But most likely to relieve tension after reading student garbage:
Grade: D (This is a gift.)
Thursday, March 31, 2005
How I Annoy Myself: Part I
So, last night BioMom and I took the next step in our fertility journey.
The group course on Mind-Body Spirituality/Fertility.
Yes. We have become two of those people. The people that attend self-help groups.
Last night was one of three nights in which the "husbands" are invited to attend over the course of the course (of course).
It was actually pretty cool and what became clear is that the course will focus on ways to relax, meditate, etc. which can be nothing but good, right?
Anyway, during the part where we sat in a circle and went around introducing ourselves, saying what is unique about ourselves, and our goals, I annoyed the hell out of myself.
So, I have this terrible habit of babbling incoherently when I am nervous.
It was all planned out in my head: the loving introduction of me and BioMom, the witty something-special that links to something husband X across the room said, the cherished goal that reveals my soft-inner-partner-supporting self.
You get the picture.
But what came out was utter self-prioritizing, incomprehensible, babble that turned out to be, IMHO, completely impertinent in hindsight.
When it came to his turn, WannabeProgenetor#1 across the room said something to the effect of:
Two years ago I would never have predicted how much I now know about the female reproductive system!
This, of course, generated huge laughs. Laughs like those out-of-proportion canned laughs on Everybody Loves Raymond (which, by the way IS NOT FUNNY). And a GINORMOUS snort from BioMom which only egged me on. I can top that!! I thought. I can make her laugh more!
JANE LAUGH AT HIM!?!
ME TARZANA.
ME FUNNY.
ME GET LAUGHTER!
ME GET MORE LAUGHTER THAN COMPETITION!
So it gets to me. . . And at the moment at which I am supposed to speak, my internal double-skim-latte-no-whip spills all over the blueprint-for-comic-relief in my brain and I have nothing to reference.
The problem? I shoot from the hip (innacurately I might add):
Hi. I'm [Blogauthor] and this is my partner [BioMom].
No pause whatsoever.
Like WannabeProgenetor#1, I too, find myself knowing more about the female body than I ever did before.
[HUGE LAUGH]
But that's not enough for me and I can't even pause until people stop laughing so that people aren't even hearing me at this point. Even if they WANTED to listen.
You know those people that ask "When will you know that she's pregnant?"?. Duh. "When she does or does not get her period.". . . Well, I was one of those people.
Again, no pause in sight.
But I can tell you that I do now know when I am ovulating!
Then. THEN. Because I can't stop talking. . . I go on to say that we have a FYO, that I blog about her, and that they. . . The. People. In. The. FERTILITY. Self. Help. Group. Many of whom, as it turns out, have been struggling for YEARS with fertility, lost friends and family, feel lost, feel alone, feel afraid, full-of-grief, and like a total freaks from the land of misfit toys. . . :
Can expect to be included in MY BLOG!?!
Yes. I actually said that.
BioMom rushes in with a strong -- nearly violent -- ANONYMOUSLY!
What the EFF is my problem?
The group course on Mind-Body Spirituality/Fertility.
Yes. We have become two of those people. The people that attend self-help groups.
Last night was one of three nights in which the "husbands" are invited to attend over the course of the course (of course).
It was actually pretty cool and what became clear is that the course will focus on ways to relax, meditate, etc. which can be nothing but good, right?
Anyway, during the part where we sat in a circle and went around introducing ourselves, saying what is unique about ourselves, and our goals, I annoyed the hell out of myself.
So, I have this terrible habit of babbling incoherently when I am nervous.
It was all planned out in my head: the loving introduction of me and BioMom, the witty something-special that links to something husband X across the room said, the cherished goal that reveals my soft-inner-partner-supporting self.
You get the picture.
But what came out was utter self-prioritizing, incomprehensible, babble that turned out to be, IMHO, completely impertinent in hindsight.
When it came to his turn, WannabeProgenetor#1 across the room said something to the effect of:
Two years ago I would never have predicted how much I now know about the female reproductive system!
