Virtual Slap Monday: #wow

Recently, I got into a little debate on Twitter. Well, actually, what happened is that I retweeted a pro gun control comment and then tried to explain my position to a bunch of anti-gun-control people.

After about 24 hours, I gave up. I tried to link to an article to explain the nuances of the NJ law, I tried to point out that the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence are not the same thing, I tried. But it just became insult after insult, with no actual debate. Plus, I go on Twitter for fun, not to argue with people who use the word "libtard".

So I finally learned how to use Twitter's "block" button.

I sort of forgot about it, until I needed my Klout score for something. The people I debated with are STILL mentioning me on Twitter, according to Klout. Of course, my Klout score has also gone up like ten points. . .maybe I should get into another debate with some others vehemently opposed to my beliefs?

Of course, it's not like they're debating anything, in all these mentions. They are just making fun of me, which feels sort of surreal. I've definitely let go of them understanding my point about the law Gov. Christie didn't sign, or of them having any respect for my intelligence whatsoever. But I can't let go of the feeling that they've just bullied me into silence.

Hot Guy might interject something here about my preference for the last word and my deep desire to be right, but I swear that's not it.

Or not all of it. It just seems so weird that it's still going on, even though I haven't participated for 3 weeks. There's a new guy - one who was not even involved in the original debate - who's throwing my name around, in between his nasty tweets about Cory Booker and President Obama. . . .wait a minute, a guy who spends his days making fun of the president I voted for and the soon-to-be-senator I will vote for is making of me?

Suddenly I feel less bullied and more flattered. Though still confused about their point. . .do they think that by making fun of me, they'll convince me that they're right? Or do they just feel compelled to insult because they know they'll never change my mind?

The more I think about it, the less I care about why they're doing it. I mean, I'm very . . .er. .  .political on social media. I'm very passionate about certain issues (though, oddly enough, gun control is not in my top 3), but I can't imagine searching opposition hashtags on twitter, briefly debating someone on the issue and then still insulting that person 3 weeks later. How unhappy and embittered do you have to be to have the time and energy for that?

So here's a virtual slap for all the trolls out there, whatever their political beliefs.

Better Than Hoarders

So I watched one of the best reality shows ever last night. For those of you who think "reality show" and "best" don't belong in the same sentence (cough Hot Guy cough cough), you can stop reading now.

Picture a bunch of extremely eccentric New Orleans residents throwing weddings for drunk and/or crazy people and you have Big Easy Brides. This older couple has a wedding chapel on Bourbon Street and they employ a bunch of whack jobs to help with the weddings. You know how most people on reality television have been watching episodes of the Kardashians for pointers? And they're all surgically enhanced and completely fake?*

I'm pretty sure Marie, the wedding planner on Big Easy Brides, could beat the shit out of all the Kardashians. Even Khloe.

She gets all threatened when they hire a new photographer without consulting her and brings new meaning to the words "hostile work environment." I'm a little afraid for the photographer, to be honest. Marie is scary.  

So the episode has 3 weddings - well, 2 complete weddings and 1 clusterfuck. The first - and the best** - was the pub crawl wedding. Sure, the couple got so hammered that the bride puked on some dude's shoes. And sure, that dude got so pissy about it that the groom started a fight with him. But still. Can you just picture the invitations for a pub crawl wedding? 

The clusterfuck involved a drunk couple showing up at the chapel to get married. When our buddy Marie tries to take the groom off to get prepped, the bride gets all paranoid. Like Marie's going to be all stealing her man DURING THE WEDDING. They distract the bride with wedding talk and all is fine until she sees that her man has his shirt off in front of Marie (and 12 other people). I will say this: Dude is totally ripped. Anyway, the bride flips out and charges, the security guy*** gets too pushy and there's almost a fight. Stuff gets broken, anyway. 

The other wedding is a trailer park themed wedding. You can see the devilish glee in Marie's eyes when she talks about planning this wedding. What makes it slightly less cool is that it happens at the actual trailer park where the bride and groom live. But Marie makes it special with crushed beer can and wading pool decorations, lawn chairs and a keg in the trunk of a car. Because the landlord showed up right before the ceremony to say no drinking at the wedding. So half the guests left to go to the bar, I'm not kidding. Those that remained were able to smoke during the ceremony, though. 

I would watch this show even if it was scripted, that's how awesome it is. It's like if Diane Arbus created a reality show. 

*Except on Hoarders. I love you, Hoarders.

**This is how I want to renew my vows, btw. A pub crawl down Bourbon Street.

***All through the show I couldn't imagine why a chapel would need a security guy. Clearly I don't know much about wedding chapels.

I Like The Idea of Plural Marriage

I want a sister-wife.

I've always wanted a sister and how great would it be to divide the household chores with somebody? I mean, she could do all the cleaning and I could do all the shopping, for example. And while I don't want to go through pregnancy and c-section again, it would be fun to have another baby around. As long as my sister-wife had a lot of money, because we can't really afford another child. Yeah, I think it would be best if my sister-wife was independently wealthy. And funny. I couldn't live with someone who wasn't funny.

