on the wall.
She’s the cutest little person I’ve ever known, and sometimes I am so stupidly overcome by how lucky I am to have her, because oh, what richness and joy she’s brought to my life, truly.
But. Dear God, this blows. I’m sorry, friends, this sucks horribly, and I don’t know how else to say it. The tantrums! The fits! The foot stomping! The insistence upon doing EVERYTHING herself, but with the complete lack of ability to actually follow through on that desire! Her language comprehension is sometimes startling — I’m amazed at what she understands, and the complex commands I’ve thrown at her, assuming there’s no way she’ll be able to follow through, and yet there she is, picking up the garbage, putting it in the can, giving her daddy a high five and THEN putting Mr. Mouse in the baby carriage.
If only her expressive language was remotely close to that, because let me tell you, the futile pointing is getting VERY OLD. She points! She yells! When we don’t deliver precisely the object she was pointing at, either because we misunderstood or worse, because she can’t have it (I’m looking at you, wine glass), she begins to scream and stamp her feet to such a degree that I’m surprised the walls haven’t melted from sheer sonic force.
She wants to drink out of a big girl cup — no sippies for her, thanks — but when, a) I won’t give her one because it’s glass, or b) she gets one, and promptly spills the contents down her front, you would be wise to run. Run as far away as you can get, because your face is about to be shattered into little bits from the yelling.
She wants to dress herself, but YOU try putting on a hooded sweatshirt when you have the upper body strength and coordination of a person who’s just downed seventeen tequila shots in less than an hour. Failure is invariably followed by screams of frustration and more foot stomping, along with — oh my God — occasionally CLAWING AT HER OWN FACE.
And then there is the sleeping. She’s so tired, and yet … she wants to be awake, because she’s got SHIT TO DO, PEOPLE. Baby carriages to push, and blocks to stack, and sippy cups to reject, and snacks to demand and … oh, we are all so tired.
We went to the Cape this weekend — a lame attempt at our first family vacation — and while it had its moments of wonder and delight, when I tell you this next part, you are going to wonder how such a statement is even possible.
We were promised a room that would be TWO rooms — an actual suite, if you will, and let me tell you, I asked no fewer than nine times if the rooms were separated by a wall and a door, A WALL AND A DOOR, and was repeatedly assured that yes, there was a WALL AND A DOOR.
There was no wall. There was no door. So we made a wall with a bedsheet, thinking that this! This would stop her from seeing us and want to be awake in the night! HA HA! FOOLED YOU, SAM!
She woke up at 2 a.m. FOR THE DAY. TWO DAYS IN A ROW. FOR THE DAY. You think I’m kidding! OH HO HO! I am not! I am not kidding! We drove to Provincetown at 4 a.m., hoping to score some breakfast, only to be horrified and irritated when NO BREAKFAST PLACES WERE OPEN AT SIX AM. We drove around in circles, desperately trying to get her to sleep, only to find that we were too tired ourselves, so we PULLED OVER AT RANDOM REST STOPS AND SLEPT IN THE CAR.
It was a nightmare. It was. A nightmare.
There’s a part in Alexa’s wonderful book where she talks about the things people say to you when you are going through a rough time with your children. And though I never experienced anything remotely on par with what Alexa did, in terms of day to day instability and uncertainty of the life of my child, I did experience a similar sentiment from well-meaning friends and acquaintances when Sam was going through her 10-hour-a-day screamfests. I was constantly regaled with, “I could never do that,” and “Oh, I would simply not do that! I couldn’t!” or “I could never sit there holding her for all that time! I just couldn’t!”
Alexa accurately points out that much of it is tinged with some unpleasantness — the underlying smugness that THEIR child isn’t the one going through this, that THEY somehow drew the longer straw, by fate or design, or that THEY would have figured out a magical solution much sooner than I did. In my more generous moments, I like to think that the real message is that they are afraid that they could never. Afraid that they would shrivel up and die and not survive such adversity.
The thing is: we all can. We all would. We all do. A few years ago, I’d have been saying to someone like me that I could NEVER get up for the day at 2 a.m. — I just simply couldn’t. I could NEVER endure a kid who didn’t sleep and screamed all the time. I could NEVER deal with a kid who, after not sleeping for three consecutive days, I’m afraid may be coming down with roseola like the rest of her little friends (OH DEAR GOD PLEASE NO). I could NEVER deal with a tantruming kid who’s throwing a fit for no other reason than the Play Doh is the wrong color and JESUS, LADY, I WAS POINTING TO THE OTHER PINK ONE. THE OTHER PINK ONE. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?
But I can. And I did. And I will, whatever happens. So will you.
It’s crazy, right? We just DO. And the paradoxical thing is that it is both better and worse than you ever imagined it could be.
*Probably many people, but right now, I’m thinking of Jimmy Buffett
August 30th, 2010
First of all, do you love how Joanna appeared in the comments? Poor Joanna. I can now add “Bully readers into becoming friends!” into my list of dubious accomplishments. Although if I were SUPER crafty, I’d have put it on my life list, then figured out how to brand that shit.
(Secretly, I am very excited. I LIKED Joanna, right away. And here is her website. See? Likable.)
In other news, we started a new gym class with Megan and Lila, and while I really liked it, I … well, there’s no other way to say this. The instructor we had was a bit of a beefcake. No, I’m sorry, a LARGE BEEFCAKE. Hot and built and kind of … well, not remotely my type, but objectively speaking, a superhot gym-rat kind of guy. A SINGLE superhot gym-rat kind of guy. A single, IN HIS LATE TWENTIES, superhot gym-rat kind of guy, who called all the little girls in the class “princesses.”
Friends, are you thinking what I’m thinking? He’s there to meet MILFs. There’s no other explanation. Honestly, I felt like I was in some weird Desperate Housewives-meets-Edward Scissorhands-meets-Jackie Collins-type scenario where all these lonely housewives go clamoring for the hot young gym guy. A guy who teaches at THE LITTLE GYM, where the oldest client is guaranteed to be no older than, say, FIVE.
Truth be told, he was an excellent teacher — so good with the kids, honestly, and not even a little inappropriate with any of the moms — but I was somewhat relieved when I learned he was that was his last class, as he’s leaving THE LITTLE GYM OH MY GOD, to go back to school to pursue, wait for it, a degree, THEN A WIFE AND FAMILY. (A dozen MILFs just fainted right now.) (Seriously, the guy seemed to have GAME, and again, he is AT THE LITTLE GYM, LAND OF THE MILFS) The whole thing was just so … distracting, but not for the reasons you would think. I wasn’t gazing at his bulging biceps or anything (Seriously, he isn’t my type at all.) (But yes, my type of course is a hot guy, and yes, I married one, but not THAT type of hot, you know what I mean?), but I just kept wondering if anyone in the class was going to slip him their phone number.
So I … I don’t know what it says about me and our totally sexist society, as well as my own bizarre attitudes of sex, gender and child-rearing, but the entire time I was just like, SERIOUSLY, DUDE? What are you DOING here? You, with your ripped arms and Everett accent and, I’m guessing, Goodwill Hunting-style Fila jumpsuits during your off-duty hours. Toddlers are awesome, but are you … after this are you HEADING TO THE MILF’S PLACE FOR A HOUSECALL, OH MY GOD?
I’m an asshole. But that’s all I could think about the whole time.
Speaking of sex and gender, and this is a holy non-sequitur if I ever did launch one, but after finding a box of old photos, I was once again reminded of my college course on human sexuality — you know, the one EVERYONE took pass/fail for no other reason to get credit for sitting around listening to people talk about sex in a large lecture hall. It was mostly rather tame and surprisingly snooze-worthy, but I vividly remember the section on “alternative sexualities,” whatever that means, and they brought in some guest speakers to talk about the life of a bisexual.
Holy. Hell. Holy FAIL, Batman. All of the bisexuals were men, all of whom were married, all of whom regularly cheated on their wives without their knowledge or consent, with other men. All of whom were cheaters. THAT’S the paradigm of bisexuality they held up for us. How unfortunate. How … how subversive, really, now that I think about it. Sneaky fuckers, to make bisexuals look like total douchebags who can’t be bothered with little things like morals, which is absolutely, unequivocally not the case.
(Jerry Falwell is screaming from the grave.)
Look, it makes no difference who you have sex with or if you like sex with BOTH sexes, depending on the person, but Jesus, Syracuse University, that was the best you could do to demonstrate bisexuality? A bunch of cheating, philandering men? That’s … well, that’s awful, is what it is, and I was so pissed about it that I, in a rare display of pure in-person rage, walked right up to one of them after class and called him an asshole to his face, saying exactly that. Telling him that wanting to have sex with men AND women is fine, but it is not fine if you stand up there and ask us to accept you for who you are, when what you are is a CHEATING SACK OF SHIT.
He was displeased, but oddly gracious.
I’m still mad about that, but I’m mad at the professor for using them as an example to help people understand people who are different from them. That’s not a good example, or a kind one, or a fair one to put on impressionable minds, some of whom may walk away thinking all bisexuals are philandering assholes. Many years later, I MAY BE MOVED TO WRITE A LETTER.
Anyway, also in the box of college photos were pictures of the boyfriend whom I later learned got married to a woman in the TACKIEST DRESS KNOWN TO MAN. (Seriously, I wish I could show you the picture. You would die.) Also, the boyfriend who is now some crazy liturgical pastor at a southern superchurch (JOEL OSTEEEEEEN!). Aaaand, of course, the boyfriend who owns a Jewish girls’ summer camp in Maine. The one who hates me. The one who REALLLY hates me (it did not end well, and apparently he still harbors a grudge), but who now lives in my mothereffing TOWN, who I may, when he returns from summer camp, give a HEART ATTACK over the vine tomatoes at the grocery store.
HOO BOY, nothing like the old college photos to remind you that you made the right choice in life, that’s for sure. Oh, Adam. Thank God for you and your non-tacky, non-camp-owning, non-Fila-jumpsuiting, non-religious-preaching ways.
Happy weekend!
*Ani DiFranco
August 26th, 2010
I … LIKE, WHOA. I don’t even know what to say here, except that you all shocked, terrified and amused the shit out of me with your wild tales of staggering, mind-bending rudeness. I mean, WHOA.
HOLEE CRAZYPANTS.
I’ve read every single one of them at least three times and … WHOA. But also, so unbelievably amusing. I mean, what else do you DO when people are that incredible? You laugh at them. There is no other choice.
I also felt a little guilty that there became these dueling stories of kid weddings vs. no-kid weddings, and people feeling defensive about their kid-free weddings, and others being all, “I BRING MY KID EVERYWHERE,” and … whoops. Sorry, folks.
If I may offer a blanket soother on that issue, as well as some totally unsolicited opinions, because this comes up all the time! All the time! First of all, allow me to give my opinion on weddings in general, and I apologize in advance if anyone finds this offensive, it just is what it is:
I definitely think it’s your day, as the bride and groom. I do. I think you have the right to have the wedding of your dreams and do what you want to do, no matter what that entails. You’re the ones getting married, and your memories of this day will be more important than anyone else’s.
HOWEVAH. There are limits. You’re also hosting a party. Yes, it’s your day, but you are also HOSTS. The only way to truly make it all about you is to go off by yourselves somewhere ALL ALONE and do precisely what you want to do, because the only other people who are there are the ones you are paying to be there, and if that means you get to strip down to a blue bikini and scream, “I’M ON A BOAT, MOTHERFUCKER!” while your groom pretends to be Andy Samberg and/or T-Pain, that’s fine.
But again: HOSTS. Contrary to popular bride belief, your guests are not thinking that this, the day of your wedding, is going to be the greatest party of their lives. It’s kind of … well, a little annoying for some (NOT ALL!). Weddings, whether we like it or not, are not everyone’s thing. Long ceremonies can be painful, though necessary, and during busy wedding season, your wedding might be the fiftieth rendition of Hava Nagila that your guests have endured. It doesn’t mean they don’t love you, or aren’t excited to see you get married. It just means … well, probably, and sadly, most people’s idea of a night out involves choosing who they sit with and eating food that THEY order specifically and … well, look! I know! I know! I’m just playing the cynical card here, friends.
The point is, everyone at that wedding is making some level of sacrifice, however small, to be there to see you get married. And … well, a little consideration is kind of nice, on both sides. Yes, you are totally allowed and even welcome to have a kid-free wedding, especially if it’s in the evening at a formal venue, and you’re planning tequila shots with the cocktail hour and a bawdy band lined up ’til the break of dawn. OF COURSE. But then, you are also not really allowed to lose your shit on the couple with kids from out of town (or even in-town) who apologetically says that they tried to get a sitter, but it wasn’t possible, and they’re very sorry they can’t make it. And being flexible — say, for a couple who REALLY can’t get a sitter because their baby is six weeks old, because, well, SIX WEEKS OLD — and making exceptions is kind of nice, too.
It doesn’t mean everyone and their mother is going to suddenly be like, WHY IS MY FOUR YEAR OLD NOT HERE? Most people with kids have brains. I hope. If they don’t, they were probably going to figure out a way to be rude assholes anyway, the kids just happened to be the issue du jour.
Likewise, if a wedding says no kids, for the love of Jesus, then couples with kids should agree that if they cannot get, or are uncomfortable with getting, a sitter, then one or both of them is going to stay home. No, no it is not okay to be like, WELL UP YOURS, I AM BRINGING MY PRESHUS BABY ANYWAY. No. No, that is not okay. Those are the rules. Would you bring your baby to a bar? No. Because babies are not allowed in bars, and you somehow deal with it.
(The example of the baby not allowed ON SITE at a RESORT WEDDING, however? Is crazytown.)
However, if, like the example mentioned above, they have a flipping NEWBORN and the couple getting married is a little clueless about how these things work (i.e., infants that tiny sleep like the dead, even with firecrackers over their heads and no, no a sitter is not possible), then MAYBE doing a VERY SNEAKY and NON-STRESSFUL explanation of the sitch at hand to someone close to the wedding MIGHT be a good idea. It all depends on the bride and groom, really, and how stressful they find the wedding planning, and how much your situation MIGHT impact them.
I am very laid-back, and didn’t mind most questions around my wedding. Some people are not like this. This is okay. Common sense and general personality assessment is sort of required here.
Here’s something else I firmly believe, and cannot be dissuaded from: Your wedding is not all about you. At all. I get physically ill when I hear brides (and grooms) talk about how this day is ALL THEIRS and they’re doing to do whatever they want, everyone else be damned! You think this day isn’t a huge HUGE deal to your parents? Your grandparents, if they’re still alive? Your siblings? Your nearest and dearest? It’s a HUGE deal. HUGE. HUGE. HUGE. It’s a big day for them. They raised you; they watched you grow up; they love you so much it hurts. They worry about you. They want you to be happy.
You are here, in part, because of many of them. And while yes, we’ve all heard the horror stories of in-laws and mothers taking control and making the day all about THEM, when it’s about YOU, I … well, I think those exist, sure (WAGON AND KIDS, AISLE). But I also think too often, brides and grooms get caught up in the ME ME ME part of the day and forget that there are other people for whom this day is, to a lesser extent, important.
As a parent, my daughter’s wedding day is going to be a VERY BIG DEAL TO ME. I know this. That’s my baby. To your parents — the good ones — you’re still their baby, and look at you! All grown up.
So, thank your parents. Include them when possible. Talk to them, and let them know that they’re important and that you love them, and appreciate them. Don’t make them feel shitty. Don’t be bratty. Don’t throw a hissy fit when your mom makes a mild suggestion–she’s probably on edge, too, because again, HER BABY IS GROWING UP AND GETTING MARRIED. COME ON.
Be a grown-up: You’re getting married!
I still worry I didn’t thank my parents enough for helping me get through my wedding and being there. On my honeymoon, I was WRACKED WITH GUILT, because all the people I loved were together, and I was on a beach in the Caribbean drinking a mai tai. So hey, Mom, Dad, Mom, Bob? If you’re reading this, thank you again. So much. For everything.
Common sense! Common courtesy! ACK! WEDDINGS!
Happy Thursday!
*Marc Cohn. The wedding song!
June 23rd, 2010
WE-E-ELL! I have returned after an unplanned week away. Whoops! So! Instead of updating you on the minutiae of what happened in the last week (hint: a deadline, a parental visit, and a few other busy-like things and it’s been so fun-filled that I haven’t even seen this week’s True Blood, is all I’m saying), I am going to tell you the TWO RUDEST THINGS EVER that I can’t get out of my mind and maybe YOU can share other rude things and we can all marvel together! Marvel! At the rudeness!
My mom and stepdad recently moved to a new house. Like, THREE WEEKS AGO. (Note: these are not the parents who were visiting, and yes, I have two sets of parents and I am super lucky like that, and yes, that means two moms and it is ALL VERY CONFUSING, and I’m terribly sorry about that.)
So! They moved on a Thursday, and on Saturday, they had a wedding to go to — the groom is the son of some friends of theirs from church; apparently they aren’t BFF with this couple, but they’re friendly enough, I guess. Now, a few weeks PRIOR, my mom ordered a bunch of stuff for the couple off of their registry, but in the move, it ended up in my brother’s car for, um, safekeeping I guess. I don’t even know. But the morning of the wedding, my mother realizes the gift is in his car, is too late to go find him and just decides to mail it later and … well, this doesn’t seem to be a huge deal, AM I RIGHT?
So! Wedding comes and goes, it’s the Tuesday after the wedding, and my mom locates the gift, puts it in the mail and forgets about it. UNTIL!! That afternoon, she fields a call from the mother of the groom, who says, “Tommy said it would be okay if I called you about this, and I hope you don’t mind, but he noticed that there wasn’t a gift from you at the wedding.”
ARE YOU DEAD YET. BECAUSE IT IS AT THIS POINT THAT I BELIEVE I DIED. BUT OH, IT GETS WORSE. BECAUSE SHE GOES ON TO SAY:
“And we thought maybe it was lost, so if you just want to write a new check and pop it in the mail this week, I know they would really appreciate it.”
WHICH MEANS THEY ASSUME THAT IT IS MONEY. AND THEY WANT IT. NOW. THIS IS THE MOTHER OF THE GROOM OH HOLY PANTS.
(It was, if you recall, items off of their registry.)
Now my mother, to her credit, did not tell them to stick an entire fraudulent checkbook directly into their ass, which is what I like to THINK I would have done, but in all likelihood, I’d have stammered something nice and awkward, which is precisely what my poor mother did.
COULD YOU DIE?
I hope they liked the towels and sheets she got them. AHEM.
And now we are moving on to the SECOND rude thing that involves a person I encountered again recently, and for the sake of everyone, let’s leave out how and where and who it is. But it’s an acquaintance that I will likely see somewhat regularly now that we’re all back in the same general area.
So! The first and last time I saw this person was about eight or nine years ago, and we were all recently engaged and happy times, hurrah! She was … well, kind of cold, and I felt as much of a connection with her as I would, say, Paris Hilton, but I tried! I really, really tried. One of my last (and lamest) attempts at conversation was noticing that we had the same style of engagement ring (three-stone Bostonian, whatever) and her reply was, I SHIT YOU NOT:
“Oh! It looks like we do. But mine is bigger.”
I was honestly just sort of stunned into silence, because WHO SAYS THAT? WHO SAYS THAT? It’s one thing if you think it, but please, my God, don’t say these things out loud! Shut your pie hole! Exercise restraint! AND WHAT DOES THAT MEAN, ANYWAY? That you WIN at engagement rings? That your fiance spent a few thousand dollars more? OH MY LANDS WHO CARES? WHO CARES? NO ONE CARES.
(For the record, she was as big of a douche as I remembered. Good times.)
Rude, right? Are you dead from rudeness? Now please, if you would, hit me with your worst rudeness, because I need more to stew about over here, apparently.
Happy Tuesday!
*Arcade Fire
June 21st, 2010
So! Facebook. Is it not the worst thing to hit the internet? Am I not at the cutting edge of internet wisdom with that statement? God. The flame wars! The crazy political posts! The parents who post pictures of their children’s poop and worse, photos of their children on the toilet whilst potty training! UNSEE UNSEE UNSEE. And, just yesterday, some TOTALLY CRAZYPANTS comments from a woman (an adult who, as far as I know, is not special needs in any way) I know only tangentially, but am mysteriously friends with on Facebook involving … the death of her goldfish.
This woman, oh my lands, people, described how she “knew true love” because of this goldfish (named, appropriately, Girlfishi) and how an unfortunate Sophie’s Choice-like scenario (YES, REALLY, SHE SAID THOSE EXACT WORDS), left her having to move the goldfish from one apartment to another, causing Girlfishi horrible trauma and leading to her untimely death. She then left an indecipherable rant as her status about how some people aren’t properly respecting her mourning and how she’s learned who her real friends are by how they respond to the death of her, ahem, GOLDFISH, and how Girlfishi was a special fish and she is beyond heartbroken and … well, folks, I’ve got nothing here.
Wait, that’s not true, because I think I’ve got a solid OH COME ON, LADY, in there somewhere. Also, I think what freaked me out more was all the commenters who leaped to her defense on the mourning post with how deeply sorry they were for her loss and how losing a pet IS like losing a child, yes, yes, it is, and all I keep thinking is, SERIOUSLY, A GOLDFISH. I mean, for some people losing a pet is like losing a child, yes, and I can go with it to a point, but no, I’m sorry, you can’t compare your goldfish to my kid. It just won’t work.
No disrespect to goldfish everywhere.
In other news, and this is going to sound very spoiled, and believe me, I know, I KNOW! I was totally spoiled, I KNOW!, but we used to live two minutes away from Adam’s office — for Sam’s whole life — and then (THEN!) we had two glorious months while Adam was between jobs, and honestly, I got used to having him around. He was home for dinner every night, save for the days when he traveled, because even if he had to work late, he came home to eat before heading back in. And in those two months, he was home every day. Every day! And now he’s got a commute, and working late and missing Sam in the evenings and it’s … it’s very sad. We miss him, although I also know that he’s enjoying what he’s doing. (He likes to work. He always has.)
It is also turning me into a bit of a crazy housewife, and I’m not proud of it. The combination of moving, (my) work deadlines, instant houseguests and suddenly being home alone for 14 hours a day has left me feeling completely overwhelmed with the status of how MESSY everything is and how! much! there is to be done and some nights he gets home and I’m standing there with my hand on my hip all but SCREECHING about all the shit that has to be done! And it’s GARBAGE NIGHT and while yes, I realize you just walked in the door, WE HAVE A LOT OF GARBAGE. HOP TO IT. I HAVE TO GO GET SOME WORK DONE. DO YOU KNOW WHAT MY DAY IS LIKE AROUND HERE?
My face is all contorted and wrinkled in disgust just reading that, but there you have it. Last night I poured a rare glass of wine (booze used to be a lot more fun; now it just makes me want to go to sleep IMMEDIATELY after the first sip), plopped myself in front of Glee and told myself to get over it, because really, Jonna, REALLY. The next thing you know I’m going to be getting myself into a state over ring around the collar and dishpan hands! How WILL we ever go on?
Speaking of Glee, can I admit to you all what happens when Jesse St. James appears on the screen? My heart beats faster. No exaggeration. Gross, right? Gross. I’m THIRTY FOUR YEARS OLD. And also? Just now I found myself lost in a comment thread of teenagers who really believe Jesse is a real person, and they’re fighting about it. Like, seriously fighting about it. I witnessed apologies to the group and some kind of crazy statement about how they probably HURT JESSE’S FEELINGS and sorry, Jesse! I LUV U. And they were serious. Yes, very serious.
I don’t see me and my quickening heartbeat too much above that, to be honest. I mean, a) it’s a fictional character, eclipsed only by the crush I had on Fred from Scooby Doo. Yes, a CARTOON; b) the kid is like, 22 in real life, IF THAT; c) HE IS ALSO GAY, not that it matters, because let’s be honest, an unavailable cougar with a kid is hardly his ideal mate, even if he were straight as an arrow.
How many times am I going to talk about this? MANY, IT SEEMS. Well, I would, if the season wasn’t ending. Boy, you’re all glad about that. I’m one step away from talking about how a goldfish taught me love.
Speaking of seasons ending, I still haven’t seen the Lost finale. I KNOW.
Happy weekend! Ooh! Memorial Day!
*Madonna. And also, um, Jesse St. James in the Very Special Madonna Episode. What?
May 27th, 2010
Aw, hell, you guys, I am really going to spend all of our money if I keep this up. I *am* like the Beverly Hillbillies up in here, because today was positively ENTRANCED by a Staples. A fucking STAPLES. I was perusing the aisles like some kind of caveman, marveling at all the fancy office supplies. I must have spent ten minutes in the highlighter section alone, and frankly, I have always found highlighters to be irritating and sort of stupid, not to mention blinding. I don’t LIKE highlighters, but I suddenly had the urge to buy every highlighter they made! I need to highlight important clauses on my freelance contracts before I send them back! I need to highlight my bank statements! Credit card bills! In hundreds of beautiful shades! OOH LOOK, CHARTREUSE.
I have this uncontrollable reaction when I’m near any kind of retail –like I have to gobble it all up instantly, planning not just for right now, but for a future that may not include access to fancy filing folders with flowers on them in case I want to pretty up my tax filing for 2010. I’m like the college kid who grew up in a strict household who’s suddenly like, HEY! BEER. Let me drink it all — every last beer in sight — TONIGHT.
I feel kind of barfy and purgey, as if such a thing was possible when referring to material goods. Except that I swear — swear! — we need most of this stuff. Because, if you recall, I have a husband who refuses to move mashed potatoes, much less something like extra Swiffer pads or sponges or anything useful. And besides, I needed new shirts! And Sam only had Robeez and oh, look! Cute sandals!
Erm. You see? You see where this is going? You see why although I saved money by purchasing a dress for $20, I then proceeded to accessorize it with more than $100 of add-ons? I might as well just have bought the $150 dress to begin with. Sick. I’m sick. Help me.
(Mom and Dad, please don’t worry, I’m really not going to spend Sam’s college fund on sparkly earrings from Target, I swear.)
The other issue I’m running into — will always run into, I fear — is road rage. I have it. Not the kind that makes people run random drivers off the road to beat the bag out of them for an erroneous directional or anything, but if you cut me off or fail to use a courtesy wave or–or!–have your turn signal on and are not turning or vice versa? I wave my arms and yell. I can’t help it. And people, they are AWFUL THINGS I’m yelling, and I’m amazed at how quickly I can come up with them, as though they are so ingrained in some dark, hidden corner of my twisty little mind. Douchenozzle! Taint face! (Oh, I know PRECISELY where I got that one, thanks to my friend Anna, and her douchey commenter!) Terribly, awfully offensive iterations of fuck!
But still! No one should be able to conjure–much less actually USE–those terms while driving in a motor vehicle with their impressionable toddler in the backseat.
Do you think … do you think when Sam is saying “shoosh!” for juice that she is actually saying … douche? OH M’LANDS.
Although really, that will be the last thing we need to worry about, as Adam quite accurately points out that someone might shoot me. I saw a BULLET HOLE in a car the other day, and in Vermont, when you saw a bullet hole, you knew it was because it was they just MISSED THE DEER.
Anyway, I know this is lame–getting back on the writing horse is HARD–but look, allow me to go on about my kid for a minute, if I may. She is, in a word, amazing. I know she’s just like most other kids, and that all moms feel this way, I know. I know this. But the progression of watching a little blob turn into a person? I never, ever expected it to be so cool. I never thought I’d have this much fun. She’s Frankensteining around like a little drunkard, and if I pay close enough attention, I can actually decipher what she wants. It’s INSANE.
It’s the most fun I’ve ever had. True story. I can’t believe I waited so long. I wonder … will I feel the same about the second? Because that doesn’t seem POSSIBLE. It seems like two would kind of SUCK and yet I want two–at least two. AND YET AND YET.
Happy Wednesday!
*Queen. And others. Also? FROM MYSELF.
May 25th, 2010
Weeeelll, that’s right, friends, I have a blog. Life, it seems, is returning to normal. I hope. This past week was a mishmash of deadline (Glee, and though I love writing those things, they take me FOREVAH) and unpacking and honestly, just stupid dumbass insanity. Without going into it, allow me to share a brief glimpse, bullet-style:
– Our car broke on Adam’s first day of work. Luckily, he took my (newer, fresher, made in this decade) car to work just in case. Had car towed, $550 worth of repairs enacted and … car still broken. More repairs. Three days later (THREE DAYS. OF ME NOT LEAVING THE HOUSE AT ALL. WITH A TODDLER), learn that the car is NOT broken, but Adam had given me his “spare” key, which is an uncoded VALET key, which means it cannot start the car. $250 worth of useless labor expenses, not to mention $100 for a rental car, later, and our car was returned to us in exactly the same condition it was when I tried to start it.
Awesome, right? AWESOME. AND YET!
– Thrush! I got thrush again, and stuffed myself silly with probiotics and kicked it. Again. But not before those three days of being house-bound with a cranky kid and an assload of THRUSH! And no way to fix it! Because I could not get to Whole Foods!
THRUSH! And cabin fever! WIN WIN WIN.
– Bizarre suicide hostage crisis a few blocks from here! With rifles! And SWAT teams! And what the hell! We live in ADORABLE SUBURBAN USA. Not, say, Compton at the height of the crack epidemic.
– A hair appointment that wasn’t, wherein I was dicked around by the first receptionist, when I scheduled a consult and (long) appointment to have my frightening, frightening long-overdue hair colored. Then, when I got there was told I only had a consult, and not a real appointment, which would be fine, except that then the second receptionist said there was no way I EVER had a real appointment in a totally mean tone of voice and then, when I tried to explain, RAISED HER VOICE and said there was no way that happened, and have I ever had my hair colored at a reputable salon before? Because I should have known better.
Me. The customer. Who booked the appointment that they screwed up. I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER. And she yelled it, too. And for some reason this makes it worse, but she was TWENTY THREE at best, and I’m all, BITCH, I’ve been getting my hair colored LONGER THAN YOU HAVE BEEN ALIVE.
So I said thanks, but no thanks to that haircut to nowhere, and stormed off, only to realize I had nowhere to go, because HA! we hadn’t picked up the car yet! So Adam dropped me off! For what he thought would be THREE AND A HALF HOURS! So I had just stormed out to … nothing. I had to sit on their porch while they glared at me out the window until Adam came back with Sam. Ha ha? HA HA HA.
Drama queen fail.
There was more, but I think that covers the highlights. It was a rough week. Smaller, more cheerful events include:
– Complete lack of impulse control now that I’m in sight of actual stores that carry actual things. I am going to send us to the poorhouse, not on extravagant things, but because I completely lack the ability to resist the vast array of cleaning products and other random sundries available at Target. Which brings me to …
– Swiffer! THE SWIFFER! How have I lived this long without a Swiffer? I can’t stop Swiffing! The house is sparkling! There isn’t a single speck of dog hair in sight! I Swiff three times a day! It’s so SATISFYING, all that Swiffing! I also picked up the Swiffer duster and have Swiffed the shit out of my baseboards! My mom suggested the WetJet, and oh dear, the can of worms she opened. I think I spent $60 in Swiffer products alone.
–I have lost (and regained and lost and regained) a lot of weight since having Sam and no matter what size the rest of my body is, my fingers have remained a half size bigger than they were before getting pregnant. Also? My feet are bigger, forever. Like, a whole half size. Which, um, ew.
Ergo, I gave in, friends, and took my wedding rings to be resized at the jeweler where we got them seven (SEVEN) years ago. It was a sad day, but it was time, I’m afraid.
But also? $200 to have them both done. I DIED. I REALLY DID. I know they’re diamond and platinum and it’s not like adjusting one of those rings you get in the gumball machine, but … really? I was floored by this, though I suppose there’s no real reason why. It’s not like I’d ever done it before, but perhaps had I known that, I wouldn’t have done it the same week I spent an ungodly amount on cleaning products, mythical car repairs and other sundry items purchased for no other reason than Because I Could, Dammit, and Finally.
– Our kid is sleeping through the night. DING DONG and HELLO. That only took … fourteen and a half months. She’s sleeping past 5, too, and I owe it all to Twitter, who provided some awesome advice when I threw out a random APB for assvice, and to Accidents, who shared her nightweaning plan. We moved from two naps to one (still a struggle to get that nap to be any length, but …) and I did a little Lite Ferber action (not even any effing crying, just yelling for about five minutes) and WHAT? THAT’S IT? THAT’S ALL IT TOOK?
There is also the small matter of Mr. Mouse, her chosen lovey, and let me tell you, my world is brighter because of Mr. Mouse. She gets EXCITED to go to bed with Mr. Mouse. She SNUGGLES Mr. Mouse. She PLAYS with Mr. Mouse before bed and at the moment, I am currently purchasing the entire stock of Mr. Mouse NATIONWIDE, so don’t even think about trying to buy a mouse toy right now. I’m on that shit and I will SNIPE YOUR ASS ON EBAY. (Or just order it from Kohl’s for $5. Whichever.)
– Sam’s walking! Sort of. She’s still holding on to stuff one-handed for comfort, but if she, say, has two shoes in her hands, she forgets that she’s not holding on to the wall and she just goes. The second she realizes she doesn’t have training wheels, she panics, gives up and crawls. But still! Steps! Oh my girl.
I am shocked — shocked! — at how much more I love the toddler vs. baby phase. I thought I would LOVE having a baby-baby, and, well, I didn’t. Not really. I mean, I loved her, of course, but it’s only gotten better and better and though I know I am in for a shitstorm when she turns three or so, I appreciate a communicative kid over a blob of inscrutable screaming any effing day of the week. Oh, this kid. She is so, so awesome.
*Insert adorable photo here, which I would totally do if I could find the camera, which I cannot. Not even a little*
Happy Wednesday! JE REVIENS.
*Peter Gabriel
May 18th, 2010
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