This, of course, generated huge laughs. Laughs like those out-of-proportion canned laughs on Everybody Loves Raymond (which, by the way IS NOT FUNNY). And a GINORMOUS snort from BioMom which only egged me on. I can top that!! I thought. I can make her laugh more!
JANE LAUGH AT HIM!?!
ME TARZANA.
ME FUNNY.
ME GET LAUGHTER!
ME GET MORE LAUGHTER THAN COMPETITION!
So it gets to me. . . And at the moment at which I am supposed to speak, my internal double-skim-latte-no-whip spills all over the blueprint-for-comic-relief in my brain and I have nothing to reference.
The problem? I shoot from the hip (innacurately I might add):
Hi. I'm [Blogauthor] and this is my partner [BioMom].
No pause whatsoever.
Like WannabeProgenetor#1, I too, find myself knowing more about the female body than I ever did before.
[HUGE LAUGH]
But that's not enough for me and I can't even pause until people stop laughing so that people aren't even hearing me at this point. Even if they WANTED to listen.
You know those people that ask "When will you know that she's pregnant?"?. Duh. "When she does or does not get her period.". . . Well, I was one of those people.
Again, no pause in sight.
But I can tell you that I do now know when I am ovulating!
Then. THEN. Because I can't stop talking. . . I go on to say that we have a FYO, that I blog about her, and that they. . . The. People. In. The. FERTILITY. Self. Help. Group. Many of whom, as it turns out, have been struggling for YEARS with fertility, lost friends and family, feel lost, feel alone, feel afraid, full-of-grief, and like a total freaks from the land of misfit toys. . . :
Can expect to be included in MY BLOG!?!
Yes. I actually said that.
BioMom rushes in with a strong -- nearly violent -- ANONYMOUSLY!
What the EFF is my problem?
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
How To Annoy Me
Send me an email with only the word "Thanks" on it.
J.H.C. I HATE that. Especially if the server is slow.
What the eff?
The individual voted most likely to do this in my life is someone I should be grateful to have the opportunity to be around. To be in the presence of her genius. Someone so smart, influential, and interesting in my field that I should not only be SAVING those stupid "Thanks" emails but sending "Thanks" emails BACK just for thanking me.
She is a Famous Feminist Economist with whom I am currently editing a special issue of the journal, practically founded by her (and a few other now FFE's).
I know, you're saying: How many could there be? and How hard could it be to become an FFE. Whine about Title IX a bit in the New York Times or something and shouldn't that qualify?
I'll let you know when it happens for me.
But, for now, for the record, I did, honestly, one day find myself a) in a boat that was b) powered by a man standing on its hind end while c) drinking cheap champagne with d) said FFE.
Priceless.
What's the problem? You ask.
Instead of feeling grateful, I, more often than not, feel profoundly annoyed. Said FFE, is unmeasurably interesting. She and her family fled the oncoming Nazi onslaught in the former Czechoslovakia before WWII when she was little; she went to the famous Chicago school of economics and studied with MILTON FRIEDMAN!! and this is just the tip of the iceberg of her extraordinary life. But at the same time she, literally, never tires of telling me, someone, ANYONE within EARSHOT about it. . . And not just the interesting stuff. And. . . Not just in person.
So, while I receive a barrage of emails with the only word "Thanks" in the body (I mean, Christ. "Thanks" isn't worth the wait of the email to open even with a HIGHSPEED ISP). I ALSO receive the daily minutiae. Every. Single. Detail. And it would even be more tolerable if it was a friend-to-friend email. Believe me. I can tolerate-enjoy even-the minutiae from my pals. Minutiae is GREAT from pals. Its gossip. Its details. Its the bits and pieces of LIFE. But this!?! THIS is Let me explain my daily tripe to you in excruiciating details so that you recognize why it took me 36, rather than 24 hours to respond to your last email. Oh, also, and to remind you that I'm famous and all the famous people I interact with regularly.
Maybe I'm overreacting.
Maybe I'm jealous.
Maybe its just that it is impersonal.
