Pick on Someone Your Own Size in 31 Years!

Now They are going after the babies! What’s wrong with fat babies? Fat babies are cute. Fat babies look a little happier and healthier than skinny babies. I mean there’s only so much space for the food to go in a little body. It’s not like they can do 30 minutes of cardio. Just because a baby is fat doesn’t mean it will grow up to become an obese adult. I just know a baby diet is coming. . . Similac-Lite, Fat-free Gerber. Dexatrim Toddler. I’m taking a stand for fat babies everwhere (okay, maybe not the 200 lb toddler that was on Maury, but that’s bad parenting, so I guess I will take a stand for him too).

I’m really tired of Them and They. Just a couple of weeks ago, They had me all paranoid about being a lefty. It seems that all those years of being special (doing ‘it’ better, being in company with Jimmy Hendrix, having special desks, being right-brained, getting ink all over your hand as you write) are coming back to bite us lefty females in the ass because we’re more likely to develop breast cancer. This probably means that I’ll never get to see a Leftorium built in my lifetime. Of course They don’t tell you until close to the end of the article that They are still researching whether or not the two are correlated and that you shouldn’t be concerned. WHAT? Then why not tell me after you’ve concluded your research. I think They need to get their shit together before publishing vague, preliminary findings. Or, maybe They should consider Their audience--anyone with access to Yahoo who is just waking up to check her e-mail in her PJs and thinks it’s a glorious day until she finds that she’s GOING TO DIE--and break the news gently, maybe starting with part about not being concerned closer to the beginning of the article. Fuckers. I wonder if this could qualify me for that new Amy Grant show:

Me: Amy, it’s such a pleasure to meet you. I have all your albums. My Christian Youth Group used to think that your cross-over music was blasphemous, but I stood by you. “Baby Baby” has had a lasting impact on my life.

Amy: Um, great. [Gives concerned look to producer that says, “what the fick (she’s Christian, ya’ll) have you gotten me into now?”] Tell me about your illness…

Me: Well, it seems that I am going to die because I’m left-handed. (Not really a lie, I mean, I am going to die one day, we are all going to die one day…my death could be left-hand related. Yes, I’m going to Hell.)

I wouldn’t do that. I know there are people who are really suffering and this is in no way meant to belittle or make fun of that. That said, the other day, “R” informed me that They make radioactive pellets for prostate cancer patients. The pellets are inserted into the prostate and can just shoot out at inopportune moments, and, if they do, they have to be saved because they can’t be disposed of because they are RADIOACTIVE. Patients have to pee through a strainer. I’m not making this up, but "R" knows that I'm gullible, so he could've made it up.

Men, please make sure to “release” at least 3 times per week. Let’s all be healthy. I’m going to get the reduced-fat Cheez-Its from now on and really commit to social smoking. (Don’t tell my mom.)

Reading Is Fun

I joined a book club. Not so much because I enjoy reading, but because I thought it would be a good way to meet people. AND since I’m an overachiever disguised as an underachiever, I’d like to feel as though I’m getting something out of reading.

Remember those public library competitions in grade school where you got rewarded for reading so many books over the summer? How they checked, I don’t know. If they went by your library card, you could’ve just checked out a shitload of books. It’s not like they asked you questions about the books because you could read anything that you wanted. Although I suppose if you were a nerd like I was, one who liked the freedom and feeling of competence and young adulthood that came from riding my bike (yes, I know, physical activity. . . I even walked there on occasion--this was B.efore C.able) to the library and checking out and returning books on my own (akin to your first checking account), you probably wouldn’t lie about how many books you read. It’s just now after becoming a jaded adult that I’d even think of lying. I am evil. So anyway, as a reward, you got stickers or stars or coupons to Burger King or something like that for reading. Stuff that eventually ended up in the trash after being forced to clean your room--I was more of a Mc Donald’s fan (the only way I could be convinced to be baptized)--and because I could never keep up one of those sticker books, which probably means I’d make a terrible scrap booker. The stickers weren’t even cool like the scratch n’ sniff kind that I wanted to steal from my cousin.

So, to make a very short story (more of a comment really, “I joined a book club” should’ve sufficed) much longer than it needs to be and to get out of not only finishing the book, but also doing laundry before everyone wakes up, I feel in some way that I should be rewarded for taking up reading again . . .without the stickers or coupons. I especially chose this book club because there’s not so much pressure--1 book per month--and the organizer writes for this site, so I’m fairly certain there won’t be any Nora Roberts or John Grisham-like books.

You’d think that me being a procrastinator and trying to commit to this, I would find the time to read this month’s book. I’m halfway through it, but, of course, I’ve waited until the last minute to finish it. The meeting is tomorrow night! It’s not War and Peace; it’s only 242 pages. Yes, 242 pages (small type, though). I’ve tried. Though the imagery the author creates is vivid, I just don’t like it. I don’t care about the characters, it’s not compelling, it’s just way too much detail about a people and things I don’t care about. Here’s an excerpt, you tell me:

“There was the pungent smell of the plastic shower curtain and the disintegrating soap. The toilet bowl was agape, with a dissolving piece of toilet paper in it throbbing like a jellyfish. The faucet was sternly counting off droplets.”

242 pages of that!!!! It's like listening to Natalie Merchant. Just too rich. I think what I need is something more Suzanne Vega. Something lighter.

So, of course, now it feels like an assignment. But I realize I CHOSE TO DO THIS. I thought I could finish it by reading it during my commute, but what signals a bad read to me is that it makes me motion sick. I don’t feel like vomiting when I think a book is good.

Next month we’re reading a book I’ve already read. A book I liked. So, I’m thinking that I could just un-join until next month. Do they let you do that? Probably not good to do that…I’ll start some laundry now and try to finish it in the laundry room. As a bonus, I may even get to this morning's paper before it's stolen.

UPDATE: My, how things can improve with a dream sequence of boy on boy action. I just don't understand why it took 98 pages to get there.

Stink Eye

Before I get into the stink eye, just know that I can do a lot of things (except finish them). Crazy isn't one of the things I can do. I think that's why the universe challenges me with the mentally challenged. They always seem to occupy the same El car I'm in. Nevermind that I go out of my way to move down one. They manage to make it there anyway. Though it's harder to discern crazy now that people have hands free phones (I know this because my friend "R" is one of these people. He has a hands-free phone and is only crazy-ish, but he's not crazy, he's my friend.), but it's easy to spot crazy when a kid is holding a Red Eye and laughing hysterically. It's true that I may not be giving him credit. It could be that he was laughing because the writing really is that bad. However, I think it was crazy laughter. The kind that you can hear faintly through the glass after the men close the van doors and have secured the restraints. The kind of crazy that has the woman in the back row having a disagreement with herself out loud (of course with the only free seat next to her, so you stand for 5 more stops). The kind of disagreement you would have with yourself after a confrontation didn't go quite the way you planned. The only difference being that your confrontation was with a person other than yourself and you practiced the things you should've said in front of your bathroom mirror. You know, batshit crazy.

Sometimes, they sneak up on you and by the time you realize they're crazy, it's too late. Or, you unwittingly befriend them because the maternal figure in your office (former job) thinks it would be great if you met her friend's daughter who is about your age since you're new in town and all and the daughter tells you how she accepts calls from inmates and you think, "my, how trusting" and then she later goes off her meds that you didn't even know she was on and she decides to do a little off meds dialing on Thanksgiving and leaves some rather nasty voicemail about you and the size of your behind and you really don't know where that's coming from because you've only really been shopping a couple of times and the conversation was pleasant and you later find out that she was heavily medicated and ran away that same weekend to California and that it would've been good for someone to let you know that her mental situation was "delicate" at best.

AND, I know the man sitting across from me must've had a tough day. I could tell by the paint-stained clothing, the way he clutched his lunch box while trying to get in a brief nap before going home or maybe even to his next job. BUT you can't tell me that he couldn't feel those boogers in his nose. Not the little wheezy ones that could be mistaken for nose hair, but Frosted Mini-Wheat sized boogers. It's not like he was sleeping with his mouth open. You can't tell me he didn't feel that shit. Is life so bad that one would attempt asphyxiation on one's own boogers? I was so thankful for the light breeze today instead of heavy wind between stops. A little heavier and I could've been wearing a Mini-Wheat and then I would've lost my shit but in a polite way because he had a tough day.

Okay, enough about my day, let's talk about my neighbor. For some reason, this woman doesn't like me. Every time she sees me, she gives me the stink eye. Now, if you're sensitive like me, stink eye can be quite hurtful. I go out of my way to say "good morning," or hold the door open for her and her kids. So the stink eye is very hurtful, especially if you're sensitive like me. Now, if you're an acquaintance, I know you're thinking back to the saga that was "Bass Boy," but let me say this goes unprovoked. Plus, "Bass Boy" and I settled our differences. I moved to another state (not because it was mandated or anything) and even gave him a bottle of Maker's Mark for Christmas. You can't ask for a better ending. I'm very giving.

Which is why I can't understand why this woman doesn't like me. I mean, I really don't think she knows that I'm the one who called the police on her because she left her kids alone in her car while she did who knows what for over 30 minutes. It's quite possible that she doesn't even know that the police were called. I could understand you thinking I was overreacting IF at least one of the kids were over seven. I think I'm much more open in that respect because I am a product of a single-parent home and was a latchkey kid starting in the 3rd grade. I managed to keep myself alive, so I know older children probably could've too. (Especially children from Chicago. You should hear the mouths on some of these kids, but they're cute.) Anyway, we're talking toddler strapped in a car seat with the window all the way down staring at you like "please help me," or "please take me and sell me on the black market." So I did. . .the former, not the latter. I stayed with them, well sitting on the backstairs staring at the baby with the apologetic "Gee, I really hope your mom comes back soon so that you don't have to go to foster-care tonight" look waiting for either her to return or the police to show. I guess I should state here that I didn't know it was a them until after I called thback seat and saw the 6 year old sleeping on the backseat next to the baby, BUT STILL!!!

She left before the police even reached our block. I was even nice to her when she returned and I asked her if they were her kids (though they obviously were) as she got into the car and I told her, "Well, I'm glad you're back now, because I was worried." I didn't even say it in an accusatory "You're a bad, bad mother" tone. Although she's petite, she looks like she could box and I'm not one for violence, even pre-weave. Which is why I know Jerry Springer was staged because if you were to pull off someone's weave, the scalp is coming with it and I never saw blood on the show. She just woke the older one up, scolded her for falling asleep (mostly for my benefit) and took off.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm making a concerted effort to be a better neighbor. Just last Sunday, as the couple (okay, single guy bringing home new "friend") upstairs were experiencing climax loudly (I think this girl had Jenna Jamison beat), I didn't resort to the usual Swiffer ceiling tap (I use the cleaner end because it's flat and you get to keep your deposit that way), I just rolled over to my sweetie, smiled, and said as loudly as I could, "Oh Puh-lease! It is not that serious!" All was well. I mean, I think so. I really hope he didn't lose his concentration. It took him some time to recover, but they started up again, a little quieter and less porno-like at 3 a.m. and I didn't hear the obligatory 4 a.m. door slam. So I guess everybody wins. Maybe I'll invite them down for mimosas on Sunday. . .as long as he's not the bastard that keeps stealing our paper.

Crafty Memories or Practical Crafts?

So, I have this cousin who is three years older than I am. Being an only child, until about the age of 17, this cousin was probably the closest thing to a sibling that I had experienced or really would ever want to experience. Thankfully I only had to spend summers with her because it's quite possible that I would be dead now as we would fight the entire time. Okay, she would nearly kill me every summer, but not have time to finish the job because my mom always timed picking me up right before things turned ugly. There was enough time, however, to leave me scarred and bruised (both emotionally and physically).

Anyway, as the closest thing to a sibling, I coveted the things my cousin had. Although, I'm convinced that she took my red, drop-waist Barbie party dress. The polyester shiny one that looked so great with the rainbow legwarmers. I clearly remember saving the change leftover from not buying milk with my school lunches (and stealing laundry money) to purchase that dress. I remember how it conveniently ended up in her Barbie case and she casually, yet mockingly saying, "maybe you lost yours and I have one just like it." BULLSHIT! Most of the Barbie clothing and accessories she owned were Barbie pink and magenta. I tried to get even by taking some of her Smurfs, but she found them. . . in my suitcase.

I digress. . . My cousin always had the most interesting trinkets and accessories in her purse: compacts, Bonnie Bell makeup, Bopo peel off nailpolish, Chinese finger traps, stickers, flavored lip gloss, the list goes on and on. Things that never occurred to me to put into my sorry little patent leather purse. Mine was usually filled with pennies, coinpurses and keychains with bank logos, or the odd rock or marble. Nothing cute or girlie, always practical. Not that girlie can't be practical, it just made perfect sense at the time to carry a purse full of pennies. I never knew when I'd get to leave the farm for penny candy or Dolly Madison 2nds. I really never knew when I'd get to leave the farm at all. Mostly we were tricked into helping pull weeds, which in hindsight was probably meant to calm us down so we wouldn't fight, but I still took my purse. Nevermind that it weighed over a pound and my fingers would take on that copper smell from counting and sorting the pennies by year or patina.

What prompts this stroll down memory lane is the recent craft or DIY movement. For me, it's a chance to get that part of childhood back again. To do it right. To stock my purse with all the goodies I didn't when I was young. Yet, at the same time, I find myself leaning towards practical.

Renegade Craft Fair was last weekend. While I highly recommend it (even in a downpour), and I was all "rah-rah women unite in crafts," I also found myself thinking, "dude, I could totally make that." But I don't. I don't want to "DIM," nor do I want to pay $35.00 for a tote bag that will be on clearance at Old Navy for $6.00 in a couple weeks anyway. I saw the Brini Maxwell episode. I read the step-by-step in Bust. It all comes down to the time value of money or opportunity costs (and any other economics term I can insert here to make my parents believe that I attended class) and me being generally lazy. Plus I can always pay my creative friends for their stuff. (I did buy a couple of prints from these people because I just can't duplicate that.) Besides, I'm not good at finishing things. I can't even keep up a blog! I spent on and off about 5 years completing one of those yarn macrame pot holder kits. My mother had to actually sit me down and finish it with me because she was so tired of finding those little orange and yellow bands of yarn while cleaning. She still has it, though. It's stained and has burn marks, but it's still in the drawer by the stove.

That said, I love that someone thought to make slap bracelets and wallets out of duct tape and write cool phrases on them with Sharpies. I'm not making fun at all. I totally appreciate and understand the thought put into it--just like those leather wristbands I was forced to make at camp. It's just that they probably won't find their way into my wristlet anytime soon. I haven't even carried a purse in over a year. It's just not practical.