10. PULL-UPS Every parent has been there; you look at the package and think, "I can totally fool my child into thinking this is underwear AND save myself from doing 27 loads of laundry a day." You even buy the ones that have Lightning McQueen on them and sell them to your child with the notion that "Lighting McQueen doesn't want to get wet and HE WILL DISAPPEAR if you pee on him" with all kinds of mock horror at the very thought, even though you'd like nothing more since you have so much Lightning McQueen paraphernalia that you're pretty sure you personally paid for one of Owen Wilson's stints in rehab. Or at least the blow that got him there. But your child doesn't care that Lighting McQueen will disappear if he pees in his pull-up because he thinks it's fun to pee in his pull-up; it means he doesn't have to leave the train table. Leaving the train table means his brother will steal his train and what's waiting for him in the bathroom? A sticker. TRAIN TRUMPS STICKER. And that's why pull-ups fail.
9. SOCCER Christ Almighty, enough with the soccer already. Want to get your ass reported to Child Protective Services? Tell another parent at the preschool pickup that your kid isn't enrolled in soccer and watch her face contort as she tries to mask her contempt for your obviously inferior parenting. Resist the urge to poke her in the eye.
8. EVERY KID NEEDS A DOG Ummm, yeah. Not my kids. Want to know why? Because they live with me. And as my dad so eloquently put it recently, "You're not really an animal person." Spot on, Dad. We're fish people. And so far we've only had to flush one.
7. CONTRACTIONS FEEL LIKE REALLY BAD CRAMPS Okay, I don't know what kind of fucked up, crazy-ass period cramps you people get, but if they are really akin to the feeling of every muscle from just below your boobs all the way down to your knees tightening like a vice grip for a full minute in 90-second intervals as your body ATTEMPTS TO EXPEL A HUMAN, you might want to seek some medical attention and get that shit checked out.
6. HAVING A CHILD WILL BRING YOU CLOSER TO YOUR SPOUSE I don't even remember what my husband looks like. I think he still lives here. Maybe.
5. GOOD MOTHERS DON'T ____________ . Take your pick: swear, smoke, drink, fuck, work, stay home, circumcise, formula feed, co-sleep, forget to floss, want to run away sometimes. What's your hangup?
4. YOU WILL FORGET THE PAIN OF CHILDBIRTH *coughcough*BULLSHIT*coughcough* 'Nuff said.
3. BABY TOYS Want to entertain a baby? Turn on a light. That is fascinating stuff to the 10 month-and-under crowd. Want to really blow their minds? Turn the light off. And then turn it on again. The best thing about this is that babies don't remember much, so tomorrow it will be a whole new amazing experience. Think that's a good time? Wait until summer when you turn on the CEILING FAN. WHOA.
2. MOTHER KNOWS BEST This one is only a partial lie. Because when it comes to things like picking out clothes that match, singing lullabies, or ensuring that, before we leave the house, we are adequately prepared for any possible calamity that could affect our children ever, I'm definitely the one you want running the show. But there are many times when I have to defer to my husband and his wealth of knowledge of All Things Male Related. This, so far, has included peeing standing up, purchasing a cup for the Little Leaguer (you're welcome, future grandchildren), and basically all things penis or sports related, since my athletic history consists of picking flowers and doing cartwheels in the outfield during kickball. And I don't have a penis. But definitely call me when you need a necklace made out of dandelions.
1. YOUR CHILD NEEDS A SIBLING Oh my god, this is the worst lie of all. Having only one child is viewed as a serious crime against nature in our society. Don't you want your son/daughter to have a brother/sister? A playmate? A best friend? HA. I fell for this one hook, line, and sinker. It's not by accident that my sons are 19 months apart. Why? Because we wanted them to be close. I had visions of them taking off to play together, leaving me to sip my coffee, maybe read a book, putting it down every now and then to go take a look at whatever incredible block structure they had created. What I didn't imagine was the constant bickering, the 'I had it first', the 'he got a longer turn/bigger piece/more', the 'it's mine and even though I haven't played with it in seven months, I was just about to', the 'you know that game you always want to play and I always say no simply because I know how much you love it...I'm going to hide all of the pieces under my bed JUST BECAUSE.' I'm not a mother, I'm a referee. Lucky for me, I happen to love black and white.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
These are the people in your neighborhood
There is a gorgeous tree across the street, a harsh fiery streak of red amongst a sea of dry, dulling greens and washed out yellowish browns. A narrow strip of sun slices through the early morning shadows to fall directly on the flaming tones.
It's breathtaking.
And I'd totally take a picture to show you, except that between my window and the tree-of-such-beauty-that-ohmygod-it-would-change-your-life, dangle The Bucket People's unmentionables.
I see London, I see France, I see my neighbors' underpants. Right there on the clothesline.
Apparently the men in the house enjoy boxers AND briefs, while Mama Bucket rocks the grannies.