Maybe its that I feel like ANY ear, rather than THE ear.
In any case: THANKS BUT NO THANKS!
J.H.C. I HATE that. Especially if the server is slow.
What the eff?
The individual voted most likely to do this in my life is someone I should be grateful to have the opportunity to be around. To be in the presence of her genius. Someone so smart, influential, and interesting in my field that I should not only be SAVING those stupid "Thanks" emails but sending "Thanks" emails BACK just for thanking me.
She is a Famous Feminist Economist with whom I am currently editing a special issue of the journal, practically founded by her (and a few other now FFE's).
I know, you're saying: How many could there be? and How hard could it be to become an FFE. Whine about Title IX a bit in the New York Times or something and shouldn't that qualify?
I'll let you know when it happens for me.
But, for now, for the record, I did, honestly, one day find myself a) in a boat that was b) powered by a man standing on its hind end while c) drinking cheap champagne with d) said FFE.
Priceless.
What's the problem? You ask.
Instead of feeling grateful, I, more often than not, feel profoundly annoyed. Said FFE, is unmeasurably interesting. She and her family fled the oncoming Nazi onslaught in the former Czechoslovakia before WWII when she was little; she went to the famous Chicago school of economics and studied with MILTON FRIEDMAN!! and this is just the tip of the iceberg of her extraordinary life. But at the same time she, literally, never tires of telling me, someone, ANYONE within EARSHOT about it. . . And not just the interesting stuff. And. . . Not just in person.
So, while I receive a barrage of emails with the only word "Thanks" in the body (I mean, Christ. "Thanks" isn't worth the wait of the email to open even with a HIGHSPEED ISP). I ALSO receive the daily minutiae. Every. Single. Detail. And it would even be more tolerable if it was a friend-to-friend email. Believe me. I can tolerate-enjoy even-the minutiae from my pals. Minutiae is GREAT from pals. Its gossip. Its details. Its the bits and pieces of LIFE. But this!?! THIS is Let me explain my daily tripe to you in excruiciating details so that you recognize why it took me 36, rather than 24 hours to respond to your last email. Oh, also, and to remind you that I'm famous and all the famous people I interact with regularly.
Maybe I'm overreacting.
Maybe I'm jealous.
Maybe its just that it is impersonal.
Maybe its that I feel like ANY ear, rather than THE ear.
In any case: THANKS BUT NO THANKS!
Monday, March 28, 2005
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Lez's 1950's-Style Mother-Drive-By
O.k. Here's a great Mother Drive By via Cousin's Mom "Lez":
My oldest sister had to take her 6 month old twin girls to the doctor. Another sister went along to help, because they had to go on public transportation and carry the babies in their arms. When they were coming home, totally exhausted from carrying these heavy babies, there was a 2 or 3 block walk from the bus stop to her home. As they were struggling along, loaded down with all the accoutrements that go with any trip outside the home with a baby, a big white Cadillac squealed to a halt on the busy street beside them. They both thought, Oh how nice. Someone is going to offer us a ride home! But NO! The woman reached across, rolled down the window of her air-conditioned car and screeched out "Get those babies' eyes out of the
sun!!" She roared off, leaving them in a cloud of dust!!
My oldest sister had to take her 6 month old twin girls to the doctor. Another sister went along to help, because they had to go on public transportation and carry the babies in their arms. When they were coming home, totally exhausted from carrying these heavy babies, there was a 2 or 3 block walk from the bus stop to her home. As they were struggling along, loaded down with all the accoutrements that go with any trip outside the home with a baby, a big white Cadillac squealed to a halt on the busy street beside them. They both thought, Oh how nice. Someone is going to offer us a ride home! But NO! The woman reached across, rolled down the window of her air-conditioned car and screeched out "Get those babies' eyes out of the
sun!!" She roared off, leaving them in a cloud of dust!!
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Match Dot Com
Cousin and Number 2 are here!!!!!!
We're reverting back to our explorer days when we first started enjoying the internet and all of its chat-room glory.