Like those women on the Sister-Wives reality show? They seem nice and I'm they're all much better about cleaning than I am. But they're all so earnest - I don't think any one of them has a sense of the absurd. Which is what you often find with people who cling to old-fashioned religious notions like plural marriage. So clearly I"m not going to find my future sister-wife in that community. Especially since my desire for plural marriage has nothing to do with religious conviction and everything to do with getting out of scrubbing the floor.  And having someone to watch "The Real Housewives of Wherever" with. And getting to be around a new baby without doing any of the tough stuff. And an infusion of cash.

I'm not sure how Hot Guy would feel about this. It's possible that I should have talked to Hot Guy about this before sharing it on the internet, but what man wouldn't want 2 wives? That's twice as much sex! Plus you get 2 anniversaries, 2 birthdays and 2 honey-do lists. And surely with 2 women complaining about leaving socks on the floor it will be easier to stop, right?

I know that I'll have to overcome my jealousy like those women on the show. But I'll have it easier since I'll be choosing my own sister-wife - it's not going to be Hot Guy coming home and telling me that he "fell in love with" (you ever notice how the hyper-religious all say that after like 2 dates? but it's so obviously lust and they're just afraid to admit it?) some new woman that I'll just have to get used to. Obviously I will choose someone that I like a lot and that Hot Guy finds slightly attractive. Emphasis on the "slightly". Also, he can't show her affection in front of me. In fact, it would be best if he only went near her when I wasn't in the mood. I think that would cure the whole jealousy thing. For me.

So, does anyone know a slightly attractive, expert cleaner, rich, single woman with a great sense of humor who could spend the rest of her life being second best without going all Lifetime Movie crazy and killing me?

Yeah, it's a good thing I like my 'single marriage'.

A Suggestion for Mel Gibson

Oh, Mel Gibson.

I remember when I thought you were attractive. I remember your sense of humor during Lethal Weapon and the way your eyes seemed to twinkle. Those were the days.

You started taking yourself more seriously around Braveheart, which I did not exactly enjoy. But your creative happiness was important to me, so I forgave you for not making Bird on a Wire 2 instead.

I'll admit that I was put off by Passion of the Christ, but gave you the benefit of the doubt since you made like eleventy-billion dollars from it.

You first DUI rant disturbed me more. I couldn't ignore it. I broke things off with you. I merely shook my head when you dumped your wife of decades for a Russian musician and impregnated her almost immediately.

By that point, I already suspected that you were an asshole.

But these tapes. Wow. You have crossed the asshole line, skipped abusive and gone straight for complete whackjob. I think you must be crazy, because otherwise how did you not figure out that she would tape you saying all of those vile things? And, you know, how did you even come up with some of those things unless you were nuts?

But, other than stabs of pity for your many children and former wife, I didn't feel much when I heard the tapes. My feelings for you had long since died out.

What I don't understand are the people who are defending you. The women - the WOMEN - I heard on the radio yesterday, who were blaming your girlfriend for entrapping you. Who were saying that your drunken rants didn't mean anything. Who said they were still on your side.

Those women need therapy, Mel.

I've been drunk. I've had a drunken rant or two and I've certainly heard some. But you? You went so far beyond the normal parameters that it's obvious your unbothered supporters have heard some really bad stuff regularly in their lives. Some really ugly stuff. And they've blamed themselves for it.

Mel, this is the chance you've been waiting for. You still - even after you support your ex, your kids and your Russian - will have a shit-ton (that's a finance term, right?) of money. Pay for therapy for your supporters. Get them to see that you're a crazy person and that even pet rats deserve better treatment. Then they'll still support you, but it will be because you've helped them. And many of us who think you're a crazy douchebag will be impressed with your generosity and maybe not picket any more movies you make.

Especially if you do make Bird on a Wire 2.

Don't Take Medical Advice From Playboy Bunnies

Do you remember having chicken pox? I remember it well. I didn't get until 8th grade, so when I got it, it was horrible. Oh, the pain in my throat. The fever. The ITCHING. The marks all over my face. The ITCHING.

When I began reading about vaccinations while I was pregnant with Ironflower, I was thrilled to find out that they now have a vaccine for chicken pox. My babies would never have to suffer through the ITCHING. Also, they would not die (yes, chicken pox can kill too).

Today, the day after I returned home after speaking at a social media conference for health care non-profits sponsored by Immunize.org, I received a note from the kids' school. It seems another student has come down with chicken pox.

I recalled another speaker at the conference discussing why people can be against immunizing their children (I just spoke about using Facebook and Twitter and stuff like that, but it was fun to hear about the other stuff too, seeing as I have a personal interest in the health of children). She mentioned how these people do not trust experts like doctors and scientists, but instead the experiences of friends.

Apparently, some parent at my kids' school is friends with Jenny McCarthy.

Jenny McCarthy blames her son's autism on vaccines, in case you didn't know. And because of one flawed and later disproved study, thousands of parents are not vaccinating their kids. So the conference was about how organizations like health departments could use social media to get people to immunize their kids.

(Side note: Let's pretend Jenny's right, for a second. Maybe there is a vast conspiracy poisoning children with vaccines. I'd much rather have a child with autism than one killed by polio. Just sayin'. )

I love it when my universe comes together. The awesome social media ninjas (healthcare and social media experts) at the conference put together an entire social media campaign in 24 hours. If I find out who's got chicken pox I will be sending the links to them immediately. In the meantime, I suggest you check them out and follow Guysimmunize on Twitter. You can also hear about the conference at the Autism Science Foundation or like them on Facebook.

In addition to learning all sorts of neat stuff at the conference, I also discovered that people who work at health non-profits are a lot like teachers - predominantly female and liberal. But I think they might drink more. Did I mention what a great time I had?

But it's nice to be home, though Hot Guy and my parents held the fort down admirably. But somehow being here helps me believe that I can hold back any stray chicken pox germs that might get past their vaccinations, especially with ChunkyMonkey's being so new.

Not that I'd to worry about this at all if SOME people trusted scientists instead of former Playboy Bunnies.

I Really Do Think It's Masochism. Well, Kinda.

Once upon a time, an EP was some kind of record (yeah, it's true, I don't know exactly what kind, but I bet I owned one when I was a kid). Now it stands for "exclusively pumping".  As in pumping breast milk, exclusively. Apparently there are women who believe devoutly in breast milk, but who don't want to breastfeed. And Time or Newsweek recently wrote an article about it (you can Google it if you don't believe me, because, frankly, the article wasn't so good as to make me actually want to link to it).

I am appalled.

Now, I've discussed breastfeeding before. I breastfed Ironflower for 10 months with an occasional bottle of formula and plenty of pumped milk, Lovebug for 15 months with an occasional bottle of pumped milk and ChunkyMonkey for 13 months with 20 bottles of formula. It was easy, cheap and good for the children, of course.

I went to back to teaching after having Ironflower and for 7 weeks after having Lovebug. So I am familiar with pumping. And I just wonder if these women are completely insane  or masochists or what. Because pumping has got to be one of the lousiest parts of new motherhood. Seriously.

You cram your boobs into these uncomfortable shells which suck on your nipples with the force and finesse of a drunk, horny 15 year old. And since you've got to manage to keep them in place your range of movement is extremely limited. Then you've also got to focus on thinking about your baby so that you can actually produce half the milk you produce when you actually nurse. I couldn't even watch TV while doing it. So boring. Oh, and then you've got to sterilize everything over and over and over. I have never, ever, ever, met a woman who didn't hate pumping.

Who in their right mind would choose to do that ALL THE TIME?

Sure, if your baby's (Goddess forbid) in the NICU. Or maybe you have massively deformed nipples. But why else?

One woman said it took less time. Right. Because what new mother wants LESS time to physically bond with her baby?

Another woman said it let her know how much milk her baby was getting. Clearly she missed breastfeeding 101, which lets you know that that fear is retarded and that it's fine that breastfed babies are skinnier. I also blame pediatricians for this. I have met so few who are truly supportive of breastfeeding.

The reporter noted (but didn't quote, I don't think) that some women are worried about breastfeeding in public. To them I say stop hanging out at Tea Party conventions and start therapy for your shame issues. Also, buy a cute wrap.

Look, I don't care if you breastfeed (though I think you should at least try it for a month) or bottle feed or combine the two, but if you exclusively pump? I am totally judging you. It's like you're choosing to torture yourself without any reward. Ugh.

It's Like My Binky

Hot Guy calls it "the big black". How I love it. It's huge, round and insulated. It has fallen down stairs, fallen into the trash and been left in hotel rooms. I have violent feelings when other people try to use it. When Hot Guy uses it, I want to smack him. It's MINE. It's my favorite. And I earned it, dammit.

Sure, it's probably petty to get so upset about a cup, but I don't care. I love that cup. I got it at the hospital where I gave birth to Lovebug and I've been overly attached to it every since. It's not just that it's black instead of some brightly colored advertisement for 7-11 or Quik Trip (which, for the record, kicks 7-11's ass). It's not just that it reminds me of giving birth to my middle child (aka the least dramatic and traumatic of all of my children's births). It's that I've declared it as mine.

When Hot Guy and I first moved in together, I discovered that my collection of large, refillable, insulated cups was depleting. He would take one and leave it somewhere, comfortable in the knowledge that a new cup was only a few bucks and a short drive away. I tried to get over it. After all, it's not like I was emotionally attached to the cups, right?

Enter "the big black" a few years later. It looked so cool, Hot Guy conned the nurses into giving him one too. Which he subsequently left somewhere. And I declared that the other big, black cup was MINE. He was not allowed to take it anywhere and I really didn't want him to use it at all.

My cup has survived these last 4 years, mostly due to my vigilance. At first, he avoided it completely. But eventually he'd use it if it was in the drying rack and he wanted a quick drink of water. I tried to let it go, especially when he'd just hand it over if I asked for it. Even though sometimes he'd suggest that I drink water from it too. If the Goddess had wanted me to drink water when I wasn't exercising, she wouldn't have invented Diet Pepsi.

Anyway,  it's getting worse. The rest of our supply has been decimated, and our local 7-11 doesn't seem to have them. This morning I caught him drinking cranberry juice out of it. I am very concerned that his next step will be to take it with him somewhere. Then I may have to kill him.

I know, I know. It's a cup. That's Hot Guy's argument. Why get worked up over a cup?

I don't know. Maybe when I wind up in chocolate rehab my therapist can help me figure it out. But for now I'm asking you, internets, how can I make sure he keeps his paws off of MY cup?

They Don't Need A Freak Show Anymore

You know what is supremely wonderful about the circus? The other people are just as fantastic as the acts. Especially when you go to the circus in Newark, NJ.

I mean, it was Ringling Brothers, so of course the circus itself was fabulous. Except for the tigers and the elephants. I just feel like they're looking at us, trying to say, "I am a majestic beast, dammit! Of course I can roll over, motherfucker." For some reason I don't get the same impression from the llamas and miniature ponies. Anyway, there was much jumping and flipping by amazing athletes, 6 motorcyclists in the globe cage (I remember when there were only 2 - and that was super cool) and clowns that didn't freak me out too much.

But I can't say the same about the people watching the circus. They freaked me out A LOT. For example, after standing in line to enter the arena for a good 10 minutes, where they repeatedly stated "Have your tickets out!" over the loudspeaker, some people still could not grasp this. As soon as they got to the front of the line, they opened their bags and SEARCHED for their tickets. I don't know if they were all extremely stupid or extremely thoughtless, but the result was the same - more standing in line for the rest of us.

Speaking of stupidity, shouldn't seat 1 be at the start of a section? Like let's say you're sitting in section 3 and you are in seat 1 in row whatever, wouldn't you expect seat 1 to come first? Like if you walked from section 2, wouldn't you expect section 3's seating to start with 1? It doesn't. Unless you go backwards from section 4. And boy, did the ghetto fabulous usher who grabbed my tickets tell me how dumb I was for assuming seat 1 in section 3 would be closer to section 2. Not that I actually wanted her help, because I can read numbers. And not that she really helped, she just yelled that I should have come in the other way. Considering that there were about 20 people in the entire section at that point, I think her bitchiness was unjustified. Which is why I snapped, "I know EXACTLY where I'm going" and gave her a totally snooty look.

I also gave a snooty look to the guy 3 rows in front of us with his electronic cigarette. Not that I have a problem with cigarettes that don't harm others, but who really can't make it through the circus without a cigarette? Do you think he also brings it into the shower? He also sported hair gel and tight black jeans - stuff that was cool when we were both young. That might have prejudiced me against him. The clincher was when he rolled he sleeve up and had his wife apply cream to his new tattoo. I have nothing against tattoos per se; I have two of my own. And it's because I have tattoos of my own that I can say no one needs to apply cream that often. What a douche.

And speaking of douches, a special Jerseygirl shout out goes to the asshole who thought it was funny when his kid smacked the lady in front of him with his sword. I was embarrassed when my kid smacked the ladies in front of him with his sword, thank you very much.

And on a sadder note, both of my children want to be clowns. They were entranced the whole time, but clearly I've screwed them up so much already that they want to be clowns.

Being "The Friend"

When I was a teenager,  just about every time I went to the mall, boys came up and talked to me. They were always different than the preppy boys I was used to and each time I was a approached a shiver of fear and of excitement would run through me.

Without fail, the boys would then proceed to ask me about my "friend with the red hair". I would stammer, "She has a boyfriend," as I looked down at my penny loafers. The excitement would turn to pure fear as the boy would look at me menacingly, trying to decide if I was lying.

Once a group of them actually chased us through the mall. After which, our interest in visiting that particular mall sharply waned.

I am reminded of this because now there is another male of the species trying to intimidate me, even though he has no interest in me. But this time I am not 15.

Recently I received a Facebook message intimating that my husband was cheating on me. My first inclination was to laugh, because not only would Hot Guy never do that, he doesn't have the time. Or the energy. Or a working  cell phone.

Then I remembered that Hot Guy had told me about a high school friend of his whose high school boyfriend had started stalking her through Facebook. Even though she's married to someone else and they haven't seen each other in 15 years, the ex has become obsessed with her again. To the point where he's been accusing all of her male Facebook friends from high school of sleeping with her.

Which is where Hot Guy comes into it. Apparently the ex thinks Hot Guy and high school friend are having an affair (did I mention that she lives 1200 miles away?) and since trying to intimidate her and Hot Guy wasn't working, he decided to message me and make the accusation.

What's really scary is that after I blocked him he set up a new account and messaged me again. He's freakishly determined to contact me so that he can mess with Hot Guy and thus prove to high school friend how serious he is.

She has threatened legal action and is documenting everything, of course. But that's all so far. I am scared for her, to be perfectly honest. Chasing down the wives of high school friends seems extreme to me.

I replied to the second message with a request to please leave me alone and the threat of legal ramifications if he didn't. But I don't know if that will just piss him off or what. I don't know what he knows about where we live or even if he knows about this blog.

I don't think he would really care, though. It's high school friend he's after. Right? I don't know a lot about stalkers.

You know, I really didn't want to learn to appreciate being just "the friend" this way.

Dear Terrorists: Watch Heathers

Dear Terrorists,

I don't think about you a lot. I am fortunate in that I don't currently have any family members or close friends serving in the military or traveling in the middle east. And I am also fortunate in that I live in the United States, where the media would much rather listen to Tiger Woods' pathetic excuse for an apology than to pay attention to anything you do.

I know you see us as the big Godless bully, one that keeps getting back up again even though you landed an excellent punch and made the rest of the class hate us. In your scenario, you will kill all of the infidels and have a perfect Muslim world (never mind that you can't even agree on which kind of Muslim is perfect) where women are chattel, imams rule and no one eats hot dogs.

In my scenario, all the terrorists, rapists, pedophiles, racists, homophobes and murderers die of a mysterious illness and we live in a perfect liberal world where women are truly equal, children are ALL loved and no one eats hot dogs (see, we have something in common - give tolerance a chance!).

Here's what would really happen in both of our scenarios: A bad seed would be born and start advocating equality or redhead hate and all of the people who weren't quite as well off and who weren't quite as educated would start listening to the bad seed and we'd be right back where we started.

Did you ever see the movie Heathers? It's one of my favorites. In it,  a young couple murders the popular bullies of their school. . .only to have someone else step into the bully shoes almost immediately. Sort of like a modern day version of the Hydra.

Now in the movie and in the myth, the heroine/hero defeats the evil, resurrecting bully. Which is great, because who likes a story where nothing changes? No one.

However, these stories are also FICTION.

You are not going to defeat the bully. We're not the biggest country (though I'm sure many of our high school graduates think so). We're certainly not the smartest (just watch The Hills). We're not the kindest (just ask our veterans). But we are the most popular. Take a poll and see how many of you have watched an American movie, heard an American song, eaten an American (or an American version) food, read an American book or heard about American Idol.

Even those kids who wear black and spend all of their time making fun of us (Russia, I'm talking to you) secretly want to be us. Yes, you can make us look stupid. Yes, you can hurt us. Yes, you can make people nervous about being our best friend. But given a choice between coming to the party where they have celebrity telethons for tragedies and sex is meant to be fun and coming to the party where they ignore other people's problems and sex is shameful, which do you think people are going to pick?

Do you ever imagine what your lives would be like if your grandfathers had managed to move to the US? If your parents had opened small businesses in Detroit? If you and your sisters had 12 years of public education (which is better than you have gotten, even if it did produce Sarah Palin)? If your first crush was the Christian or Jewish kid from across the street?

Then you would have seen Heathers too. And you would have given up on this shit already.

Regards,

Jerseygirl

The Reading Bitch

Last night I watched the commercial for "Teach Your Baby To Read!", a product that teaches babies and toddlers to memorize the shapes on flashcards read. The urge I had to smack all those parents upside the head, well, it reminded me of my urges when I watch the kiddie pageant spectacle, Toddlers and Tiaras.

It's the same damn thing.

Poise, the ability to walk in high heels, reading. . .those are all great skills to have. Reading's obviously more important, but still. In our looks-obsessed society, the ability to wear lip gloss without it going all over your teeth can't be denied. But why the rush?

Four year olds don't need to look polished to do well at preschool.

And babies don't need to be able to read. And, in fact, they aren't actually reading. Sure, I saw them say the words on the cards, or gesture to indicate that they knew what the word was. But that's not actually reading. They didn't decode (aka "sound out") the word and they sure as hell didn't comprehend its meaning from the surrounding text.

I've taught lots of kids to read and I guarantee that none of them would have read for real any more quickly had they memorized the words for body parts as babies. If their parents had talked to them more, read them more stories and/or not let them spend all night watching horror movies, that might have helped. But this stupid program? Not so much.

A colleague once referred to me as "The Reading Bitch", that's how into teaching reading I was. I might have been a little militant. I might have distributed timelines and scopes and sequences and lesson plans to my elementary school teacher colleagues a little obsessively.

And yet my baby has no idea what letters even are. But I have gotten him to sit still long enough to finish listening to "Touch and Feel Farm". I'm kinda proud of that. Because it's age-appropriate.

I suppose in a world where first graders have cell phones and grandmothers attend Botox parties, age-appropriate isn't a very popular concept. Sure, everyone clucks over the pageant kids, made up and hairsprayed like teenage prom queens, but they still have their own shows. And I've yet to hear anyone talk about, much less criticize, "Teach Your Baby To Read".

The truth is, kids who memorize easily (or very early), often have a hard time reading more difficult text when they hit second or third grade. And forget about developing their thinking skills. Memorization does jack for those. But all those parents can now brag that their one year olds can read, which I guess is more imporant than age-appropriate or thinking.

Score another one for the assholes.

The Voices In My Head

After some trauma in my youth and an ugly first marriage, I worked really hard on my mental health. I became a happy person. The only voice in my head was mine.

And then I had kids.

Now being in my head is like being at a committee meeting ALL THE TIME. There's an officious president who's all about following the rules from the parenting books (You can't let the baby cry! Have you read to them for twenty minutes? ), the crackpot in the back (Why don't you just chill and let everyone eat ice cream for dinner?), the one who's read too many self-help books (You're not giving enough hugs! Hug that kid who just used crayon all over her carpet!), the one who's not paying attention (I wonder if Daisy of Love will be as good as Rock of Love?), the mommy blogger (Will this be funny enough for a post, or just humiliating?), the nutritionist (Where is all the organic food you were supposed to buy? They have to eat carrots!) and my mother (Don't take a break! You haven't done everything yet!).

It's a wonder no one's caught me talking to myself yet.

Do you have voices in your heads? Or do I really need that much fantasized about week in the loony bin?

On The Road, part 2

South Carolina is pretty boring on I-95 I can't wait until we get to Savannah I love Savannah. Garmin Girl is telling us to go a different way than the hotel website said but of course we have to listen to her though it is a relief to get off of 95 wow there's no traffic here.

Oh my look at that bridge I'm going to have to admit that Garmin Girl sent us a good way this view is AWESOME now we are going to find the hotel wow this neighborhood looks dodgy are those project houses? They totally are but this can't be right because the website said we'd be in the historic district and I'm pretty sure they don't put section 8 houses in historic districts oh my that's the hotel well at least the lobby's nice and we're blocks from the historic district

GOOD LORD the historic district seems far poor Hot Guy pushing this behemoth triple stroller oh my Goddess I am hungry at least these projects don't seem as bad as the ones I used to teach by we are never going to make it down to River Street with this stroller where are the ramps? Maybe we can find a place up here on Bay Street oh look a pub. I want a beer.

Hmmmm . . .this is good and they have kids' food and what the hell are those girls wearing? They look like sorority and fraternity kids but those dresses look like hooker dresses from the '80's and the shoes are trampy too oh please god don't tell me all those nice looking young frat guys brought hookers to a formal I am NOT staring, Hot Guy, and anyway they wouldn't notice if I was, I'm old. I like this mixed aged happy hour crowd but I don't like dragging Ironflower through it on the way to the bathroom oh the bathroom lady moved here from NJ and loves it I want to move to Savannah too

This walk back sucks and I don't like the way that homeless guy is looking at us and I don't care if that makes me prejudiced against the homeless or the mentally ill or whatever God I am SWEATING. . . .I love it here.

I can't believe ChunkyMonkey is sleeping through the night but Lovebug is waking me up. . Uggghhhhhh. ..need sleep. ..so tired. ... .

We are finally going to get to the Gulf Coast of Florida today but wow, northern Florida is kinda ugly. I was thinking that I would enjoy driving on this smaller road connecting 95 to 75 but I was so wrong I feel like I'm in Deliverance country and the traffic is so SLOW and we're never going to get there. . .

Gainesville is the ugliest college town I have ever seen.

How come no one in Florida understands the basic traffic laws? I can't believe all these crazy people passing on the right at 100 mph and the people on the left chugging along at 60 this is nuts and totally freaking me out God bless Hot Guy for driving oh please stop crying and whining Lovebug I want out of the car too JUST SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP.

Oh my poor baby Chunky has been such a trouper he's finally done too bad the drive isn't I hope he stops crying soon he's full and and his diaper is new he's just sick of the seat poor baby STOP CRYING, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

I wonder if pulling my hair out of my head would make me feel better we have been on the road for over 20 hours all together and I just want to get there and THESE OLD PEOPLE ARE FUCKING INSANE DRIVERS it would be so tragic if we died now and my last thoughts were about how sick I am of I Spy and why didn't I spend money on DVD players? Why?

A Question About CyberSex

The other night my mother very graciously agreed to baby-sit so that I could go see Hot Guy in a play reading. The reading was for a playwright's competition and Hot Guy is a friend of the author. I'd been dying to see (this was the second or third reading that Hot Guy's done for it) this play, as it's about soccer moms in our area. And how one of them totally loses it.

I really enjoyed the play. It was funny and absurdist, but the characters rang very true. My kind of thing. Afterward, there was a question and answer session with the audience. And two - self-professed former soccer moms - women complained about a scene in the play. In the scene, the main character has a monologue where she talks about having cybersex. By this point, it's clear that the character is already losing it and feeling abandoned by her husband. The monologue is not graphic at all and at the end she even talks about wanting to wash her hands because they feel dirty. But these women felt that it was "out of character" for such a devoted mom. (Side note: One of the women also complained about the swearing in the play. Let me tell you, this was no Quentin Tarantino type dialog. The only swearing was when a few of the characters were very, very pissed off. It totally fit.)

I was appalled by these audience members and their attitude. I didn't say anything, though. Mainly because I it would be a bit unseemly for a hugely pregnant woman to start arguing the side of cybersex. And a guy who works with my parents was there. And I feared getting the audience discussion off track from the play, because I'm a huge fan of digression.

But since I didn't say anything that night, I have to say it now. I don't think being a good mom and being curious about cybersex are mutually exclusive. Most people I know have tried cybersex. Most of them tried it long before they became parents, but I don't think the character's trying it is so weird. In the play, she is feeling isolated and that she's lost her sense of self. She feels powerless and alienated from her husband. She has nothing beyond being a parent. It is late at night, her chores are done, her children are asleep and her husband isn't home. Curiosity gets the better of her.

Do you guys think that's so shocking?

Or am I just being defensive because I'm pretty sure I too would go over the edge if I didn't spend too much time blogging and reading?

Apparently SOMEONE Has Too Much Time On Her Hands

I have a waving acquaintance with most of the people in my neighborhood. It's hard not to when you live in a townhouse complex and spend time outside. I've even had actual conversations with most of the people near me. But not the people directly across the street.

The couple directly across the street doesn't have any kids (not that there's anything wrong with that) and seems to work incredibly long hours. They also seem to think I'm a freak when I sit on our tiny porch and read in the evening (the light is not very good on the deck) because they never wave at me when they come home.

And while it may be possible that I've had too much time on my hands in the evenings (the carpal tunnel preventing much evening typing, Hot Guy being out of town), I don't think I've gone all Rear Window. . .yet. (Rear Window - Alfred Hitchcock movie where homebound guy becomes convinced that his neighbor has killed his wife. I think there was a remake with Shia LeBouef.) I don't think the unfriendly couple across the street has murdered anyone. But I do think something fishy is going on.

A couple weeks ago they cleaned out the garage. They also hosed down enough folding chairs for a small wedding - which they then carried into a house. They also put a refrigerator in the garage. I didn't think anything about it until the other night. A van pulled up to their house and ten chattering young people got out, laden with shopping bags. They went into the neighbors' and didn't come back out. The next night the same thing happened. Last night four or five people came walking up to the house and disappeared inside.

Now, before you say "party". Let me point out that most of these sightings have been on weeknights. And what kind of party entails everyone arriving all at once in the same car? And who has three parties in the same week? And why do all the guests have beat up shopping bags? And why are they all younger than the couple who owns the townhouse?

I think it's weird. My pregnant brain says they've started a cult.

Do you think I need to get out more?

The One Where I Undoubtedly Offend Someone

Last night I settled down in bed to watch the end of the Daily Show. Jon was interviewing an author (whose name, and book title, I can't seem to remember) who had spent time with various "fringe" type groups. One of those groups was a church in Texas - the one run by Reverend Hagee, who may or may not be a buddy of John McCain's. Anyway, he discussed a retreat he went on with them. New members worked at casting out their personal demons by throwing them up into bags. After working through sin, greed, lust and the other biggies, the new church members were instructed to cast out the demons of hand-writing analysis.

Now, generally I am nervous around people who take the Bible (or the Torah, or the Koran, or the sayings of their cult leader) literally. But I try not to make fun, because I do believe in God - and tolerance. However, some people don't deserve that respect. The Taliban. Polygamists. People who think that hand-writing analysis is demonic. I mean, seriously?

The, let's call it the romantic side of me, would love to believe in demons - I would love to believe that child molesters and rapists are actually possessed by demons and not actually humans committing atrocities. But even if you do believe in demon possession, do you really think hand-writing analysis is the province of a demon? Can you see Satan handing out demon assignments, "You- pedophilia, You- spree killing, You hand-writing analysis!"

There are a lot of religious dicta that confuse me, or even repulse me, but usually I can see the (often ridiculous) logic behind them. But I can't understand how hand-writing analysis - understanding people's personalities, if you will - would piss God off. Or lead to sin. "Oh my, Sue, the way your letters slant upwards and indicate your self-confidence really turns me on. Let's throw out all of our morals and do it right here on the desk!" Is that really going to happen? It just doesn't seem as logical (and pathetic) as forbidding dancing, which can be very sexy. Besides, Sue's self-confidence could be obvious without anyone knowing how to analyze her handwriting.

I just don't get it.

The One Where I Try To Write A Humorous, Yet Random, Post

Let's chat, shall we? I have a few things I'd like to share about my life these days.

1. I have my first post up at Prefabcosm.com, which is the work-at-home job I've mentioned. Mostly I do research, though.

2. I'm getting used to feeling nauseous all the time, but I'm really bitter about the fact that all of my pants/jeans/skirts are already so uncomfortable that all I wear are yoga pants and the 7$ maternity jeans I got on Target.com. With the other two, I didn't wear maternity clothes until the second trimester. This is just so wrong.

3. The houseguests are still around. They have been staying at my parents', though they often spend an afternoon here. I'd like to ask your opinion on a few things about them, because they seem to think that we're the weird ones. (BTW, this is really not Hubby's fault and he feels guilty enough, so don't pick on him, okay? This is really about them.)

-Would you ever invite yourself to stay with non-family members for longer than a weekend? (apparently, they also spent six weeks staying with a family in Brazil)

-If you were staying at someone's house, would you leave their coffee mug in the sink while you put all of your dishes in the dishwasher?

-If you were staying at a virtual stranger's house after assuring them that you would be buying your own food, would you eat their tomatoes, eggs and bread after they said you could have some lettuce?

-If you were staying an hour's train ride from New York City for three weeks, would you only go into the city three times, instead spending your days watching TV, playing a computer game, reading and working on your book based on characters you created with your friends in high school?

-If you were having a lovely dinner at the home of your friend's in-laws, who are letting you stay with them, would you get up and walk away from the table while all of the other adults were still talking? And would you then motion for your girlfriend to join you so that she could rub your neck?

-Would you be pissed if, the hostess of the home you were staying in for two weeks asked you to stay out of the kitchen one morning (instead of cooking your normal fried breakfast) because she was scrubbing its floor?

-Would you say thank you if someone folded your laundry for you?

4. I took Lovebug to the new pediatrician today for his belated two year check-up (because we FINALLY have health insurance! Yay us!). I LOVE the new pediatrician and her staff. But she is concerned about Lovebug's articulation - I understand him more than 50% of the time (apparently 50% is the norm for two year olds), but other people probably don't. If it doesn't get better within the next month, I'm to call Early Intervention. But I'm wondering if I should just call now? I'm also wondering if frustration over us not understanding him is what causes his meltdowns.

5. I have signed the children up for story time at the library. I am afraid. When I used to take Ironflower to story time in Kansas City, she would not sit still for any of it. She ran around until the craft time came. While I think school might have mellowed her, I'm pretty sure Lovebug will not deign to sit with me and listen to a story when we do that at home. But it's free and will keep them entertained for thirty minutes. So what if it raises my blood pressure, right?

6. This post really wasn't that funny, was it? How come when other bloggers write their random posts I always find them funny, but I can't do it on my own?

I Love The Crazy Lady

OMG, there's an official crazy lady in Stuck-Up.

You'd think after living here for nearly 11 months that I would have discovered the crazy lady already, but apparently not. Last night was the first time I've had the pleasure. Of course, I would say that there are tons of unofficially crazy people in Stuck-Up - the people with their Christmas decorations still up, the women who wear fur coats and sweat pants, the parents who have their five year olds in 7 activities - but you don't normally see the typically urban type of crazy here. You know, the kind of crazy person who wears odd clothing and talks to him or herself in public. (Because we all talk to ourselves when we're alone, right? RIGHT?)

Until we moved here, I'd spent the last 18 years living and/or working in an urban area. So I got sort of used to crazy homeless people and odd fellow store patrons. And until I met the woman last night, I hadn't realized how much I'd missed seeing crazy people. I'm not sure whether they just make me feel better about myself (as in, my hair could be worse!) or whether I just like to be reminded of the world beyond my own petty problems.

So last night I went out to get a treat for the small people that live here. And there, right in front of me, was a woman in a black wig, sunglasses and four coats. One of which was a lovely Burberry trench coat. It didn't quite match the down vest she had on underneath. She also appeared to have zinc oxide on her lips. I loved her immediately. Although I admit my love did shrink a bit when she cut in front of me to chat with the cashier. And I do mean chat - she wasn't ready to purchase anything yet. Finally she wandered away so that I could order. The cashier let me know that she actually LIVES IN STUCK-UP! Apparently she only visits the local businesses at night (probably why I've never seen her, considering my night life only exists on my computer). She LOVES to hang out and chat but gets visibly upset if she is asked to step aside for a paying customer. She was very nice to me, though. At least, from what I could follow of the conversation.

There's a part of me, of course, that feels bad for this lonely woman. Who was obviously cared for but not talked to. But the other part of me is relieved to find a crack in Stuck-Up's Stepford facade. There are people stranger than we are living in Stuck-Up. Who knew?

Soap Opera Sunday, Episode 9

Yay! It's Soap Opera Sunday! You can find more soapy stories at the fabulous Thalia's Child. Many thanks to Soapy founders Brillig and Kateastrophe for starting this great tradition. To catch up on my previous episodes, check out the following links:

Episode 1
Episode 2
Episode 3
Episode 4
Episode 5
Episode 6
Episode 7
Episode 8

The party was on a very hot Saturday night in July. It was meant to be a simple backyard barbecue, but between the alcohol and the huge crowd it had a bit more in common with a frat party. Which was fine with me, acting completely immature on my thirtieth birthday seemed somehow appropriate.

Martin was the first of "my boys" (as Mimi and my other girlfriends took to calling them) to arrive. And even though I had specified no gifts, he brought me a mix CD he had made. Which was sweet, because the whole time we were dating he always seemed to be making CDs, but never for me. Pleased, I read the friendly message inside and glanced over the songs. Most of them were songs he knew I liked (Abba, the Sopranos theme) but some seemed to be about unrequited love. I remember thinking, that's strange. What an odd choice. Then I got distracted by other people and forgot about it.

As the other boys arrived (MG the most recent ex, Foster the almost, John the new potential, Scott's friends the flirts), I began to find the whole situation incredibly amusing (okay, a few beers may have helped). The guys nodded to each other and then gravitated toward whichever one of my friends they had liked best. MG had an advantage because some of his own female friends were at the party too. I cheerfully circulated, when not doing birthday shots.

I mostly ignored the boys, dancing around the patio and cheering on the volleyball players.

MG and I spent a lot of time staring at each other, though. The night before he had taken me out to dinner and declared his feelings and regrets over breaking up. He had said things like, "You're the most amazing woman I've ever known," and "I'll never hurt you again." I had said I needed to think about it. So while I drank and laughed and danced, I assessed my romantic options.

At one point I wound up sitting next to John. We made small talk. Martin drifted to a seat nearby. Then Foster did. Finally, MG sat in the chair on my other side. We were all basically in a circle. Two of my friends walked by, glanced around the circle and then walked away giggling. No help from that front. The five of us had an awkward conversation. Foster thought the situation was hysterical, so he kept saying semi-inappropriate things to me just to watch the others react. John thought he was hitting on the birthday girl and couldn't seem to understand why these other guys were hanging around. Martin made snide comments that could have been construed as insults but weren't obviously rude. MG was quite but attentive - getting me more beer without being asked, etc.

John soon moved on to greener pastures (which was good, as his obsession with his pet snake had begun to disturb me). Then Foster spotted a young blond and moved on as well. Martin left the party right after that, claiming that he was tired. He hugged me good-bye and reminded me to enjoy the CD. I paused and looked at him, giving him a chance to mention the significance of the songs. He didn't.

So I was left with MG. He was so sincere and sweet. I was weak (and drunk). We got back together.

That time it lasted for three months.

Martin came over to console me the day after.