All of which is WAY more information about my neighbors than I ever cared to possess.
I should probably stop referring to them as The Buckets, now that I have two little sets of ears that like to listen to, and then repeat, lots of fun things that I say. But we've been calling them The Bucket People for nine years now, since we moved in and found them dealing buckets from their side yard, complete with a hand painted sign attached to the fence that read, "Buckets: $.50". Their yard was littered with white plastic buckets.
Here a bucket, there a bucket, everywhere a bucket-bucket.
It would seem, however, that the bucket business is not a lucrative one.
Because one day, a big truck came and took all of the buckets away.
Which meant The Bucket People could then fill their yard with even yet still more crap.
Crap such as: non-working snow blowers (4), old lawn mowers (2), tires (oodles), discarded lawn furniture, tarps (which, by the way, don't actually cover anything; they're just random blue tarps tossed here and there), rusty bikes (4), a Little Tykes basketball hoop, and assorted cuts of lumber.
And of course, I can't forget the prerequisite broken down car in the driveway (which my 5 year old thinks is a race car and therefore the most awesome thing EVER).
It's black. It looks a lot like this:
Except it's all rusty and dirty and old.
And with the engine less IN the car and more NEXT TO it.
Also, they have a go-kart. Which doesn't actually go.
So I was super-psyched this summer when The Buckets added a new mode of transportation to their collection of Shit That Is Supposed to Go But Doesn't. The eldest Bucket Boy (a.k.a Carrot, so named by my oldest son who was unable to properly pronounce his actual name, Derek) bought himself a boat.
Guess where it is?
You got it.
Because, really, why put a boat in the water when you have perfectly good yard space available?
It's breathtaking.
And I'd totally take a picture to show you, except that between my window and the tree-of-such-beauty-that-ohmygod-it-would-change-your-life, dangle The Bucket People's unmentionables.
I see London, I see France, I see my neighbors' underpants. Right there on the clothesline.
Apparently the men in the house enjoy boxers AND briefs, while Mama Bucket rocks the grannies.
All of which is WAY more information about my neighbors than I ever cared to possess.
I should probably stop referring to them as The Buckets, now that I have two little sets of ears that like to listen to, and then repeat, lots of fun things that I say. But we've been calling them The Bucket People for nine years now, since we moved in and found them dealing buckets from their side yard, complete with a hand painted sign attached to the fence that read, "Buckets: $.50". Their yard was littered with white plastic buckets.
Here a bucket, there a bucket, everywhere a bucket-bucket.
It would seem, however, that the bucket business is not a lucrative one.
Because one day, a big truck came and took all of the buckets away.
Which meant The Bucket People could then fill their yard with even yet still more crap.
Crap such as: non-working snow blowers (4), old lawn mowers (2), tires (oodles), discarded lawn furniture, tarps (which, by the way, don't actually cover anything; they're just random blue tarps tossed here and there), rusty bikes (4), a Little Tykes basketball hoop, and assorted cuts of lumber.
And of course, I can't forget the prerequisite broken down car in the driveway (which my 5 year old thinks is a race car and therefore the most awesome thing EVER).
It's black. It looks a lot like this:
Except it's all rusty and dirty and old.
And with the engine less IN the car and more NEXT TO it.
Also, they have a go-kart. Which doesn't actually go.
So I was super-psyched this summer when The Buckets added a new mode of transportation to their collection of Shit That Is Supposed to Go But Doesn't. The eldest Bucket Boy (a.k.a Carrot, so named by my oldest son who was unable to properly pronounce his actual name, Derek) bought himself a boat.
Guess where it is?
You got it.
Because, really, why put a boat in the water when you have perfectly good yard space available?
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Everybody wants to be closer to free.
He had decided I looked like Jennifer Love Hewitt.
Which I sort of do, in that she has two arms and brown hair and I also have two arms and brown hair.
But really, the resemblance ends there.
I think his name was Mike. Or Ed. He asked for my number and I gave it to him, thinking that I needed to be open to meeting All Kinds Of People. I figured I had nothing to lose. He was nice, he liked to read, and he had a job. Why not?
"Jennifer Laaaaaane. Jennifer Laaaaaaane HEW-IT" was how he greeted me when I met up with him at the bar. Think Rob Schneider on SNL "makin' copies."
And THAT would be why not.
It wasn't that I had anything against Jennifer Love Hewitt. It was her Party of Five character, Sarah, that I couldn't stand.
Because she was TOTALLY unworthy of Bailey Salinger's love.
I, on the other hand, was really very worthy.
Oh, Bailey. Poor, orphaned Bailey. I would have listened to ALL of your whining about your incredibly annoying sisters and hot brother. And that other baby/kid, too. I would have stayed by your side when you battled your alcoholism. I would have Been There For You when Charlie had cancer. I would have ALWAYS had faith in you, Bailey. *cue a slow jam by The Cranberries*
I would have made you a seriously awesome mix tape, complete with my own (really bad) artwork. I didn't hand out mix-tapes to any old boy, you know. Not everyone was deemed worthy. I put serious time and effort into the making of a mix tape, each song carefully selected for it's message, the balance of each side weighed out to give it just the right sound and feel. The making of a good mix tape took hours to compile. It would have been my very SOUL in music form, Bailey.
I would have even written you a poem. I was really good at writing really bad poetry. Once I even wrote my boyfriend a sonnet.
Like with iambic pentameter.
And a RHYMING mothereffing COUPLET, yo.
It was horrible. And, in retrospect, hilarious. And it could have been yours, if it wasn't for the Sarah-loving.
Also, the being pretend thing. But THAT IS SO NOT THE POINT.
I get that Sarah was cute and all that. But honestly, didn't that doe-eyed, wholesome thing get annoying after a while? And what the hell was wrong with the girls in your life, Bailey, that none of them could speak? They would sputter and stammer, but between Julia, Claudia, and Sarah, I don't think you could have made a full sentence between them. I, however, can speak in sentences that include a subject AND a predicate.
I would have been way more fun, Bay. I would have told you dirty jokes and had Star Wars marathons with you.
Star Wars, dude. WITH TOP GUN FOR DESSERT.
Whatever, Bailey. You missed out. Instead I was left to sit at a bar next to Ed. Or Mike.
Jennifer Laaaaane. Jennifer Laaaane HEW-IT. Drinkin' the beers. And losing Ed's number.
Which I sort of do, in that she has two arms and brown hair and I also have two arms and brown hair.
But really, the resemblance ends there.
I think his name was Mike. Or Ed. He asked for my number and I gave it to him, thinking that I needed to be open to meeting All Kinds Of People. I figured I had nothing to lose. He was nice, he liked to read, and he had a job. Why not?
"Jennifer Laaaaaane. Jennifer Laaaaaaane HEW-IT" was how he greeted me when I met up with him at the bar. Think Rob Schneider on SNL "makin' copies."
And THAT would be why not.
It wasn't that I had anything against Jennifer Love Hewitt. It was her Party of Five character, Sarah, that I couldn't stand.
Because she was TOTALLY unworthy of Bailey Salinger's love.
I, on the other hand, was really very worthy.
Oh, Bailey. Poor, orphaned Bailey. I would have listened to ALL of your whining about your incredibly annoying sisters and hot brother. And that other baby/kid, too. I would have stayed by your side when you battled your alcoholism. I would have Been There For You when Charlie had cancer. I would have ALWAYS had faith in you, Bailey. *cue a slow jam by The Cranberries*
I would have made you a seriously awesome mix tape, complete with my own (really bad) artwork. I didn't hand out mix-tapes to any old boy, you know. Not everyone was deemed worthy. I put serious time and effort into the making of a mix tape, each song carefully selected for it's message, the balance of each side weighed out to give it just the right sound and feel. The making of a good mix tape took hours to compile. It would have been my very SOUL in music form, Bailey.
I would have even written you a poem. I was really good at writing really bad poetry. Once I even wrote my boyfriend a sonnet.
Like with iambic pentameter.
And a RHYMING mothereffing COUPLET, yo.
It was horrible. And, in retrospect, hilarious. And it could have been yours, if it wasn't for the Sarah-loving.
Also, the being pretend thing. But THAT IS SO NOT THE POINT.
I get that Sarah was cute and all that. But honestly, didn't that doe-eyed, wholesome thing get annoying after a while? And what the hell was wrong with the girls in your life, Bailey, that none of them could speak? They would sputter and stammer, but between Julia, Claudia, and Sarah, I don't think you could have made a full sentence between them. I, however, can speak in sentences that include a subject AND a predicate.
I would have been way more fun, Bay. I would have told you dirty jokes and had Star Wars marathons with you.
Star Wars, dude. WITH TOP GUN FOR DESSERT.
Whatever, Bailey. You missed out. Instead I was left to sit at a bar next to Ed. Or Mike.
Jennifer Laaaaane. Jennifer Laaaane HEW-IT. Drinkin' the beers. And losing Ed's number.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
"All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise."
Once upon a time, a boy was growing inside of me.
This boy did not come to be easily. There were tears, there were questions, there were doubts. There were pills and classes and needles and nurses who held my hand while I shut my eyes tight against the glaring light of a cold, unfeeling room. Life was marked in days: day 3 bloods, day 7 bloods, day 10 bloods and ultrasound, day 12 ultrasound, day 14 bloods and ultrasound, lather, rinse, repeat. There were little pieces of plastic glaring their white blank stares back at me, thrown against the wall and then later dug out of the trash, pulled apart, and held up to the light of the window in a desperate search for some kind of sign.
Please, I offered up from my knees on the bathroom floor.
Please, I whispered while laying on the crinkly white paper of my doctor’s exam table.
Please, I begged silently while planting a soft kiss on the fuzzy head of my friend’s newborn.
Soon I stopped asking for a baby. I started asking, instead, for patience. For grace and acceptance. For forgiveness for whatever sin it was I had committed so heinous as to deny me the one thing I wanted more than anything. I looked to logic and science because emotion and soul were failing me.
And then he was there.
He was a small white flicker of a heartbeat on a grainy screen.
As he grew, I waited for the relief to sweep over me. But it didn’t come. I worried about all that I couldn’t see. Each time I visited the doctor I held my breath anxiously until I heard the reassuring heavy gallop of his heartbeat. I counted kicks. I thought about the umbilical cord and pushed words like knot out of my mind.
Please, I offered up in the middle of the night, rubbing my round belly.
Please, I whispered while standing in his empty, waiting nursery.
Please, I begged silently through three hours of pushing, please, little one. Please.
And then he was there.
As I rest his soft downy cheek against my own tear stained one, I closed my eyes, breathed him in, and offered up the only words I had left.
Thank you.
This boy did not come to be easily. There were tears, there were questions, there were doubts. There were pills and classes and needles and nurses who held my hand while I shut my eyes tight against the glaring light of a cold, unfeeling room. Life was marked in days: day 3 bloods, day 7 bloods, day 10 bloods and ultrasound, day 12 ultrasound, day 14 bloods and ultrasound, lather, rinse, repeat. There were little pieces of plastic glaring their white blank stares back at me, thrown against the wall and then later dug out of the trash, pulled apart, and held up to the light of the window in a desperate search for some kind of sign.
Please, I offered up from my knees on the bathroom floor.
Please, I whispered while laying on the crinkly white paper of my doctor’s exam table.
Please, I begged silently while planting a soft kiss on the fuzzy head of my friend’s newborn.
Soon I stopped asking for a baby. I started asking, instead, for patience. For grace and acceptance. For forgiveness for whatever sin it was I had committed so heinous as to deny me the one thing I wanted more than anything. I looked to logic and science because emotion and soul were failing me.
And then he was there.
He was a small white flicker of a heartbeat on a grainy screen.
As he grew, I waited for the relief to sweep over me. But it didn’t come. I worried about all that I couldn’t see. Each time I visited the doctor I held my breath anxiously until I heard the reassuring heavy gallop of his heartbeat. I counted kicks. I thought about the umbilical cord and pushed words like knot out of my mind.
Please, I offered up in the middle of the night, rubbing my round belly.
Please, I whispered while standing in his empty, waiting nursery.
Please, I begged silently through three hours of pushing, please, little one. Please.
And then he was there.
As I rest his soft downy cheek against my own tear stained one, I closed my eyes, breathed him in, and offered up the only words I had left.
Thank you.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Monkey on My Back (Make Mine a 3-pack)
I can feel the woman in the line next to me staring.
Shut up, lady, I tell her via telepathy. Apparently my telepathy doesn't work in CVS though, because she continues scoping out the contents of my basket.
To show that I know she's looking at me AND MY STUFF, I stare not at her, but at HER stuff.
Batteries, light bulbs, box of hair dye.
Astroglide.
And we have a winner.
She hugs her stuff to her chest and looks away, which begs the question, why, Lube Lady, are you judging me and my items when you've got a big ole tube of Astroglide in your hand? Not that there's anything wrong with that, you know, rock out with your...self...out. But really. I take my things out of the basket and put them on the counter.
Box of 3 pregnancy tests.
Box of tampons.
(This is called hedging your bets, people.)
And finally, a 1-lb bag of M&Ms.
Because either way, I'm going to need some chocolate in order to deal.
"Um, can you not put that in the bag?" I ask the cashier after he scans the pregnancy tests.
He slides them across to me. I slip them into my purse and feel Lube Lady's eyes on me again as I resist the urge to explain to her and the cashier dude and the rest of the people in line at CVS that my husband thinks it's absurd to buy pregnancy tests unless you're, like, really REALLY not sure and not just a little unsure. He's more of the 'If a baby arrives 9 months later, then you're pregnant; otherwise, it's too soon to tell' school of thought.
And any woman who has ever ovulated EVER can tell you that THAT is just ridiculous.
Because, and I know I'm not alone in this, there is something slightly addictive involved in taking a home pregnancy test. Now somewhere in the world I'm sure there are women who give themselves a nice two-week window of lateness before saying, "Gee, hmmmmmm. That's weird. Maybe I'll go and buy ONE pregnancy test, use it, read the results within the clearly defined time limits, and then, when there is not an obvious second line, discard the test, satisfied in my knowledge that I am not, in fact, pregnant."
I'm not one of those women.
Nope, I'm the one who, at a minute and half past the expected time, is standing in line at CVS stuffing a 3-pack of First Response Early Detection into my purse under the watchful eye of Lube Lady, while trying to mentally calculate the possible damage my hypothetical third child may have incurred over the past 14 days: beer, wine, coffee, Advil, tuna, x-rays. Poor kid.