We're making up fake Match.com names and checking out all of the *ahem* possibilities.
So far, her number2 ("lulu") will surely be getting many winks from various suitors.
BioMom, the FYO, and Number2 are tucked into their beds with care and we're down here downing our second bottle of wine and, well, enjoying technology!
It all started with Dooce's revalation of her so-called Lanced Cyst, and then we went on an exploration of HFRM's Size 15s, then, on to our mutual friend who is obviously gay but doesn't really want to admit it yet "dates" married men on the side's match.com advertisement (for men, by the way).
We'll be posting about our weekend of debauchery tomorrow (from the Bryant Lake Bowl).
Until then.
We're reverting back to our explorer days when we first started enjoying the internet and all of its chat-room glory.
We're making up fake Match.com names and checking out all of the *ahem* possibilities.
So far, her number2 ("lulu") will surely be getting many winks from various suitors.
BioMom, the FYO, and Number2 are tucked into their beds with care and we're down here downing our second bottle of wine and, well, enjoying technology!
It all started with Dooce's revalation of her so-called Lanced Cyst, and then we went on an exploration of HFRM's Size 15s, then, on to our mutual friend who is obviously gay but doesn't really want to admit it yet "dates" married men on the side's match.com advertisement (for men, by the way).
We'll be posting about our weekend of debauchery tomorrow (from the Bryant Lake Bowl).
Until then.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Ibuh Subbuh Scribebuh Forbuh Thebuh Articlesbuh
This via Wonkette is another installment of humor at the expense of the Bush twins.
I'm still laughing about Tina Fey and Amy Poehle's Saturday Night Live imitation of the Bush twins after the inauguration.
In an attempt to avoid potential eavesdropping, they launch into Twinspeak, or adding a "buh" at the end of of every syllable.
At one point Will Forte enters the room in his Bush impersonation and claims to not be able to understand the two.
It was hilarious!
I'm still laughing about Tina Fey and Amy Poehle's Saturday Night Live imitation of the Bush twins after the inauguration.
In an attempt to avoid potential eavesdropping, they launch into Twinspeak, or adding a "buh" at the end of of every syllable.
At one point Will Forte enters the room in his Bush impersonation and claims to not be able to understand the two.
It was hilarious!
It Must Be Getting Close to the Last Drop/Add Date
. . . because I am starting to get emails like the email I have attached below. Why is it that students believe that effort should automatically translate into a higher grade? If effort translated into a higher salary I'd be . . . Well, I guess I wouldn't be putting forth much effort. . .
After getting my last paper I was wondering if it is even possible for me to pass the class. I received a D\F on the first paper, an F on the second, a 92 on the mid term, and whatever our group got for our lesson. I put in a large amount of effort on the last paper, and for me to only get an F I don't feel is fair. I just felt that a D might have been fair. I was wondering if there was anyway for me to make that a D. If I could fix the mistakes, go over the notes with you anything to get that D. I will rewrite the whole paper, just anything to bring it up from an F to a D. You told me that I should look at my priorities, and I have, but you need to understand that if I want to go to school I need to work as much as I do! But, I did cut back on my hours at work, and my Finance 370 course which was 4 days a week till 5:30, is now over, so I can come in to see you and at least go to the writing lab now! I had 5 tests that day in a row, it wasn't the greatest week of my life, plus this paper, not an excuse just a bad week!
I need to pass this class this semester, and I have never dropped a class. I am asking if there was still anyway to pass, and if I could bring that F to a D! I understand that you cant give out freebies, but I need just a little help, I hope that you somewhat understand.
please email me back before Friday so I know if I need to drop. I am done with work at three on Wednesday if I can come and talk to you about this, I hope that this wasn't a ridiculous email!
