Love,
Shrek and Fiona
Friday, October 31, 2008
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
You Might Be a Maverick If. . .
I don’t know that it was always this way, but, for as long as I can remember, just as we move into the final weeks of the Presidential campaign the focus shifts to the undecided voters. “Who are they?” the news anchors ask. “And how might they determine the outcome of this election?”
Then you’ll see this man or woman— someone, I always think, who looks very happy to be on TV. “Well, Charlie,” they say, “I’ve gone back and forth on the issues and whatnot, but I just can’t seem to make up my mind!” Some insist that there’s very little difference between candidate A and candidate B. Others claim that they’re with A on defense and health care but are leaning toward B when it comes to the economy.
I look at these people and can’t quite believe that they exist. Are they professional actors? I wonder. Or are they simply laymen who want a lot of attention?
To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”
To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.
I mean, really, what’s to be confused about?
When doubting that anyone could not know whom they’re voting for, I inevitably think back to November, 1968. Hubert Humphrey was running against Richard Nixon, and when my mother couldn’t choose between them she had me do it for her. It was crazy. One minute I was eating potato chips in front of the TV, and the next I was at the fire station, waiting with people whose kids I went to school with. When it was our turn, we were led by a woman wearing a sash to one of a half-dozen booths, the curtain of which closed after we entered.
“Go ahead,” my mother said. “Flick a switch, any switch.”
I looked at the panel in front of me.
“Start on the judges or whatever and we’ll be here all day, so just pick a President and make it fast. We’ve wasted enough time already.”
“Which one do you think is best?” I asked.
“I don’t have an opinion,” she told me. “That’s why I’m letting you do it. Come on, now, vote.”
I put my finger on Hubert Humphrey and then on Richard Nixon, neither of whom meant anything to me. What I most liked about democracy, at least so far, was the booth—its quiet civility, its atmosphere of importance. “Hmm,” I said, wondering how long we could stay before someone came and kicked us out.
Ideally, my mother would have waited outside, but, as she said, there was no way an unescorted eleven-year-old would be allowed to vote, or even hang out, seeing as the lines were long and the polls were open for only one day. “Will you please hurry it up?” she hissed.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to have something like this in our living room?” I asked. “Maybe we could use the same curtains we have on the windows.”
“All right, that’s it.” My mother reached for Humphrey but I beat her to it, and cast our vote for Richard Nixon, who had the same last name as a man at our church. I assumed that the two were related, and only discovered afterward that I was wrong. Richard Nixon had always been Nixon, while the man at my church had shortened his name from something funnier but considerably less poster-friendly—Nickapopapopolis, maybe.
“Oh, well,” I said.
We drove back home, and when asked by my father whom she had voted for, my mother said that it was none of his business.
“What do you mean, ‘none of my business’?” he said. “I told you to vote Republican.”
“Well, maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”
“You’re not telling me you voted for Humphrey.” He said this as if she had marched through the streets with a pan on her head.
“No,” she said. “I’m not telling you that. I’m not telling you anything. It’s private—all right? My political opinions are none of your concern.”
“What political opinions?” he said. “I’m the one who took you down to register. You didn’t even know there was an election until I told you.”
“Well, thanks for telling me.”
She turned to open a can of mushroom soup. This would be poured over pork chops and noodles and served as our dinner, casserole style. Once we’d taken our seats at the table, my parents would stop fighting directly, and continue their argument through my sisters and me. Lisa might tell a story about her day at school and, if my father said it was interesting, my mother would laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he’d say.
“Nothing. It’s just that, well, I suppose everyone has a different standard. That’s all.”
When told by my father that I was holding my fork wrong, my mother would say that I was holding it right, or right in “certain circles.”
“We don’t know how people eat the world over,” she’d say, not to him but to the buffet or the picture window, as if the statement had nothing to do with any of us.
I wasn’t looking forward to that kind of evening, and so I told my father that I had voted. “She let me,” I said. “And I picked Nixon.”
“Well, at least someone in the family has some brains.” He patted me on the shoulder and as my mother turned away I understood that I had chosen the wrong person.
I didn’t vote again until 1976, when I was nineteen and legally registered. Because I was at college out of state, I sent my ballot through the mail. The choice that year was between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford. Most of my friends were going for Carter, but, as an art major, I identified myself as a maverick. “That means an original,” I told my roommate. “Someone who lets the chips fall where they may.” Because I made my own rules and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought of them, I decided to write in the name of Jerry Brown, who, it was rumored, liked to smoke pot. This was an issue very close to my heart—too close, obviously, as it amounted to a complete waste. Still, though, it taught me a valuable lesson: calling yourself a maverick is a sure sign that you’re not one.
I wonder if, in the end, the undecideds aren’t the biggest pessimists of all. Here they could order the airline chicken, but, then again, hmm. “Isn’t that adding an extra step?” they ask themselves. “If it’s all going to be chewed up and swallowed, why not cut to the chase, and go with the platter of shit?”
Ah, though, that’s where the broken glass comes in.
- David Sedaris
Then you’ll see this man or woman— someone, I always think, who looks very happy to be on TV. “Well, Charlie,” they say, “I’ve gone back and forth on the issues and whatnot, but I just can’t seem to make up my mind!” Some insist that there’s very little difference between candidate A and candidate B. Others claim that they’re with A on defense and health care but are leaning toward B when it comes to the economy.
I look at these people and can’t quite believe that they exist. Are they professional actors? I wonder. Or are they simply laymen who want a lot of attention?
To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”
To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.
I mean, really, what’s to be confused about?
When doubting that anyone could not know whom they’re voting for, I inevitably think back to November, 1968. Hubert Humphrey was running against Richard Nixon, and when my mother couldn’t choose between them she had me do it for her. It was crazy. One minute I was eating potato chips in front of the TV, and the next I was at the fire station, waiting with people whose kids I went to school with. When it was our turn, we were led by a woman wearing a sash to one of a half-dozen booths, the curtain of which closed after we entered.
“Go ahead,” my mother said. “Flick a switch, any switch.”
I looked at the panel in front of me.
“Start on the judges or whatever and we’ll be here all day, so just pick a President and make it fast. We’ve wasted enough time already.”
“Which one do you think is best?” I asked.
“I don’t have an opinion,” she told me. “That’s why I’m letting you do it. Come on, now, vote.”
I put my finger on Hubert Humphrey and then on Richard Nixon, neither of whom meant anything to me. What I most liked about democracy, at least so far, was the booth—its quiet civility, its atmosphere of importance. “Hmm,” I said, wondering how long we could stay before someone came and kicked us out.
Ideally, my mother would have waited outside, but, as she said, there was no way an unescorted eleven-year-old would be allowed to vote, or even hang out, seeing as the lines were long and the polls were open for only one day. “Will you please hurry it up?” she hissed.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to have something like this in our living room?” I asked. “Maybe we could use the same curtains we have on the windows.”
“All right, that’s it.” My mother reached for Humphrey but I beat her to it, and cast our vote for Richard Nixon, who had the same last name as a man at our church. I assumed that the two were related, and only discovered afterward that I was wrong. Richard Nixon had always been Nixon, while the man at my church had shortened his name from something funnier but considerably less poster-friendly—Nickapopapopolis, maybe.
“Oh, well,” I said.
We drove back home, and when asked by my father whom she had voted for, my mother said that it was none of his business.
“What do you mean, ‘none of my business’?” he said. “I told you to vote Republican.”
“Well, maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”
“You’re not telling me you voted for Humphrey.” He said this as if she had marched through the streets with a pan on her head.
“No,” she said. “I’m not telling you that. I’m not telling you anything. It’s private—all right? My political opinions are none of your concern.”
“What political opinions?” he said. “I’m the one who took you down to register. You didn’t even know there was an election until I told you.”
“Well, thanks for telling me.”
She turned to open a can of mushroom soup. This would be poured over pork chops and noodles and served as our dinner, casserole style. Once we’d taken our seats at the table, my parents would stop fighting directly, and continue their argument through my sisters and me. Lisa might tell a story about her day at school and, if my father said it was interesting, my mother would laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he’d say.
“Nothing. It’s just that, well, I suppose everyone has a different standard. That’s all.”
When told by my father that I was holding my fork wrong, my mother would say that I was holding it right, or right in “certain circles.”
“We don’t know how people eat the world over,” she’d say, not to him but to the buffet or the picture window, as if the statement had nothing to do with any of us.
I wasn’t looking forward to that kind of evening, and so I told my father that I had voted. “She let me,” I said. “And I picked Nixon.”
“Well, at least someone in the family has some brains.” He patted me on the shoulder and as my mother turned away I understood that I had chosen the wrong person.
I didn’t vote again until 1976, when I was nineteen and legally registered. Because I was at college out of state, I sent my ballot through the mail. The choice that year was between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford. Most of my friends were going for Carter, but, as an art major, I identified myself as a maverick. “That means an original,” I told my roommate. “Someone who lets the chips fall where they may.” Because I made my own rules and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought of them, I decided to write in the name of Jerry Brown, who, it was rumored, liked to smoke pot. This was an issue very close to my heart—too close, obviously, as it amounted to a complete waste. Still, though, it taught me a valuable lesson: calling yourself a maverick is a sure sign that you’re not one.
I wonder if, in the end, the undecideds aren’t the biggest pessimists of all. Here they could order the airline chicken, but, then again, hmm. “Isn’t that adding an extra step?” they ask themselves. “If it’s all going to be chewed up and swallowed, why not cut to the chase, and go with the platter of shit?”
Ah, though, that’s where the broken glass comes in.
- David Sedaris
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Feelin' Blue in a Red State
Dear Red States,
We've decided we're leaving. We intend to form our own country, and we're taking the other Blue States with us.
In case you aren't aware, that includes Hawaii, Oregon, Washington, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois and all the Northeast. We believe this split will be beneficial to the nation, and especially to the people of the new country of New California.
To sum up briefly: You get Texas, Oklahoma and all the slave states. We get stem cell research and the best beaches.
We get the Statue of Liberty. You get Dollywood.
We get Intel and Microsoft. You get WorldCom.
We get Harvard. You get Ole' Miss.
We get 85 percent of America 's venture capital and entrepreneurs.
You get Alabama .
We get two-thirds of the tax revenue; you get to make the red states pay their fair share.
Since our aggregate divorce rate is 22 percent lower than the Christian Coalition's, we get a bunch of happy families.
Please be aware that Nuevo California will be pro-choice and anti-war, and we're going to want all our citizens back from Iraq at once. If you need people to fight, ask your evangelicals. They have kids they're apparently willing to send to their deaths for no purpose, and they don't care if you don't show pictures of their children's caskets coming home. We do wish you success in Iraq, and hope that the WMDs turn up, but we're not willing to spend our resources in Bush's Quagmire.
With the Blue States in hand, we will have firm control of 80% of the country's fresh water, more than 90 % of the pineapple and lettuce, 92 % of the nation's fresh fruit, 95 %of America's quality wines (you can serve French wines at state dinners) 90% of all cheese, 90% of the high tech industry, most of the U.S. low-sulfur coal, all living redwoods, sequoias and condors, all the Ivy and Seven Sister schools, plus Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Cal Tech and MIT.
With the Red States, on the other hand, you will have to cope with 88 % of all obese Americans (and their projected health care costs), 92 % of all U.S. mosquitoes, nearly 100 percent of the tornadoes, 90 % of the hurricanes, 99 % of all Southern Baptists, virtually 100 % of all televangelists, Rush Limbaugh, Bob Jones University, Clemson and the University of Georgia.
We get Hollywood and Yosemite , thank you.
Additionally, 38 % of those in the Red states believe Jonah was actually swallowed by a whale, 62 % believe life is sacred unless we're discussing the death penalty or gun laws, 44 % say that evolution is only a theory, 53 %that Saddam was involved in 9/11, and 61 % of you crazy b ** ***ds believe you are people with higher morals then we lefties.
By the way, we're taking the good pot, too. You can have that dirt weed they grow in Mexico .
Peace out,
Blue States
We've decided we're leaving. We intend to form our own country, and we're taking the other Blue States with us.
In case you aren't aware, that includes Hawaii, Oregon, Washington, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois and all the Northeast. We believe this split will be beneficial to the nation, and especially to the people of the new country of New California.
To sum up briefly: You get Texas, Oklahoma and all the slave states. We get stem cell research and the best beaches.
We get the Statue of Liberty. You get Dollywood.
We get Intel and Microsoft. You get WorldCom.
We get Harvard. You get Ole' Miss.
We get 85 percent of America 's venture capital and entrepreneurs.
You get Alabama .
We get two-thirds of the tax revenue; you get to make the red states pay their fair share.
Since our aggregate divorce rate is 22 percent lower than the Christian Coalition's, we get a bunch of happy families.
Please be aware that Nuevo California will be pro-choice and anti-war, and we're going to want all our citizens back from Iraq at once. If you need people to fight, ask your evangelicals. They have kids they're apparently willing to send to their deaths for no purpose, and they don't care if you don't show pictures of their children's caskets coming home. We do wish you success in Iraq, and hope that the WMDs turn up, but we're not willing to spend our resources in Bush's Quagmire.
With the Blue States in hand, we will have firm control of 80% of the country's fresh water, more than 90 % of the pineapple and lettuce, 92 % of the nation's fresh fruit, 95 %of America's quality wines (you can serve French wines at state dinners) 90% of all cheese, 90% of the high tech industry, most of the U.S. low-sulfur coal, all living redwoods, sequoias and condors, all the Ivy and Seven Sister schools, plus Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Cal Tech and MIT.
With the Red States, on the other hand, you will have to cope with 88 % of all obese Americans (and their projected health care costs), 92 % of all U.S. mosquitoes, nearly 100 percent of the tornadoes, 90 % of the hurricanes, 99 % of all Southern Baptists, virtually 100 % of all televangelists, Rush Limbaugh, Bob Jones University, Clemson and the University of Georgia.
We get Hollywood and Yosemite , thank you.
Additionally, 38 % of those in the Red states believe Jonah was actually swallowed by a whale, 62 % believe life is sacred unless we're discussing the death penalty or gun laws, 44 % say that evolution is only a theory, 53 %that Saddam was involved in 9/11, and 61 % of you crazy b ** ***ds believe you are people with higher morals then we lefties.
By the way, we're taking the good pot, too. You can have that dirt weed they grow in Mexico .
Peace out,
Blue States
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Drill, Drill, Drill!
I am having Sarah Palin nightmares. I dreamt last night that she was a member of a club where they rode snowmobiles and wore the claws of drowned and starved polar bears around their necks. I have a particular thing for Polar Bears. Maybe it's their snowy whiteness or their bigness or the fact that they live in the arctic or that I have never seen one in person or touched one. Maybe it is the fact that they live so comfortably on ice. Whatever it is, I need the polar bears.
I don't like raging at women. I am a Feminist and have spent my life trying to build community, help empower women and stop violence against them. It is hard to write about Sarah Palin. This is why the Sarah Palin choice was all the more insidious and cynical. The people who made this choice count on the goodness and solidarity of Feminists.
But everything Sarah Palin believes in and practices is antithetical to Feminism which for me is part of one story -- connected to saving the earth, ending racism, empowering women, giving young girls options, opening our minds, deepening tolerance, and ending violence and war.
I believe that the McCain/Palin ticket is one of the most dangerous choices of my lifetime, and should this country chose those candidates the fall-out may be so great, the destruction so vast in so many areas that America may never recover. But what is equally disturbing is the impact that duo would have on the rest of the world. Unfortunately, this is not a joke. In my lifetime I have seen the clownish, the inept, the bizarre be elected to the presidency with regularity.
Sarah Palin does not believe in evolution. I take this as a metaphor. In her world and the world of Fundamentalists nothing changes or gets better or evolves. She does not believe in global warming. The melting of the arctic, the storms that are destroying our cities, the pollution and rise of cancers, are all part of God's plan. She is fighting to take the polar bears off the endangered species list. The earth, in Palin's view, is here to be taken and plundered. The wolves and the bears are here to be shot and plundered. The oil is here to be taken and plundered. Iraq is here to be taken and plundered. As she said herself of the Iraqi war, "It was a task from God."
Sarah Palin does not believe in abortion. She does not believe women who are raped and incested and ripped open against their will should have a right to determine whether they have their rapist's baby or not.
She obviously does not believe in sex education or birth control. I imagine her daughter was practicing abstinence and we know how many babies that makes.
Sarah Palin does not much believe in thinking. From what I gather she has tried to ban books from the library, has a tendency to dispense with people who think independently. She cannot tolerate an environment of ambiguity and difference. This is a woman who could and might very well be the next president of the United States. She would govern one of the most diverse populations on the earth.
Sarah believes in guns. She has her own custom Austrian hunting rifle. She has been known to kill 40 caribou at a clip. She has shot hundreds of wolves from the air.
Sarah believes in God. That is of course her right, her private right. But when God and Guns come together in the public sector, when war is declared in God's name, when the rights of women are denied in his name, that is the end of separation of church and state and the undoing of everything America has ever tried to be.
I write to my sisters. I write because I believe we hold this election in our hands. This vote is a vote that will determine the future not just of the U.S., but of the planet. It will determine whether we create policies to save the earth or make it forever uninhabitable for humans. It will determine whether we move to wards dialogue and diplomacy in the world or whether we escalate violence through invasion, undermining and attack. It will determine whether we go for oil, strip mining, coal burning or invest our money in alternatives that will free us from dependency and destruction. It will determine if money gets spent on education and healthcare or whether we build more and more methods of killing. It will determine whether America is a free open tolerant society or a closed place of fear, fundamentalism and aggression.
If the Polar Bears don't move you to go and do everything in your power to get Obama elected then consider the chant that filled the hall after Palin spoke at the RNC, "Drill Drill Drill." I think of teeth when I think of drills. I think of rape. I think of destruction. I think of domination. I think of military exercises that force mindless repetition, emptying the brain of analysis, doubt, ambiguity or dissent. I think of pain.
Do we want a future of drilling? More holes in the ozone, in the floor of the sea, more holes in our thinking, in the trust between nations and peoples, more holes in the fabric of this precious thing we call life?
- Eve Ensler
I don't like raging at women. I am a Feminist and have spent my life trying to build community, help empower women and stop violence against them. It is hard to write about Sarah Palin. This is why the Sarah Palin choice was all the more insidious and cynical. The people who made this choice count on the goodness and solidarity of Feminists.
But everything Sarah Palin believes in and practices is antithetical to Feminism which for me is part of one story -- connected to saving the earth, ending racism, empowering women, giving young girls options, opening our minds, deepening tolerance, and ending violence and war.
I believe that the McCain/Palin ticket is one of the most dangerous choices of my lifetime, and should this country chose those candidates the fall-out may be so great, the destruction so vast in so many areas that America may never recover. But what is equally disturbing is the impact that duo would have on the rest of the world. Unfortunately, this is not a joke. In my lifetime I have seen the clownish, the inept, the bizarre be elected to the presidency with regularity.
Sarah Palin does not believe in evolution. I take this as a metaphor. In her world and the world of Fundamentalists nothing changes or gets better or evolves. She does not believe in global warming. The melting of the arctic, the storms that are destroying our cities, the pollution and rise of cancers, are all part of God's plan. She is fighting to take the polar bears off the endangered species list. The earth, in Palin's view, is here to be taken and plundered. The wolves and the bears are here to be shot and plundered. The oil is here to be taken and plundered. Iraq is here to be taken and plundered. As she said herself of the Iraqi war, "It was a task from God."
Sarah Palin does not believe in abortion. She does not believe women who are raped and incested and ripped open against their will should have a right to determine whether they have their rapist's baby or not.
She obviously does not believe in sex education or birth control. I imagine her daughter was practicing abstinence and we know how many babies that makes.
Sarah Palin does not much believe in thinking. From what I gather she has tried to ban books from the library, has a tendency to dispense with people who think independently. She cannot tolerate an environment of ambiguity and difference. This is a woman who could and might very well be the next president of the United States. She would govern one of the most diverse populations on the earth.
Sarah believes in guns. She has her own custom Austrian hunting rifle. She has been known to kill 40 caribou at a clip. She has shot hundreds of wolves from the air.
Sarah believes in God. That is of course her right, her private right. But when God and Guns come together in the public sector, when war is declared in God's name, when the rights of women are denied in his name, that is the end of separation of church and state and the undoing of everything America has ever tried to be.
I write to my sisters. I write because I believe we hold this election in our hands. This vote is a vote that will determine the future not just of the U.S., but of the planet. It will determine whether we create policies to save the earth or make it forever uninhabitable for humans. It will determine whether we move to wards dialogue and diplomacy in the world or whether we escalate violence through invasion, undermining and attack. It will determine whether we go for oil, strip mining, coal burning or invest our money in alternatives that will free us from dependency and destruction. It will determine if money gets spent on education and healthcare or whether we build more and more methods of killing. It will determine whether America is a free open tolerant society or a closed place of fear, fundamentalism and aggression.
If the Polar Bears don't move you to go and do everything in your power to get Obama elected then consider the chant that filled the hall after Palin spoke at the RNC, "Drill Drill Drill." I think of teeth when I think of drills. I think of rape. I think of destruction. I think of domination. I think of military exercises that force mindless repetition, emptying the brain of analysis, doubt, ambiguity or dissent. I think of pain.
Do we want a future of drilling? More holes in the ozone, in the floor of the sea, more holes in our thinking, in the trust between nations and peoples, more holes in the fabric of this precious thing we call life?
- Eve Ensler
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Dear Youngest Child of Mine,
Dearest Lucas,
I understand your predicament. I, myself, am a stomach sleeper. You have, however, put a serious cramp in my sleeping style. So I really do feel your pain at the thought of resting on some other body part, like say, your head, rather than your belly. It would not be my first choice either.
Having said this, dear Lucas, the time for you to come out is rapidly approaching, and you, my dear boy, just will not fit out the exit while laying on your belly. It would be an unpleasant day for both of us. If you could kindly rotate your body ever so slightly, and lay on your head for a while, I promise to get you out as soon as humanly possible.
Love,
Mommy
PS- I'm not kidding, Lucas. If you don't flip around you are like WAY grounded.
I understand your predicament. I, myself, am a stomach sleeper. You have, however, put a serious cramp in my sleeping style. So I really do feel your pain at the thought of resting on some other body part, like say, your head, rather than your belly. It would not be my first choice either.
Having said this, dear Lucas, the time for you to come out is rapidly approaching, and you, my dear boy, just will not fit out the exit while laying on your belly. It would be an unpleasant day for both of us. If you could kindly rotate your body ever so slightly, and lay on your head for a while, I promise to get you out as soon as humanly possible.
Love,
Mommy
PS- I'm not kidding, Lucas. If you don't flip around you are like WAY grounded.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
The Tale of Two Stories
I had a bunch of errands to run today. Small ones, one thing here, two things there, at a million different places - you know the type. I made Evan drive me, so I could just hop out of the car and run up to the door and not have to worry about parking, and dragging my pregnant self and my toddler across the hot parking lot. Very convenient.
My first stop was the party store, because I needed more thank you cards. I hopped out and into the store I went. In the baby aisle there was a woman who was shopping with what I assumed to be her mother. Neither was pregnant, but from overhearing bits of their conversations while looking for cute thank you cards, it sounded as though they were throwing a shower.
And this is how it happened:
I had found my cards, and was getting ready to head to the register, when I heard. "Ma'am? Are you having twins?"
Huh? Me?
I glanced over, and both women were looking at me, obviously awaiting an answer. A quick peek over my shoulder revealed no one other than the stockboy, who was clearly not pregnant, let alone with twins.
I don't know if it was the heat, or the agitation that I felt by being asked such a ridiculous question, but before I knew what was happening, I heard myself say:
"No. Are YOU having twins, you heifer?"
And this is how it really happened:
I had found my cards, and was getting ready to head to the register, when I heard. "Ma'am? Are you having twins?"
Huh? Me?
I glanced over, and both women were looking at me, obviously awaiting an answer. A quick peek over my shoulder revealed no one other than the stockboy, who was clearly not pregnant, let alone with twins.
"Huh? Me? Oh...Uh, no, there's just one...
he just sticks out really far....
it's just that it's my second baby...
and i'm really close to my due date...
so i guess....
it just....looks...
um...
bigger...
i guess...
you know....
good...uh...good luck with the shower..."
And I sniffled the whole way to the register and paid for my thank yous and ran to the car and burst into huge amount of tears
God I hate being pregnant
My first stop was the party store, because I needed more thank you cards. I hopped out and into the store I went. In the baby aisle there was a woman who was shopping with what I assumed to be her mother. Neither was pregnant, but from overhearing bits of their conversations while looking for cute thank you cards, it sounded as though they were throwing a shower.
And this is how it happened:
I had found my cards, and was getting ready to head to the register, when I heard. "Ma'am? Are you having twins?"
Huh? Me?
I glanced over, and both women were looking at me, obviously awaiting an answer. A quick peek over my shoulder revealed no one other than the stockboy, who was clearly not pregnant, let alone with twins.
I don't know if it was the heat, or the agitation that I felt by being asked such a ridiculous question, but before I knew what was happening, I heard myself say:
"No. Are YOU having twins, you heifer?"
And this is how it really happened:
I had found my cards, and was getting ready to head to the register, when I heard. "Ma'am? Are you having twins?"
Huh? Me?
I glanced over, and both women were looking at me, obviously awaiting an answer. A quick peek over my shoulder revealed no one other than the stockboy, who was clearly not pregnant, let alone with twins.
"Huh? Me? Oh...Uh, no, there's just one...
he just sticks out really far....
it's just that it's my second baby...
and i'm really close to my due date...
so i guess....
it just....looks...
um...
bigger...
i guess...
you know....
good...uh...good luck with the shower..."
And I sniffled the whole way to the register and paid for my thank yous and ran to the car and burst into huge amount of tears
God I hate being pregnant
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Thursday, August 07, 2008
That's just how we roll in Jersey
Saki: I hope my new dress comes in time for the shower.
Wok: Me too.
Saki: Foofy is wearing that fluffy apricot dress from Easter, but we need to go get her shoes
Wok: Sweet, I need shoes too.
Saki: You're not wearing flip flops?
Wok: Mom said I'm not allowed to!
Saki: What?? Why??
Saki: Wait, am I allowed to wear flip flops, 'cause like, it's my party.
Wok: Because she said my dress is too fancy for flip flops
Saki: So get some with sparkles.
Wok: That's exactly what I was gonna do!!!
Hahahahaha...You know you've grown up on the beach when "dressed up" means you wear flip flops with sparkles on them
Wok: Me too.
Saki: Foofy is wearing that fluffy apricot dress from Easter, but we need to go get her shoes
Wok: Sweet, I need shoes too.
Saki: You're not wearing flip flops?
Wok: Mom said I'm not allowed to!
Saki: What?? Why??
Saki: Wait, am I allowed to wear flip flops, 'cause like, it's my party.
Wok: Because she said my dress is too fancy for flip flops
Saki: So get some with sparkles.
Wok: That's exactly what I was gonna do!!!
Hahahahaha...You know you've grown up on the beach when "dressed up" means you wear flip flops with sparkles on them
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Thursday, July 31, 2008
On taking a two year old to the doctor
We don't have any family near us in Virginia, so we really don't have anyone to watch Cecilia for us. As a result, she schlepps pretty much wherever I do, and since i'm 35 weeks pregnant, she's gotten pretty accustomed to the OB's office. She gets excited when she recognizes the building, and immediately starts talking about how she gets a lollipop from the nurses basket when we're all done in the office. Good stuff.
Being a bright little girl, she's got the routine down, and orders me onto the scale, and then to sit and have my blood pressure taken. She informs me "squeeze a arm, mommy" and then makes the whooshwhooshwhoosh sound of an inflating cuff, complete with hand motion as if she herself is blowing it up.
From there she practically pushes me into the bathroom, because lately, the bathroom is her favorite place to play.
Anyone who has been pregnant can tell you that one of the absolute worst parts of any office visit is trying to pee in the damn cup with a huge belly in the way, without either missing the cup completely, peeing on ones hand, or spilling the cup. Messy business.
As I sat with my cup, the conversation went as such:
Cecilia: EW! EEEEEEWWWWWW! Mommy? Poopin' inna cup?
Saki: No, Celia, mommy is making peepee in the cup.
Cecilia, after considering this fact for a moment: EW! Mommy peepee inna cup? Ew, Mommy!
Saki: Ya, it is pretty ew.
Cecilia: I see? I see peepee inna cup? Mommy? Mommy? Celia sees peepee inna cup?
I sighed, and lowered the cup for her to see inside. It was met with another round of "ew" and the declaration that Mommy did, in fact, peepee in the cup. I grabbed the pen from the little shelf in the bathroom, and hastily scribbled my name on the cup.
"Mommy? Mommy drawin' onna cup? Mommy? I draw onna cup? Celia draws onna cup too?" Sigh. If you've ever gone anywhere with a two year old, you know that the volume level of their voice is grossly out of proportion with their small bodies. Two year olds are loud. And the more you'd like them to speak quietly, the louder they become, until practically yelling their inquiries.
I stuck the cup into the cubby that connects the bathroom to the nurses station and shut the little door. "Mommy? Where peepee cup go?" she asked, horrified that I actually did something with the cup. I told her that I put it in the door for the nurse to see. "Nurse sees peepee?" she squealed, rather loudly. "EWWWWWW" she finished.
I tried to wash my hands as quickly as possible, because by now, she was bordering on screaming "Mommy washa hands? Mommy washa peepee offa hands?"
Grabbing a papertowel, i opened the door to find the nurses and two of the doctors in tears on the other side of the door, laughing at our bathroom adventure. I smiled weakly at them, kind of over the whole ordeal. Just as I was about to take a step out, I heard a loud crash of the bathroom shelf falling over, and Cecilia bumped into my leg as she hightailed it down the hall, a tampon in each hand.
I can't believe I'm about to have another child. God help me. Please.
Being a bright little girl, she's got the routine down, and orders me onto the scale, and then to sit and have my blood pressure taken. She informs me "squeeze a arm, mommy" and then makes the whooshwhooshwhoosh sound of an inflating cuff, complete with hand motion as if she herself is blowing it up.
From there she practically pushes me into the bathroom, because lately, the bathroom is her favorite place to play.
Anyone who has been pregnant can tell you that one of the absolute worst parts of any office visit is trying to pee in the damn cup with a huge belly in the way, without either missing the cup completely, peeing on ones hand, or spilling the cup. Messy business.
As I sat with my cup, the conversation went as such:
Cecilia: EW! EEEEEEWWWWWW! Mommy? Poopin' inna cup?
Saki: No, Celia, mommy is making peepee in the cup.
Cecilia, after considering this fact for a moment: EW! Mommy peepee inna cup? Ew, Mommy!
Saki: Ya, it is pretty ew.
Cecilia: I see? I see peepee inna cup? Mommy? Mommy? Celia sees peepee inna cup?
I sighed, and lowered the cup for her to see inside. It was met with another round of "ew" and the declaration that Mommy did, in fact, peepee in the cup. I grabbed the pen from the little shelf in the bathroom, and hastily scribbled my name on the cup.
"Mommy? Mommy drawin' onna cup? Mommy? I draw onna cup? Celia draws onna cup too?" Sigh. If you've ever gone anywhere with a two year old, you know that the volume level of their voice is grossly out of proportion with their small bodies. Two year olds are loud. And the more you'd like them to speak quietly, the louder they become, until practically yelling their inquiries.
I stuck the cup into the cubby that connects the bathroom to the nurses station and shut the little door. "Mommy? Where peepee cup go?" she asked, horrified that I actually did something with the cup. I told her that I put it in the door for the nurse to see. "Nurse sees peepee?" she squealed, rather loudly. "EWWWWWW" she finished.
I tried to wash my hands as quickly as possible, because by now, she was bordering on screaming "Mommy washa hands? Mommy washa peepee offa hands?"
Grabbing a papertowel, i opened the door to find the nurses and two of the doctors in tears on the other side of the door, laughing at our bathroom adventure. I smiled weakly at them, kind of over the whole ordeal. Just as I was about to take a step out, I heard a loud crash of the bathroom shelf falling over, and Cecilia bumped into my leg as she hightailed it down the hall, a tampon in each hand.
I can't believe I'm about to have another child. God help me. Please.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
That's the side effects - hungry, happy, sleepy.
"Don't gimmie that shit about 'It's a drug!" it ain't no motherfuckin' drug, I dun' done the research it's just a plant. it just grows like that. And if you should happen to set it on fire, there are some effects. But that's not the same as drugs. Drugs you've got to do shit to it chemically - you gotta add baking soda, water, stir it around - I don't know, I don't got the recipe. I'm just sayin"
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Put THAT in your pipe
. . .and do whatever it is you do with stuff in pipes.
We were sitting at the dinner table with my parents, and friends of theirs, Betty and Bill, and also Betty's grandson, Griffin, who is 10 or so. Somehow (though not surprising) the subject of addiction came up, and someone tossed in the comment that person could be addicted to anything, not just alcohol or drugs. The conversation continued as such:
Griffin: Ya, my sister is 13 and she's addicted to Soduko.
Yaya: Really?
Griffin: Yes. It's pretty much all she does.
Yaya: Do you smoke it?
Fuddy: Only if you roll it up real tight.
Heh.
We were sitting at the dinner table with my parents, and friends of theirs, Betty and Bill, and also Betty's grandson, Griffin, who is 10 or so. Somehow (though not surprising) the subject of addiction came up, and someone tossed in the comment that person could be addicted to anything, not just alcohol or drugs. The conversation continued as such:
Griffin: Ya, my sister is 13 and she's addicted to Soduko.
Yaya: Really?
Griffin: Yes. It's pretty much all she does.
Yaya: Do you smoke it?
Fuddy: Only if you roll it up real tight.
Heh.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
The New Kid on the Block
Meet Tribbit. The smallest toad yet. That's a flower from the nearby impatiens, just to give you an idea about how teeny tiny he actually is.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Day 5
Dear Diary. . .
Day 5 with no car. Toddler driving me insane. Pool in the backyard deflated into hapless heap. No capri sun pouches for said toddler. There isn't enough tylenol in the free world.
**********************************************************************
Dear Lindsay Chevrolet,
You have had my new car since Monday night. I know that you had to wait for the insurance to come out and do their thing, but truly, would it have killed you to be slightly proactive and order some of the necessary parts; like, you know, the hood? The roof maybe? I now have to wait 15 business days for my poor car. Fifteen BUSINESS DAYS! Do you know how long that is in real people time?
Signed,
Bored, Cranky & Sore
Day 5 with no car. Toddler driving me insane. Pool in the backyard deflated into hapless heap. No capri sun pouches for said toddler. There isn't enough tylenol in the free world.
**********************************************************************
Dear Lindsay Chevrolet,
You have had my new car since Monday night. I know that you had to wait for the insurance to come out and do their thing, but truly, would it have killed you to be slightly proactive and order some of the necessary parts; like, you know, the hood? The roof maybe? I now have to wait 15 business days for my poor car. Fifteen BUSINESS DAYS! Do you know how long that is in real people time?
Signed,
Bored, Cranky & Sore
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
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