The crazy train, however, doesn't TRULY pull into the station until I get home, at which point I immediately lock myself in the bathroom, rip open the package, take the test, and then shove it under the sink so as to not be tempted to look at it before the three minute mark.
This is really super helpful.
For about 30 seconds.
So I pull the test out to make sure it's working. And then...well...guess what?
I think I see something.
Now this is probably when a normal person might put the test down and WAIT FOR THE REMAINING TWO AND A HALF MINUTES.
But I like to take this opportunity to get up-close-and-personal with my test. I take it to the window to look at it in natural light. I tip it forward. I tip it back towards me. I find a south-facing window for the very best, most accurate light. I squint and peer and make my eyes all fuzzy and then re-focused.
Ohmygod I really think that maybe I might see a very light hint of something.
Around this time my head starts to hurt from all of this squinting and natural light, so I will decide that it's probably nothing and throw it in the trash.
Where I will leave it.
For approximately five minutes.
And then I will not only dig that puppy out, but I will actually TAKE IT APART.
That right there is probably the step that separates me from the casual home-pregnancy-test-taker and puts me in with the SERIOUSLY HARDCORE TESTERS.
In my defense, if it IS a really, really, really super faint, brand-new, only-a-nanosecond-pregnant shadow of pink tinge, then sometimes you have to strip away all that extra plastic and REALLY GET A GOOD LOOK. And this is the hook, the addictive aspect; the maybe, the I-just-don't-know, the I think I see something. I just need to look better, harder, closer...
...at what, after a good 6-12 hours of checking and rechecking, I finally admit is simply a plain white strip with a single pink line.
Which is good.
I guess.
See, I KNEW I'd need those damn M&Ms.
Shut up, lady, I tell her via telepathy. Apparently my telepathy doesn't work in CVS though, because she continues scoping out the contents of my basket.
To show that I know she's looking at me AND MY STUFF, I stare not at her, but at HER stuff.
Batteries, light bulbs, box of hair dye.
Astroglide.
And we have a winner.
She hugs her stuff to her chest and looks away, which begs the question, why, Lube Lady, are you judging me and my items when you've got a big ole tube of Astroglide in your hand? Not that there's anything wrong with that, you know, rock out with your...self...out. But really. I take my things out of the basket and put them on the counter.
Box of 3 pregnancy tests.
Box of tampons.
(This is called hedging your bets, people.)
And finally, a 1-lb bag of M&Ms.
Because either way, I'm going to need some chocolate in order to deal.
"Um, can you not put that in the bag?" I ask the cashier after he scans the pregnancy tests.
He slides them across to me. I slip them into my purse and feel Lube Lady's eyes on me again as I resist the urge to explain to her and the cashier dude and the rest of the people in line at CVS that my husband thinks it's absurd to buy pregnancy tests unless you're, like, really REALLY not sure and not just a little unsure. He's more of the 'If a baby arrives 9 months later, then you're pregnant; otherwise, it's too soon to tell' school of thought.
And any woman who has ever ovulated EVER can tell you that THAT is just ridiculous.
Because, and I know I'm not alone in this, there is something slightly addictive involved in taking a home pregnancy test. Now somewhere in the world I'm sure there are women who give themselves a nice two-week window of lateness before saying, "Gee, hmmmmmm. That's weird. Maybe I'll go and buy ONE pregnancy test, use it, read the results within the clearly defined time limits, and then, when there is not an obvious second line, discard the test, satisfied in my knowledge that I am not, in fact, pregnant."
I'm not one of those women.
Nope, I'm the one who, at a minute and half past the expected time, is standing in line at CVS stuffing a 3-pack of First Response Early Detection into my purse under the watchful eye of Lube Lady, while trying to mentally calculate the possible damage my hypothetical third child may have incurred over the past 14 days: beer, wine, coffee, Advil, tuna, x-rays. Poor kid.
The crazy train, however, doesn't TRULY pull into the station until I get home, at which point I immediately lock myself in the bathroom, rip open the package, take the test, and then shove it under the sink so as to not be tempted to look at it before the three minute mark.
This is really super helpful.
For about 30 seconds.
So I pull the test out to make sure it's working. And then...well...guess what?
I think I see something.
Now this is probably when a normal person might put the test down and WAIT FOR THE REMAINING TWO AND A HALF MINUTES.
But I like to take this opportunity to get up-close-and-personal with my test. I take it to the window to look at it in natural light. I tip it forward. I tip it back towards me. I find a south-facing window for the very best, most accurate light. I squint and peer and make my eyes all fuzzy and then re-focused.
Ohmygod I really think that maybe I might see a very light hint of something.
Around this time my head starts to hurt from all of this squinting and natural light, so I will decide that it's probably nothing and throw it in the trash.
Where I will leave it.
For approximately five minutes.
And then I will not only dig that puppy out, but I will actually TAKE IT APART.
That right there is probably the step that separates me from the casual home-pregnancy-test-taker and puts me in with the SERIOUSLY HARDCORE TESTERS.
In my defense, if it IS a really, really, really super faint, brand-new, only-a-nanosecond-pregnant shadow of pink tinge, then sometimes you have to strip away all that extra plastic and REALLY GET A GOOD LOOK. And this is the hook, the addictive aspect; the maybe, the I-just-don't-know, the I think I see something. I just need to look better, harder, closer...
...at what, after a good 6-12 hours of checking and rechecking, I finally admit is simply a plain white strip with a single pink line.
Which is good.
I guess.
See, I KNEW I'd need those damn M&Ms.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
The Absolutely, Completely True Story of A Boy Named Ben Woodcock
I remember exactly two things about my First Communion.
The first is that the minute I walked into the church with the rest of the second graders, I started giggling and grinning like a fool. I was fairly certain that grinning and giggling weren't appropriate for church, so I tried to hide behind the little cardboard chalice I was carrying, but it did no good. I'm only lucky that I didn't snort.
The second is that I was terrified that Ben Woodcock was going to show up at my house that afternoon.
On his horse.
I was too young then to appreciate Ben Woodcock for his name alone, or to understand that the likelihood of an eight year old riding his horse a mile and a half across a highway overpass and down a busy road to my house was slim to none. All I knew was that I had invited Ben Woodcock to my house, panicked, and then purposely lied about where I lived.
Ben Woodcock had dark hair and dark eyes. Even then, with the exception of preferring Jon to Ponch, I liked boys with dark hair (you can have Bo Duke, I'll take Luke any day). So there was probably a high likelihood that I had a little crush on Ben Woodcock, with his brown corduroys and his long-sleeve orange velour shirt. In the second grade this basically translated into him being the boy I most wanted running after me when we played Boys Chase the Girls.
(The only thing more fun than playing Boys Chase the Girls at recess? Playing Little House on the Prairie, because I always got to be Mary: The Blind Years, and would stay in character after the bell rang, until I stumbled into the classroom and my teacher would say, "Jennifer, your eyes work, please open them." Words of wisdom from Ms. Feeney.)
Apparently Ben Woodcock liked me too, because one day at recess he offered to come to my house (Ben Woodcock was clearly a take-charge kind of guy). Thinking this was never actually going to happen, I said sure. When he told me he would be there at 2, I began to panic. I wasn't ready for this level of intimacy with Ben Woodcock. It was too much too soon. I hadn't even shared my fruit roll-up with him at snack time yet, despite his asking daily for it, and now he wanted to come to my house?
My mother didn't even let me chew gum, so I was fairly certain she wasn't going to be down with Ben Woodcock hanging at our house on a Sunday afternoon.
Then, he spoke the four words that stopped me cold.
"I'll bring my horse."
Shit.
I immediately envisioned Ben Woodcock (brown-corduroyed, orange-velour-shirt-clad Ben Woodcock) high upon a Black Beauty-ish horse, riding regally up my long driveway, and realized with horror that I was in over my head and that my relationship with Ben Woodcock had taken a very serious turn.
So when Ben Woodcock asked me exactly where I lived, I stammered. I had suddenly remembered that my First Communion was also that weekend and that we were having all of our family and friends back to our house after for a party.
How the hell was I going to explain Ben Woodcock And His Horse to all of them?
I began giving Ben Woodcock directions, which, considering the fact that I was eight, probably went something like: 'Turn at the street with the red house, you know that street? The one with the red house? Yeah, that's my street.' He was nodding along as if I was making perfect, complete sense and he knew exactly which street I was talking about.
I had to throw him a curve ball. Even though the thought of Ben Woodcock And His Horse wandering up and down my little 12-house cul-de-sac, his dark eyes searching and wondering, where is she? made me feel terrible, it was not so terrible as the thought of Ben Woodcock And His Horse marching confidently up my driveway, ready to fight for a piece of First Communion cake with a big, fat frosting rose on it.
So I came up with an awesome, clever, fool-proof plan to mislead Ben Woodcock.
My house was number 6.
I told him it was number 4.
Brilliant!
Ben Woodcock And His Horse did not show up at my First Communion party.
That Monday at school he told me that he had come to my house.
"On your horse?" I asked.
"Yes. But you weren't home."
Liar, I thought. I had spent most of my party staring, panic-stricken, up the street to make sure his horse never rounded that corner. That, along with cards full of savings bonds and checks, made it the worst party ever.
"I had to go somewhere with my mom," I lied back.
He nodded. There was an uncomfortable silence.
And so ended my relationship with Ben Woodcock.
The first is that the minute I walked into the church with the rest of the second graders, I started giggling and grinning like a fool. I was fairly certain that grinning and giggling weren't appropriate for church, so I tried to hide behind the little cardboard chalice I was carrying, but it did no good. I'm only lucky that I didn't snort.
The second is that I was terrified that Ben Woodcock was going to show up at my house that afternoon.
On his horse.
I was too young then to appreciate Ben Woodcock for his name alone, or to understand that the likelihood of an eight year old riding his horse a mile and a half across a highway overpass and down a busy road to my house was slim to none. All I knew was that I had invited Ben Woodcock to my house, panicked, and then purposely lied about where I lived.
Ben Woodcock had dark hair and dark eyes. Even then, with the exception of preferring Jon to Ponch, I liked boys with dark hair (you can have Bo Duke, I'll take Luke any day). So there was probably a high likelihood that I had a little crush on Ben Woodcock, with his brown corduroys and his long-sleeve orange velour shirt. In the second grade this basically translated into him being the boy I most wanted running after me when we played Boys Chase the Girls.
(The only thing more fun than playing Boys Chase the Girls at recess? Playing Little House on the Prairie, because I always got to be Mary: The Blind Years, and would stay in character after the bell rang, until I stumbled into the classroom and my teacher would say, "Jennifer, your eyes work, please open them." Words of wisdom from Ms. Feeney.)
Apparently Ben Woodcock liked me too, because one day at recess he offered to come to my house (Ben Woodcock was clearly a take-charge kind of guy). Thinking this was never actually going to happen, I said sure. When he told me he would be there at 2, I began to panic. I wasn't ready for this level of intimacy with Ben Woodcock. It was too much too soon. I hadn't even shared my fruit roll-up with him at snack time yet, despite his asking daily for it, and now he wanted to come to my house?
My mother didn't even let me chew gum, so I was fairly certain she wasn't going to be down with Ben Woodcock hanging at our house on a Sunday afternoon.
Then, he spoke the four words that stopped me cold.
"I'll bring my horse."
Shit.
I immediately envisioned Ben Woodcock (brown-corduroyed, orange-velour-shirt-clad Ben Woodcock) high upon a Black Beauty-ish horse, riding regally up my long driveway, and realized with horror that I was in over my head and that my relationship with Ben Woodcock had taken a very serious turn.
So when Ben Woodcock asked me exactly where I lived, I stammered. I had suddenly remembered that my First Communion was also that weekend and that we were having all of our family and friends back to our house after for a party.
How the hell was I going to explain Ben Woodcock And His Horse to all of them?
I began giving Ben Woodcock directions, which, considering the fact that I was eight, probably went something like: 'Turn at the street with the red house, you know that street? The one with the red house? Yeah, that's my street.' He was nodding along as if I was making perfect, complete sense and he knew exactly which street I was talking about.
I had to throw him a curve ball. Even though the thought of Ben Woodcock And His Horse wandering up and down my little 12-house cul-de-sac, his dark eyes searching and wondering, where is she? made me feel terrible, it was not so terrible as the thought of Ben Woodcock And His Horse marching confidently up my driveway, ready to fight for a piece of First Communion cake with a big, fat frosting rose on it.
So I came up with an awesome, clever, fool-proof plan to mislead Ben Woodcock.
My house was number 6.
I told him it was number 4.
Brilliant!
Ben Woodcock And His Horse did not show up at my First Communion party.
That Monday at school he told me that he had come to my house.
"On your horse?" I asked.
"Yes. But you weren't home."
Liar, I thought. I had spent most of my party staring, panic-stricken, up the street to make sure his horse never rounded that corner. That, along with cards full of savings bonds and checks, made it the worst party ever.
"I had to go somewhere with my mom," I lied back.
He nodded. There was an uncomfortable silence.
And so ended my relationship with Ben Woodcock.
 |
| Dear God, sorry for giggling, please don't let Ben Woodcock come to my house on a horse today, amen. |
Saturday, August 14, 2010
The Good Book (of Faces)
Apparently Jesus has joined Facebook.
This morning as I logged-in to the site for my daily dose of light stalking, I saw "Jesus Christ" come up on my list of Recommended Pages.
This is that section to the right of your newsfeed where Facebook posts super-helpful things like, "People who like Music also like Species" with a picture of a little bird (which, by the way, is a totally legit suggestion that I've received on my page numerous times, leaving me inclined to think that *sigh* my Facebook page really doesn't know me at all) or "7 of your friends like: CSI" (information that I already know because I take my Facebooking pretty seriously).
So there it was, the suggestion that I 'like' Jesus Christ.
Talk about a high pressure situation.
What if I 'like' Jesus and then he spams my newsfeed with posts like, "I can't believe this amazing new diet supplement, I lost 12 lbs in 3 days, hurry and click HERE to get your free sample!!!!!!!!!!!!"?
I don't really want to find myself in a position of needing to unlike Jesus.
And hiding him isn't really an option because, well, he's freakin' JESUS so he'd KNOW.
(Dear Jesus, if you're reading this, sorry about the 'freakin' Jesus' thing. I'm working on the cursing.)