After getting my last paper I was wondering if it is even possible for me to pass the class. I received a D\F on the first paper, an F on the second, a 92 on the mid term, and whatever our group got for our lesson. I put in a large amount of effort on the last paper, and for me to only get an F I don't feel is fair. I just felt that a D might have been fair. I was wondering if there was anyway for me to make that a D. If I could fix the mistakes, go over the notes with you anything to get that D. I will rewrite the whole paper, just anything to bring it up from an F to a D. You told me that I should look at my priorities, and I have, but you need to understand that if I want to go to school I need to work as much as I do! But, I did cut back on my hours at work, and my Finance 370 course which was 4 days a week till 5:30, is now over, so I can come in to see you and at least go to the writing lab now! I had 5 tests that day in a row, it wasn't the greatest week of my life, plus this paper, not an excuse just a bad week!
I need to pass this class this semester, and I have never dropped a class. I am asking if there was still anyway to pass, and if I could bring that F to a D! I understand that you cant give out freebies, but I need just a little help, I hope that you somewhat understand.
please email me back before Friday so I know if I need to drop. I am done with work at three on Wednesday if I can come and talk to you about this, I hope that this wasn't a ridiculous email!
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Dad's In The Car!
I felt like Ellen Degeneres in If These Walls Could Talk 2 yesterday carrying the dry-ice tank labled "body fluids!!" to the car.
The nurse wished us off with a friendly Take care of the fellas!
We drove carefully home, more aware than ever of the precariousness of driving in a major metropolitan area, with heightened concerns over possible car accidents. Of course, the bodily fluid is less than an ounce, but talk about priceless!
Keep your fingers crossed for us!
The nurse wished us off with a friendly Take care of the fellas!
We drove carefully home, more aware than ever of the precariousness of driving in a major metropolitan area, with heightened concerns over possible car accidents. Of course, the bodily fluid is less than an ounce, but talk about priceless!
Keep your fingers crossed for us!
Monday, March 21, 2005
Brady Bunch as Metaphor
I find myself lately making metaphorical references to the Brady Bunch to get my points across.
The show, despite not having seen it in nearly a decade (why can I literally turn the television on at any time of day or night and see Rachel Green, but not Marsha Brady?) is infiltrating my conscience.
For example, when discussing the logistical arrangements of a possible new child (no -- we don't have any news) I reference the FYO's inevitable desire for her very own "Greg-Brady-Room" with the bead-door, on a separate floor of the house.
Oh, and of course, there's the regular exclamation of "Oh! My Nose!" and "Mom always told us: Don't play ball in the house!"
Recently though, I've found myself singing that Davey Jones song "Girl" in an over-the-top British accent to BioMom and the FYO in the car. Its from the episode "Getting Davey Jones"
Third Season, 1971-72, number 63. Original airdate: December 10, 1971, Directed by Oscar Rudolph. Written by Phil Leslie and Al Schwartz
If you don't recall, its the episode where Marcia, president of the Davy Jones fan club at school, rashly promises to get him to appear at the prom when she doesn't even know how to get in touch with him. Davey Jones eventually shows up and sings the song "Girl" (which, incidently, I can't find on any actual Monkees album, other than what seems to be a summer tour album where he sings the song apparently on request and actually references Marsha at the beginning) to Marsha. Afterwards, he
kisses her cheek, launching her into a dreamy spin where she refuses to wash ever again.
The FYO, however, complains that my version is "too short" because, of course, I don't know all the words.
You should hear the FYO try to imitate my horrible British accent.
PRICELESS.
The song:
Girl.
Look what you've done to me.
Me.
And my whole world.
Girl.
You've brought the sun to me.
With your smile.
Ya did it girl.
I'm telling you, girl.
Something unknown to me.
Makes you what you are.
And what you are
Is all
That I want for me.
And its good
To feel that way girl!
Thank you, GIRL!
For makin' the night times nicer, GIRL!
For makin' the good times brighter, GIRL!
For makin' a bettah world for me!
I'm telling you, girl.
Something unknown to me
Makes you what you are
And what you are,
Is all
that I want for me!
And its good
To feel
That way, girl.
Thank you GIRL!
For makin' the night times nicer, GIRL
For makin' the good times brighter GIRL
For makin' a bettah world for me!
Thank you GIRL!
For makin' the winter warmer GIRL
for makin' the music softer, GIRL!
For makin' a bettah world for me!
Thank you Giiiiiirl!!
The show, despite not having seen it in nearly a decade (why can I literally turn the television on at any time of day or night and see Rachel Green, but not Marsha Brady?) is infiltrating my conscience.
For example, when discussing the logistical arrangements of a possible new child (no -- we don't have any news) I reference the FYO's inevitable desire for her very own "Greg-Brady-Room" with the bead-door, on a separate floor of the house.
Oh, and of course, there's the regular exclamation of "Oh! My Nose!" and "Mom always told us: Don't play ball in the house!"
Recently though, I've found myself singing that Davey Jones song "Girl" in an over-the-top British accent to BioMom and the FYO in the car. Its from the episode "Getting Davey Jones"
Third Season, 1971-72, number 63. Original airdate: December 10, 1971, Directed by Oscar Rudolph. Written by Phil Leslie and Al Schwartz
If you don't recall, its the episode where Marcia, president of the Davy Jones fan club at school, rashly promises to get him to appear at the prom when she doesn't even know how to get in touch with him. Davey Jones eventually shows up and sings the song "Girl" (which, incidently, I can't find on any actual Monkees album, other than what seems to be a summer tour album where he sings the song apparently on request and actually references Marsha at the beginning) to Marsha. Afterwards, he
kisses her cheek, launching her into a dreamy spin where she refuses to wash ever again.
The FYO, however, complains that my version is "too short" because, of course, I don't know all the words.
You should hear the FYO try to imitate my horrible British accent.
PRICELESS.
The song:
Girl.
Look what you've done to me.
Me.
And my whole world.
Girl.
You've brought the sun to me.
With your smile.
Ya did it girl.
I'm telling you, girl.
Something unknown to me.
Makes you what you are.
And what you are
Is all
That I want for me.
And its good
To feel that way girl!
Thank you, GIRL!
For makin' the night times nicer, GIRL!
For makin' the good times brighter, GIRL!
For makin' a bettah world for me!
I'm telling you, girl.
Something unknown to me
Makes you what you are
And what you are,
Is all
that I want for me!
And its good
To feel
That way, girl.
Thank you GIRL!
For makin' the night times nicer, GIRL
For makin' the good times brighter GIRL
For makin' a bettah world for me!
Thank you GIRL!
For makin' the winter warmer GIRL
for makin' the music softer, GIRL!
For makin' a bettah world for me!
Thank you Giiiiiirl!!
Friday, March 18, 2005
The Better to BLANK You With, My Dear
So, HFRM#1 is out on the dating scene, nearly a year after her breakup with a friend of mine [note, friend, if you're reading this, you have been warned that it may not be material suitable to your eyes].
As all of the topical books will tell you, its rough out there for a thirty-something on the scene.
Recently, however, she's been seeing someone slightly more regularly, but it has been defined (mutually) as "casual dating."
This term is highly confusing to me.
Although BioMom and I didn't do the U-Haul thing, I don't think we EVER dated in a CASUAL way. So, I regularly query HFRM#1 for a translation and an update.
Today's lunch over sushi was the recent installment.
So, I'm getting a little concerned.
About what.
About *ahem* his preferences.
What do you mean, 'preferences'? Is he gay?
No. . . I wish. . . I could deal with gay. . . I'm concerned he might have a foot fetish.
Wha? Licking. . . Sucking. . .
Interrupting: NOOOO! No. No. NO! Nothing like that.
Then what? I mean, a little foot rub would be great!
Sure. A foot rub IS great. This is NOT a little foot rub. There seems to be a bit of a focus on the foot.
FOTF? Okay. Back it up. Explain. Put this in context. . . You're sitting and watching t.v. and he starts rubbing your foot? You're out to dinner and he reaches down and pulls your foot between his legs? That's called SEXY, my friend!
No.
Okay. You're making out and he reaches for your foot first?
Well, yes and no.
Huh? HE PICKS YOUR FEET OVER YOUR BOOBS?
No. . . