So, can we get back to talking about important things? Like my toilet seat for example. (What?) Toilet seats, by and large, are something people give very little thought to, unless they’re terribly offensive like, say, those shag ones that are nothing but pee molecule magnets. Or the cushy plastic ones designed for “comfort” that do nothing but leave a ring around your ass, because the plastic seam is sharper than a razor blade. Those, too, seem to attract pee spots like nobody’s business, and I get SO SKEEVED sitting on them. Toilet seats shouldn’t have texture! They should not be soft! They should be solid and hard, yet well constructed — not so comfortable as an easy chair, but not medieval torture devices, you know what I’m saying?
This is the toilet seat that we had. It was nice, that toilet seat. Very utilitarian, yet comfortable. Hard, but with just the right amount of curves. I didn’t know how much I loved that toilet seat until yesterday, when the seat cracked.
Um, what? Yes, the seat cracked. Now look, Adam and I are not obese people. We’re rather slender, in the grand scheme of things, really, with neither one of us topping anywhere near 200 pounds, even, so … why, toilet seat, why? Further, this would have been no big deal, as it’s just a crack, right? A crack!
But oh, you guys, yesterday I went to the bathroom, and right when I sat down, the crack … broke open to a full rift, and expanded (that was a nice feeling, as you can imagine. I could practically hear the “FOOM BABA FOOM BABA!” from Lardass’s famous scene in Stand By Me). And then contracted. With my backside in it. I was effing TRAPPED in the toilet seat, no kidding. If I pulled, I would leave behind skin. SKIN! And yet there was no way to extricate myself without … well, I don’t even KNOW, you guys, except to say that I finally did pull, and it was NOT GOOD. NOT GOOD AT ALL. The aftermath involved skin! And a not-insignificant amount of BACKSIDE bloodshed! And … you know, being trapped to a toilet seat that I just BROKE.
Awesome, yes? Awesome.
Next up: that stellar moment in the master bathroom when I didn’t realize my Venus razor was still on the edge of the tub until I looked down and saw Sam chewing on it. The end with the triple blades on it. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I was RIGHT THERE and then I just started SCREAMING and then tried to gently pry it from her lips without causing any damage (success!), but unfortunately, the SCREAMING scared the shit out of her, so I had a kid in utter disarray anyway. (I always make sure it’s out of reach. Always. Except for the day she was dorking around in the master bathroom, which she’s NEVER IN and … oh God. First jalapenos, and now this.)
Also, you know what is not awesome? A new toilet seat — the nice, awesome toilet seat that we had — is $120. For something you sit on to PEE and POOP.
I … what?
($120. I’ve paid less than that to repair my entire air conditioning system, for chrissake.)
Anyway! A few quick takes:
- Keurig owners, if you’re looking for ridiculously awesome flavored coffee that isn’t weak and doesn’t taste like pony piss, look no further than Green Mountain’s Chocolate Glazed Donut-Donut Shop coffee. It tastes JUST LIKE a chocolate-glazed donut and … oh DELICIOUS.
- I have a terrible no-good self-centered habit of thinking that the moment I discover something is the moment that thing comes into existence. See: hummus, circa 1995, when I had it for the first time. I was all but shrieking “HAVE YOU GUYS TRIED THIS NEW THING CALLED HUMMUS?” upon returning home during college. Ah, sheltered life, you did not serve me well in some areas.
Anyway, today’s latest hummus is a product that I remember USING a a child, and yet I feel somehow that this is my personal discovery and I’m all, LOOK AT ME! THIS IS AMAZING SHIT, HAVE YOU GUYS HEARD OF THIS? Johnson’s No More Tangles detangling spray, y’all! Do you know that I was actually CONDITIONING my daughter’s hair with ADULT conditioner, because I couldn’t figure out how to get the tangles out of her insanely kinky curls? Um, ding dong, HELLO.
- This reminds me of my friend Shawn who feels somehow that he personally discovered Nirvana back in the early days. To hear him tell it, he was William Miller to Nirvana’s Stillwater. But that’s not my point! No, my point is that he recently got engaged (holla!), and people, this is a miracle. This is a man who never asked a girl out on a second date because she dared order — and eat! — a bacon cheeseburger during their first dinner together. The bacon cheeseburger of doom.
Happy Wednesday! We have, uh, an exciting day of immunizations planned. OMG.
First of all, we had no idea it was Easter weekend until my brother-in-law called to wish us a happy one, and I *think* I recovered nicely with a hey, uh, you too! How ARE you guys doing with the … eggs and all?
I think we’re sort of failing at parenting in some ways, and by that I mean the ways of doing things like holidays and birthdays and other “meaningful” events. For now, the excuse is that she’s too little to know — and really, she is — but I’m wondering if I’ll know when she is aware enough to care. Like, am I already short-changing her some magical Easter egg hunting experience? I don’t think so, seeing as she’s still firmly in the two-nap camp and leaving the house before 3 p.m. is a colossal pain in the ass, because lunch falls between the two naps and unless we’re going OUT for lunch, any endeavor longer than 45 minutes or so is a total crapshoot of eye-stabbing misery if you catch her on the wrong day.
We skipped a birthday party altogether — we sort of had two, one with my sister’s family, and another with my parents a few days later — and though we got her some presents, they were relatively few, because this is a kid who will scream with joy while waving an empty Kleenex box over her head, you know? And yes, we had a cake, as you’ve seen, but there were no friends, no other families, no throngs of lumplike one-year-olds Frankensteining around our relatively small house. My belief is that such things are excessive and rather silly, at least from a kid point of view (if it’s for you, the parent, and it’s important to you, by all means), but maybe I’m just mean, and my kid will grow up in a party-deprived rage on a bell tower some day.
This is the shit, though, that I worry about. I like birthdays, and I think they’re important to celebrate, but I don’t want my kid(s) growing up to expect some kind of wild RHoOC party while I fret and hand-wring over whether $12,000 was a reasonable budget, or whether I should have sprung for the beluga-flavored cupcakes and princess-themed paparazzi entrance for nine-year-olds. I mean, my most memorable birthday party was in my parents’ basement and involved homemade pizza and punch, I think. Well, except for my third birthday, which was ceremoniously held at Weiner King (yes, really), where I, and a bunch of other three-year-olds, dressed our own hot dogs with too much mustard and spilled ketchup down our fronts.
If you were wondering, the Weiner King is no longer there, and is now, I believe, a Long John Silver’s.
Longest way ever of saying: Oops, we forgot Easter. This is what happens with two non-Christians with far away families: You end up barfing alone and forgetting Easter even exists.
Finally, without rehashing anything, but because I keep stepping in it lately, I just want to add: I’m generally a pretty up-front person. Oh, I snark and gossip with the best of them at times, I won’t lie, but mostly, what you see is what you get. I don’t even think anyone would be surprised by what I’ve snarked about, because I pretty much say it up front.
For me, that’s important, and it’s the kind of person I not only am, but it’s the kind of person I’m generally attracted to. I think part of being authentic is being consistent and honest, even if that means people don’t like what you have to say. I find it a little gross when people act SHOCKED! that people have the balls to utter the questions/thoughts/whatever that everyone else is thinking, and everyone knows it, but no one says it out loud. I mean, PEOPLE. You’re thinking it! Are you a bad person? No. And neither am I just because I’m honest about it and say it out loud. Hell, I’ll even say it TACTFULLY, I promise. And I don’t need you to say it, too, but I don’t need your condemnation and surprise when I do.
I am not malicious. I am generally very loyal. I like most people. That very likely includes you. I keep confidences very, very well, and I’m not going to turn on you, and it’s not scary to be on the wrong side of me. Someone, in the midst of it all, thinking they were being complimentary, said, “Remind me not to get on your bad side.” I cringed, because that’s just not the case, and it’s not going to happen. To really get on my bad side, you have to do something pretty egregiously awful, and I’d probably tell you about it long before you saw it coming.
I am distrustful of people who only have nice things to say, not because I think that’s not a good way to be, but because I think it’s inauthentic for many people, and I like to see it all laid out there. It doesn’t mean I’m not a positive person, or that I don’t see/think positive things. For all of this talk, I am generally very, very happy. Like, terrifyingly happy. This may be surprising for some people, but it’s the God’s honest truth, and I’d tell you if it wasn’t.
And generally speaking, I am, in person, exactly as I appear on this blog, as witnesses can attest. I don’t write or say anything in a public online forum that I wouldn’t say in person, to someone’s face. True story.
Basically, and this is hard for me to admit, but I think I might be Ramona Singer.
Now, can we talk about your implants, because I heard your boobs were, like, all crooked and shit, but you finally got them fixed?
I just can’t get behind wearing sunglasses indoors. I’m all for impractical fashion statements — after all, it’s not like a necklace serves any purpose, when you get right down to it — but if I don’t care who you are, if you’re wearing sunglasses indoors, at night, you’re a douche. I mean, RIGHT? How is this not such ubiquitous common knowledge that no one dares attempt it, for fear of public stoning? EVEN YOU, USHER. Or perhaps, especially you.
So! Today, I was chatting with Adam and being a total smuggimus douchimus about how since having Sam I’ve really gotten it together! I haven’t dropped the baby, spilled copious amounts of paint, smeared dog poop on my forehead or pulled any of my pre-kid hijinks! Look at me, all MATURING AND TOGETHER AND SHIT. Motherhood has turned me into a responsible adult! AM GENIUS.
(Honestly, you guys, I thought this. What an asshole I am, right? I mean, who thinks that, much less admits it, but y’all, really, I was all, LOOK AT ME GO!)
ORILLY, JONNA?
We had tacos for dinner, and though Sam is at the age where apparently she can eat whatever we eat, I’m thinking, tacos? Really? I mean, is there a way to present tacos in a way that is both practical and palatable to a miniature person who is still incapable of wielding a spoon, much less a crispy taco shell? No, no, I decided. Best to stick with the usual fare, I say! (Strawberries, carrots and grilled cheese, if you were wondering.)
And then she was all excited about the tacos and wanted to TRY the tacos and I’m thinking, well, if I break off a small enough piece, hey, no problem, LOOK AT ME GO, FEEDING MY BABY TACOS! MARVEL AT MY COMPETENCE IN REARING A BABY WHO IS NOT ONLY SURVIVING BUT HAS AN ADVENTUROUS PALATE.
(Smuggimous! douchimus! for so many reasons, not the least of which is, really? Tacos from an Old El Paso taco kit are haute international cuisine? REALLY?)
And she loved it! For like, a minute, and then there was, oh my God you guys, SCREAMING. BLOODY SCREAMING. Red-faced screaming and flailing and SCAH-REEMING and I’m all, is she choking? (Because of course, when people are choking, they scream.) And then I stuck my fingers in her mouth, fishing around and the screaming intensified and I’m all WHAT THE HELL OH MY GOD WHY THE SCREAMING?
Oh hi, there were jalapenos on that taco. I mean, I didn’t feed her a jalapeno, but have YOU ever touched your eye after handling peppers? And you guys, I not only fed her a bit of taco that was BEPEPPERED, but I was all fishing my bepeppered fingers in her already-painful mouth and HOO BOY, I’d be screaming, too, because MY MOTHER IS A BITCH WHO IS TRYING TO KILL ME, you know what I’m saying?
I basically fed jalapenos to my baby. Full of win, this one.
Oh, but the comeuppance had not yet ended! I got in a stupid bickering match with Adam and was all stubborn and bitchy because he was right and I didn’t want to admit it (I finally did), and stewed about THAT for a little while, but when I went to walk the dog, OH! That’s when the gods decided this bitch needed to be smacked, quite literally, as I got tangled in the dog’s leash and just fucking HIT THE GROUND in the driving, freezing rain yelling, for reasons that have yet to make any sense to me, “AHHH MOMS FALL! MOMS FALL! MOMS FALL!” while Sunny squealed in pain as she choked on the leash. And then this neighbor guy, who fell once and literally couldn’t get up, JUST LIKE THE COMMERCIALS, leaving Adam to scrape him off the pavement, was all, “YOU’RE FALLING!” And I’m all, “MOMS FALL! MOMS FALL!”
YOU GUYS. I can never leave the house again.
Was I referring to myself in the third person? Having a moment of comeuppance that I realized that mothers are not infallible? Oh, these are deep thoughts indeed, smuggimous douchimus. DEEP THOUGHTS, INDEED.
Yogurt on her face and hair. Why? Because after the jalapeno incident, I was all, “EAT THE YOGURT! EAT THE YOGURT!” and proceeded to paint her with it.
You know what would be awesome? If I didn’t pee every effing time I sneezed. Even when I don’t THINK I have to pee, it sneaks up on me, like an insidious unwelcome visitor. These are the things no one warned me about before I had kids. To think, all those people wasted all that time telling me how I would never! sleep! again! (I’m sleeping now, bitches!), when they should have been warning me about the loss of bladder function. Oooooeee! What’s up with that? WHAT’S UP WITH THAT?
(Apparently my entire life is an SNL skit. It’s in my vernacular now so hard that I can’t stop it even if I tried. I find myself ding-donging and “OH REALLY”-ing and … well, OOOOEEEing ALL THE TIME.)
It seems I am the only parent in the universe who is in TLA with the DST. Dudes! My kid is sleeping until SE-VEN A to the M. She’s going to bed later, sure, but as a late to bed/late to rise person, this fits in to my schedule perfectly, and allows me to eat dinner WITH my child, rather than shoving food in her face, jamming her into the bathtub, and then scrambling to get something on the table for Adam and me to eat before 9 p.m. This eating-with-my-child thing is also new and weird, now that she’s a whole one year old and can eat what we’re eating for dinner. HELLO MINDFUCK.
I know this is in no way revelatory, as, well, this is what babies DO, but in one short year, my kid has gone from barely opening her mouth like a baby bird on my boob, to using her fingers to shove (SHOVE) pieces of chicken and asparagus into her gaping maw, and it’s BLOWING MY MIND. It’s like, dude, who is this small PERSON with opinions and food preferences — this tiny person who, when I offered her more blueberries, swept them all off of the table with her arm and said, “NOOOOO!” and glared at me like, Jesus, bitch, do I LOOK like I want more blueberries to you? Have you SEEN the amount of cheese I just ate?
Okay, then, kid, I get it! YOU ARE ALL DONE. FINE.
The other day I glanced over and saw her sitting on Adam’s lap, sippy cup in one hand, graham cracker in the other, acting like a TEENAGER waiting impatiently for me to turn on One Tree Hill. It’s … I don’t know what, but I tell you, I know I’m killing y’all with this mommyblogging bizness, but there’s something about having Samantha turn ONE that has me all like, WHAT THE EFF? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love it — sleeping, for instance, is a truly fantastic thing. It’s that she’s becoming so big and SO fun, and while I wouldn’t go back to any other age — truly, not even for an instant — I can’t help but be a little sad because it’s all going so terrifyingly fast.
The littlest eater in the throes of cheesecake ecstasy on her birthday.
Hey, one last thing that will be interesting only to parents of small children: Sam is uninterested in eating anything she can’t pick up herself, which means things like yogurt and other puree-type things are out. HOWEVAH, my friend Meg tipped me off the other day that Cheerios mixed with yogurt are great for little ones like Sam. Messy as all hell, but also, awesome. And OMFG YES. AWESOME. Here’s the recipe:
Stir Cheerios in yogurt. Serve.
SO COMPLEX, I KNOW. And yet, GEEEEENIUS.
Finally, my friend Kate came over with her little boy today, and … well, honestly, I just love Kate. Down to earth, rational, chill and just … NORMAL, she’s very refreshing to be around. But what really gets me — what gets me about all of my mom friends, the good ones anyway (all, um, three of them), is that I love watching them with their kids. I LOVE hearing that Kate thinks her son is the cutest, and watching her kiss him and tell him what an angel he is. (She must have done this five times today, and by the fourth, I almost said something, for I was getting MISTY.) I love watching Meg hide a toy in her hands and laugh while her son giggles like crazy and tries to guess where it went.
It’s just … I don’t know, a completely unexpected joy of parenthood, not only watching and enjoying MY kid grow up, but seeing other good parents — my friends, who I love — who adore their kids in action. It sounds silly and a little shmoopy, but it reminds me that although this world is full of annoying, shitty assholes who do annoying, shitty things, there is so, so much love. It gives me hope.
Aaaand, on that completely out of character note, I hope you all have a great weekend!
*Peter Gabriel. Can you tell I just got Scratch My Back, and can’t stop listening to it? I have a Peter Gabriel PROBLEM. It’s OBVIOUS.
Look, here’s the truth: I’m not sure if I can REALLY give up Big Love. Oh, I know I SAID I was, and I will admit, I half-watched this entire season, because it was a strangely repellent mixture of incredibly boring and incredibly far-fetched. All the things that made it wonderful in the first few seasons — the delicate nuances of the wives’ personalities as they danced around the (horrible) center of their universe, Douchebag Bill; the impact it had on their children who, for the most part, were expected to live normal lives without ever letting anyone in on their secret; the unforeseen challenges of being a husband, three times over.
All of that was replaced by bombastic fireworks with little substance. Murder! Mayhem! Closeted gays! Arm-slicing! A bizarre eugenics experiment that went entirely unexplained! And it was all so poorly written and … oh, what the HELL, people?
But you know what, I said the same thing about Grey’s Anatomy somewhere in the range of FIVE THOUSAND TIMES, and umpteen MEELLION years later, here I am, TiVoing the shiznit outta that show and relieved, week after week, that they’ve refrained from torturing us with MerDer dramzzz.
I’m a sheep, however. I can’t stop.
***
Whenever my dog is behaving oddly — like, say, this evening, when she busted into Sam’s bedroom during our nighttime routine no fewer than three times — I have a tendency to suddenly assign a great deal of meaning to her actions, like she’s somehow channeling Lassie and trying to tell us something Very Important. “Is there a fire, girl? Do I smell different? DO I HAVE CANCER, SUNNY ROOBS?”
All this portentous behavior ascribed to a dog who can’t effectively communicate that she needs to go outside to go to the BATHROOM.
***
Here’s a sad fact: I quit smoking at least five years ago, probably longer — I can’t even remember anymore, maybe 2003? — and the truth is, I miss it every day. Every. Day. When I find out someone I know smokes, my reaction is almost never one of revulsion, although I AM repulsed by the smell of smoke, but instead is, OH YOU ARE SO LUCKY. I miss smoking terribly, you guys. TERRIBLY. Everything about it just screams “RECKLESS YOUTH!” to me, from taking too-long smoke breaks at my first job to bond with coworkers, a la Rachel in “Friends,” to Adam and me, in the throes of our early days, buying two packs apiece on a Friday night and wondering if it would be enough to last until Saturday morning (!!).
I’ll never smoke again, especially now that I have a daughter, but I don’t think there will ever be a day where I look back on it with anything but fondness.
However, that doesn’t stop me from being a totally judgmental douchebag when I see anyone climb into a car with little kids (in their CAR SEATS, even!) and light up. And if you have the windows rolled up? There’s a chance I’ll flip your ass off. I don’t care if you smoke, but their little lungs are all FRESH AND PINK and you have no right to sully them, biznatch.
And finally, a baby in a barrette, made by Metalia:
Happy Wednesday!
*The Platters. Yes, THE PLATTERS. From DECADES AGO. I have a thing for The Platters, for reasons that have to do with my mom and me singing them while baking cookies.
I took the dog to get her anal glands squeezed and get a rabies shot today, and if THAT doesn’t set the tone for a day filled with unprecedented awesomeness, I’m not sure what does. No, wait, let me back up: the day started with me cleaning my daughter’s, um, STUFF, out of her armpits after a blowout, which is something that hasn’t happened in MONTHS and happened because … oh God, I don’t even KNOW why (her diaper is the right size, I assure you), but I am sure my future holds a day where I don’t have to wonder if today is going to be the day that I have to clean someone else’s poop out of their armpits, you know?
ARMPITS. This is not unlike the time she was a wee, wee infant and somehow did her business with such force it landed on her FACE.
This was followed up by a rather strongly worded lecture of gibberish as she stood naked at the end of the coffee table this evening, full on SCREAMING at us, complete with arm gestures. Aaaand moments later … more poop. While naked. On the floor. Just after a bath. How delightful!
Internet, I’m sorry for those back-to-back gross stories, but honestly, it’s like I never believed this shit (HA) actually happened until it did, and worse, I’m actually shocked at how unfazed I am by it all. Sure, no one likes to be living with their very own miniature version of Tubgirl, but … well. This is what you sign up for, I suppose.
My nonchalance probably ties back to the fact that frankly, I would rather change an entire preschool full of diapers than clean up one (1) yard of dog poop. Anything but dog poop, folks. ANYTHING.
***
So hey, um, here’s a pop culture observation a day late and millions of dollars short: There are a PLETHORA of magazine covers dedicated to how Vienna “deceived” Jake (the latest Bachelor, if you were wondering), and honestly, I never really had a problem with Vienna, but that’s not even what I’m about to talk about. What I’m wondering is, why has no one bothered to dissect the fact that this guy is GROSS. JUST GROSS. And … ugh, the guy is just a walking bottle of MASSENGILL and they’re worried about whether VIENNA deceived him? Oh COME ON. They should be worried about the fact that she is YOUNG and IMPRESSIONABLE and is now chained to a DOUCHE.
***
Hey, you know what sucked? Big Love. The whole season. Sucked. And the finale? SUUUUCKED. I think I’m done. I have no interest in this new world order of theirs. Sorry, Big Love. I quit you. Not even using Peter Gabriel’s cover of “Heroes” in the final scene could redeem you. NOT EVEN PETER GABRIEL CAN SAVE BIG LOVE.
***
So! Relocating, Or the Potential Thereof. There are so many parts to this story — many moving parts, including jobs that have been left, job offers received and turned down, my years-long strict adherence to Suze Orman that put us in the position to be able to be OK no matter what happens — but the simple emotional part is this: UGGGGHHH. We always knew that Vermont would likely be a temporary stop on our, um, journey (ON THE WINGS OF LOVE), and before that there was Florida, and before THAT was the place I consider home, given that our families are there, and I lived there for ages and ages, which is Boston.
Boston, by the way, is very likely where we’re going to end up, um, eventually. But as it turns out, I like it here — quite a bit, as it turns out, and I wouldn’t mind staying (it’s not off the table entirely). I’m surprised, however, by the emotional response I’m having by thinking of being back home, which is that when I left, I was one person, and when I return, I will be a completely, and I mean COMPLETELY, different one. When I left, I was in my twenties, relatively newly married and way into my career and living a completely stressed-out competitive existence. Now, I’m in my thirties, have a child (and want more), and am neither stressed, nor competitive. And I know you don’t have to be who you were just because of where you are, but, well, I challenge anyone not to make the same comparisons, when you think about it.
It makes me wonder if you really can go home again without some serious emotional turmoil, and the answer appears to be no. The truth is that I am having a hard time with both the uncertainty and with what seems to be the inevitable certainty. (Is this making any sense? It’s just that DETAILS ARE BORING.)
We’ll see. At the moment, it’s the most likely possibility, but in some ways, the country is our oyster. But you know what else? I’m over the nomadic existence. So there’s that, too.
Unexpected introspection! It’s what’s for your Tuesday.
PS, the book has been picked. Get ready for Joan Didion, y’all.
*Peter Gabriel. Yes, from Wall*E. It’s one of my favorite songs. What of it?
Well, ermm, where have I been? God, EVERYWHERE. We went to Boston for a day trip that turned into … a week, because things just kept going ON and ON (Adam job search stuff, yes, we may be relocating again, and just … oh whatever, it’s all long and boring), and then … well, we finally came home, but NOT BEFORE Sam and I got thrush! THRUUUUSSSSH! Have you ever had thrush? No? Let me enlighten you as to what it feels like!
First, take a chip clip or a clothespin, and pin it over your nipple — or, if you’re a gentleman, your scrotum. (This tip from Marie.) Actually, wait — first, what you do is grab some of that fiberglass insulation from your attic. The pink kind. Grind that up (with gloves on!) and smear it all over your boobs (or balls), THEN put the chip clip on. Squeeze repeatedly. Yes, again. Nope, not over yet! AGAIN.
Yessss, that is thrush. And it was complicated by the fact that my kid always sleeps like shit when we’re in the same room, so she wants to SNUGGLE and that includes being all up in my THRUSHY PARTS and … oh, man you guys. And we got rid of it! HAPPY DAY.
AND THEN IT CAME BACK. IT IS HERE NOW, LURKING LIKE A SHADOW. And now, she has a fever. A giant one. OH MY LANDS, LET IT END.
But not before my baby — my teeny, tiny, screaming baby girl — turned one.
My baby is ONE, you guys. She went from this:
To this:
Oh man, you guys. She’s such a big, pretty, smart girl. It’s insane, how it happens, isn’t it? Insane.
I’ll be back next week in full force, I promise. I missed you guys terribly.
(In the meantime, the new poll is up for next month’s book at the Book Lushes. I’m behind AGAIN, but am doing MAY next week, so, ah, will fix this! AH SWEAR.)
(Edited to add: JOIN US! It is never too late, even if you can’t read a specific month’s book, you can join the forums anytime.)
Thanks for all of your comments on my last post about letting friends go. I loved your stories, and I feel significantly less guilty, which is, I think, a good thing. Honestly, it wasn’t until I wrote out the situation to a local friend who doesn’t know the party in question that I saw it all in writing and realized, errrm, yes ma’am, all done!
Unfortunately, it bred a bit of paranoia among myself and a few friends when we started discussing what we found morally repugnant and there were a few e-mails exchanged and one friend, God bless her, submitted a LIST of what she found morally repugnant in the friendship-ending sense and PHEW, aren’t we glad we got that out of the way? Our friendship can resume! (I’m not really kidding about that, because ding dong, paranoia, HII-LLOO!)
I’m so grateful the Olympics are over — not because I didn’t enjoy them, because really, I did — but I have only so much tolerance for watching people hurtle down things at a dangerous speed. I spent the majority of the games feeling vaguely nauseated, with a blanket over my head — particularly the bobsledding, because when that shit flips, those dudes go hurtling down on their effing HEADS. Over! OVER!
While I’m at it, let me also add that I am irrationally irritated by Lindsey Vonn — or rather, the media’s obsession with her. It REALLY bugs me that even in something as seemingly egalitarian as skiing, the pretty one always gets the attention. Frankly, I don’t blame Julia Mancuso if she did snark about Lindsey, because as unfair as that is (it’s not Vonn’s fault), I’ll bet that’s annoying and distracting as hell. It happens everywhere. Looks matter. Everywhere, particularly with women. Hell, even in the blogosphere, where writing is supposed to reign supreme, pretty, photogenic bloggers generally perform better than their ordinary counterparts. Heather Armstrong is an extraordinarily talented writer and blogger, but it’s impossible to pretend that her success is not assisted, at least in part, by her model looks — and I do not mean that to denigrate her talent, for it is very real, just as mere fact.
Bah.
And now! Bullets:
– Book Lushes! Look under the PollDaddy tab on the site, for we’re starting something new: Genres! Themes! THEN picking books! It’s an effort to branch out and keep the selection fresh, as well as pick books with plenty of notice for library-going folks. As soon as I’ve finished the poll, that is. Give me five, yo.
– Sam is saying “HIIIII!” all the time, to everything. To Daddy, the dog, me, the couch, her books, the babies on television. Everything must be greeted with wild enthusiasm, and man, is it ever awesome. She’s also learned how to open her OWN flaps in her peekaboo books, thankyouverymuchMama, and she blows on her food before she eats it, just like I do before I give it to her. The other day, she ate an entire zucchini, sliced up and sauteed with garlic and parmesan and I swear, she would have eaten more of it if she hadn’t already sucked down the whole thing.
While these are simple, mundane details, this is the kind of shit that BLOWS YOUR MIND as a parent. How a small person goes from a little farting blob to a prescient being with food preferences and the ability to verbalize things, however rudimentary, is effing NUTSO. Like an ACID TRIP, I swear to GOD. Not that I would, um, know!
– So the other day, I was watching Regis & Kelly (don’t judge!) (Also, someone please give Kelly Ripa a goddamn CHEESEBURGER already) and Kelly, who annoys the piss out of me, was talking about sheet hygiene, and by that I mean, how often you change your bedsheets. I’m … well, I’m not sure I’m willing to make any admissions just yet, but I WILL say I was comPAHletely aghast when she shared that she (or, you know, her maid, Esmeralda), changes the sheets EVERY OTHER DAY. Am I … is this not excessive? Like, EXTREMELY excessive? Like, EXTREEEEEEMMMMELY excessive? I mean, if you think that’s normal, then, hey! I do, too! I was just kidding!
(OMFG.)
So, erm, how often do you change your sheets, if you don’t mind me asking? And worse, if you have them, your KIDS’ sheets? (OMFG)
This is how it goes, sleep with kids: It’s bad. It gets better! It’s bad again. It’s bearable. It’s unbearable! It’s perfect. It’s the worst thing ever. I’m well rested! I may never sleep again.
It’s all surprisingly bearable in the scheme of things, but when it isn’t, it kind of sucks. Sam has three (3) teeth coming in at once, and I can see them — all three of them — lurking just beneath the surface, and … urkkkk. This is in addition to the one she cut last week, which was … urrrkkk. Plus, there’s um, a yeast diaper rash (urrrkkkk), which I left to quite literally fester for a few weeks, thinking that if I applied enough Desitin, it would just! go! away!, which led to a super-itchy crotch, I AM SURE and … well, what you have here is the reason I went back to bed during her morning nap just about every day this week, waking from a facedown position on a drool-soaked pillow and wanting just! eight! more! hours!
Urrrkkk.
Friday bullets, with a question!
- One of my favorite things about the Internet is that finally — finally! — there are other people who have seen the most random, ridiculous movies and television shows I did as a kid. It’s so … VALIDATING, in a way I can’t properly explain. Grease 2 is no longer the embarrassing secret it once was, and I now believe there are many OTHER people who can sing the words to “Let’s Bowl!” (“Hey Paulette, take a look over here! I’m your kingpin, honey, and I’m gettin’ in gear!” — Johnny Nogerelli, sung whilst doing some sort of weird split-type dance on his knees) Other discoveries: The Electric Grandmother (thanks, TJ!), The Worst Witch and others who were ALSO obsessed with The Dark Crystal. Oh, Internet. You are my people.
(Related: I could not — still cannot — figure out the fake love triangle of Stephanie, Paulette and Johnny. Was Stephanie still considered his chick? Why was Paulette so bitter? Yes, they just broke up, but there seemed to be something more, because she couldn’t be a Pink Lady without being a T-Bird chick and …? Oh, the politics of T-Birds and Pink Ladies! So complex!)
– American Idol. They’re all terrible. Ellen is awkward and terrible, and I LOVE Ellen, but not like this. There’s a shark in the water and American Idol just leaped right over it.
– Have you ever walked away from a friendship because of something not done to you personally, but was still morally repugnant? I’m wrestling with this right now, and I’ve done it once before, though I don’t think I knew it at the time. The historical example is this: A longtime friend of mine was always a little, um, mercenary, I guess, and a bit on the morally ambiguous side when it came to financial gain. And cheap! She was always so cheap, and in that awkward, Is She Trying to Rip Me Off? kind of way. You know this way, yes? Like, they’re always trying to screw you on the bill in group dinners by throwing in a few bucks without ever looking at the bill? That kind of thing, but … well, sometimes a lot worse and more insidious, and CONSTANT.
Anyway! So! Fast forward several years of this known behavior and she’s hit by a car. I know! A car! And it was deemed a total (TOTAL) accident due to freak solar glare and really, she was fine, save for a few minor injuries. Yes, it was traumatizing but it was an ACCIDENT and … oh man, you guys, the dude who hit her was all broken up about it. He paid her medical bills, visited her in the hospital and cried his face off every time he saw her, apologizing all the time. He was such a mess over it, and made so many offers for reparations. He was a FATHER and oh he … well, he was HEARTBROKEN. I felt so bad for him, because it could have been anyone, honestly.
And she was fine and happy and everything was fine and then she heard through a friend of hers that someone she knew sued someone after a motorcycle accident and got enough money for a down payment on a house! And she could always use more money and … well.
She sued him for pain and suffering and it was just! so! awful! I’m all for suing when you’ve actually SUFFERED or suing, say, an unrepentant asshole who was negligent, but when you’re essentially ruining someone else’s life for nothing more than money, I … well, as it turned out, I was done with her. I never looked at her the same and we’re not friends anymore. It just slowly fell apart, and we slowly grew apart, but when I look back on it, that was the turning point. I couldn’t tolerate her anymore. I couldn’t be friends with someone who would do something so selfish and awful.
So! I’m faced with a similar situation. Something not done to me, but something I find just as repulsive, and I’m not sure I can go on. Has this ever happened to you?
(Unrelated: Every time I hear the statement, “Has this ever happened to you?” I automatically fill it with, “You lost a friend because you got a boring doorbell?”)
Happy Friday!
*Mos Def. Oh, you guys. I LOVE Mos Def. I have such a CRUSH on Mos Def, and I want to put him in my pocket and carry him around.
Reading about World War II — every time I read about it — makes me realize how we, as Americans, have lost our stomach for what war really is. I say this as a person who lost a friend in the current mess that is Iraq — he left a wife and four-month-old baby behind, for chrissake — so it’s not as though it’s something that should be easy to tolerate, or that the loss of any life is something we should be able to stomach.
Not that anyone is waiting with bated breath or anything, but I’m still reading Suite Francaise (along with books in-between), and it’s no longer a slog-fest — in fact, I quite love it, and recommend that everyone read it, if only because it makes you (well, me, anyway) think about war differently. As background, it was written by a Jew (who converted to Catholicism, by way of futile self-preservation, for she later died in Auschwitz) in France during World War II, and is perhaps the first fictional account of the events taking place, for it was written as it was happening.
(Morrigan, are you out there? I LIKE IT. WIN.)
There’s no denying that the greatest tragedy of WWII was the Holocaust. I’ve been to Dachau and it was … well, it was what you’d expect, times a thousand. There really aren’t words, so I won’t even try. Suite Francaise, ironically, illustrates the plight of the non-Jews, which is eye-opening in a different way, because, uh, Jesus, everyone paid a price in that war — some more than others, but it seems like everyone paid something, which isn’t necessarily true of our current conflicts. Many people pay — please, just ask the military spouses, who should be thanked as much as their husbands and wives who serve — but not necessarily EVERYONE.
This is the longest way ever of telling the story of the single most shocking conversation I’ve ever had, that is kind of related, but not, um, really at all. Welcome to my mind. But really! Most! Shocking! Ever! A few years ago, I met with a bunch of WWII veterans for a series I was doing around, uh, Veterans Day (there’s an original concept). It was, by and large, so fucking cool, and they were very obviously the Greatest Generation, just as Tom Brokaw promised. I’d never seen such an attitude of self-sacrifice and understanding that this world is so much bigger than we are — they may not have been the most sophisticated people I’ve ever met, but in many ways, they were much more worldly. It was an immense privilege I will truly never forget, and I am so thankful to have been able to experience some of the last members of that generation.
One of the men I met with was … well, honestly, he was incredible. A relatively high-ranking black Army officer in the 1940s — when there was little tolerance for African Americans at all, much less in a position of power — that was the least of his accomplishments, if you can believe it. The guy was a highly successful newspaper publisher, a hit songwriter (!), eventual presidential appointee and … oh MAN, it just went on and on and on. He did so many things, and did them so well, that I half expected my fact checking to come out that he’d made it all up, except of course, he hadn’t. I have, to this day, never met anyone else who has done so much with their life.
He was brilliant and kind and had lived this insane life full of loss (his first wife died in a fire while he was trying to rescue her, oh my LANDS) and love and … whoa, man, he was the coolest guy I’d ever met. I developed such an affection for him that I was deeply sorry when the piece was finished, because I just wanted more time with him. In total, I’d spent many days — weeks, even — talking to him, and he and his wife invited Adam and me to dinner on multiple occasions, and we just never got it together to do so.
And, in retrospect, THANK GOD WE DIDN’T.
During our very last conversation, when everything had been filed and finished, and I was merely tying up loose ends, he was talking about his ties to the music industry, and offhandedly mentioned the prevalence of Jews in entertainment. Which, you know, I guess is somewhat true, but I’d never really given it much thought beyond the occasional Ari Gold-led joke on Entourage. It is at this point that he — a man whose life, for a little while at least, had been DEFINED by discrimination, and was, um, a WORLD WAR II VETERAN — announced, “You know, I hate them .. the Jews.”
I’MSORRYWHATDIDYOUSAY?
(It is at this point that I would like to remind/inform those who don’t know that I am, a) an aspiring Jew, as Adam always teases me, for I am always UPSET that I wasn’t born Jewish and jealous that he was; b) married to a Jew; and c) have a very obviously Jewish last name, which apparently ESCAPED this man. For all of his purported hatred, I have to wonder if he could pick a Jewish name or person out of a line up)
I think I just stared, openmouthed.
“They are a hateful, awful, greedy people. I’ve never met a Jew — or a person who LIKES Jews, even — that I’ve liked. Ever.”
I mean, what the fuck, right? Oddly, he sure seemed to like me. And because I was WORKING and was supposed to be impartial, I just … I don’t know, you guys, I just SAT THERE, totally stunned and silent and stupid, and said nothing. On the one hand, I hate myself for staying silent. On the OTHER hand, my God, the guy was 88, and I highly doubt he was going to change his mind and plus, again, I was working and was a journalist and free speech and all that and … oh man. Besides, even if he did know, he’d decide that Adam and I were exceptions, not the rule.
Shocking, right? Or is it just me? I mean, what the EFF, right? WHO SAYS THAT, least of all someone who has VIVID, VAST PREJUDICIAL EXPERIENCE that he’d just spent the last several weeks DETAILING TO ME?
(Edited to add: This part was what surprised me so much. It wasn’t that people feel that way — I mean, I know they exist, and it wasn’t the first time that happened, sadly — it’s that someone who spent all this TIME saying how AWFUL prejudice was and how it had impacted his life so NEGATIVELY went forward and … well, DID THE SAME THING. I was FLOORED.)
Most! Shocking! Ever! I still can’t get over it. I can’t! I can’t! I was so disappointed — AM so disappointed, rather. I really, really liked him, and still think about him all the time. I often wonder if he’s still alive — he was, you know, 88, and while he was healthy as a horse, he smoked about two packs of Pall Malls a day. His wife was much younger — much younger than my parents, even, and maybe ten years older than my sister — and sometimes, I think about calling her to check, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
(Housekeeping note: The next Book Lushes book has been decided, and we’re now going on a regular monthly schedule from March 1 – April 1, so this book is MARCH’s book, if that makes sense. And it’s The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Win!)
(PS, I haven’t deleted the poll because I can’t figure out how to close it without deleting it. Am computer genius!)
(PPS, the book is on Amazon for pre-order! I mean, my anthology! Am total geek about seeing my name on Amazon, when all of these other regular authors are all, OH MY GOD GET OVER YOURSELF IT IS NOT A BIG DEAL. I bring this up ALSO because though I don’t mention it here for Google reasons, I don’t hide my last name, and since I mentioned it being obviously Jewish, I’d be curious if I were you, so now you know, if you didn’t already. If you don’t know which one I am, I’m Phillippa Ballantine. I KID.)