(Also, sorry that I just lied right there. I really enjoy cursing, so I guess I'm a lost cause in that department, but I pinky-swear that I will teach my kids not to...I don't even let them say 'stupid' or 'what the heck'. That's as good as I'm probably going to get in that department).
Even worse than the idea of being spammed by Jesus is the idea that he might write on my wall.
Because Jesus has some dirt on me. And if I piss him off by unliking him or hiding him, who's going to stop him from posting all of my secret stuff?
Jesus Christ Remember the time you lied to your mother about visiting Julie at Stonehill for the weekend? I do...
Being harassed by the SON OF GOD isn't really something I need in my life right now. What would I do then, report him? To whom?
"Dear Facebook Customer Service: Jesus is really being a dick and is trying to SMITE me on my wall. Can you please disable his account?"
Holy potential incurring of wrath, Batman.
Coincidentally, "Wrath of God" is also something I do not need in my life right now.
I'm thinking my best course of action may be to just quietly click the little X in the corner of the page suggestion so that Jesus and his Facebook-page-of-guilt-and-spam will disappear.
Or maybe I'll just send him a message through Facebook's e-mail:
Dear Jesus,
Welcome to Facebook! Be careful, it's addicting. Checked out your page, love your profile pic. You look great! I saw you that already have 730,845 fans. Just so you have a handle on your competition, here's how you stack up against some other pages on the site:
watching TV: 1 million +
Twilight: 11 million +
Lady Gaga: 15 million +
The Hangover: 7 million +
drinking: 956,000 +
Starbucks frappucinno: 1 million +
You've definitely got your work cut out for you, but I suppose that's an occupational hazard when you're a deity. If it makes you feel better, Justin Beiber only has 97,000 people liking him. Always look on the bright side of life, right? (Monty Python's Life of Brian: 99,928 fans.)
Good luck with your page, Jesus.
And stay away from Farmville.
This morning as I logged-in to the site for my daily dose of light stalking, I saw "Jesus Christ" come up on my list of Recommended Pages.
This is that section to the right of your newsfeed where Facebook posts super-helpful things like, "People who like Music also like Species" with a picture of a little bird (which, by the way, is a totally legit suggestion that I've received on my page numerous times, leaving me inclined to think that *sigh* my Facebook page really doesn't know me at all) or "7 of your friends like: CSI" (information that I already know because I take my Facebooking pretty seriously).
So there it was, the suggestion that I 'like' Jesus Christ.
Talk about a high pressure situation.
What if I 'like' Jesus and then he spams my newsfeed with posts like, "I can't believe this amazing new diet supplement, I lost 12 lbs in 3 days, hurry and click HERE to get your free sample!!!!!!!!!!!!"?
I don't really want to find myself in a position of needing to unlike Jesus.
And hiding him isn't really an option because, well, he's freakin' JESUS so he'd KNOW.
(Dear Jesus, if you're reading this, sorry about the 'freakin' Jesus' thing. I'm working on the cursing.)
(Also, sorry that I just lied right there. I really enjoy cursing, so I guess I'm a lost cause in that department, but I pinky-swear that I will teach my kids not to...I don't even let them say 'stupid' or 'what the heck'. That's as good as I'm probably going to get in that department).
Even worse than the idea of being spammed by Jesus is the idea that he might write on my wall.
Because Jesus has some dirt on me. And if I piss him off by unliking him or hiding him, who's going to stop him from posting all of my secret stuff?
Jesus Christ Remember the time you lied to your mother about visiting Julie at Stonehill for the weekend? I do...
Being harassed by the SON OF GOD isn't really something I need in my life right now. What would I do then, report him? To whom?
"Dear Facebook Customer Service: Jesus is really being a dick and is trying to SMITE me on my wall. Can you please disable his account?"
Holy potential incurring of wrath, Batman.
Coincidentally, "Wrath of God" is also something I do not need in my life right now.
I'm thinking my best course of action may be to just quietly click the little X in the corner of the page suggestion so that Jesus and his Facebook-page-of-guilt-and-spam will disappear.
Or maybe I'll just send him a message through Facebook's e-mail:
Dear Jesus,
Welcome to Facebook! Be careful, it's addicting. Checked out your page, love your profile pic. You look great! I saw you that already have 730,845 fans. Just so you have a handle on your competition, here's how you stack up against some other pages on the site:
watching TV: 1 million +
Twilight: 11 million +
Lady Gaga: 15 million +
The Hangover: 7 million +
drinking: 956,000 +
Starbucks frappucinno: 1 million +
You've definitely got your work cut out for you, but I suppose that's an occupational hazard when you're a deity. If it makes you feel better, Justin Beiber only has 97,000 people liking him. Always look on the bright side of life, right? (Monty Python's Life of Brian: 99,928 fans.)
Good luck with your page, Jesus.
And stay away from Farmville.
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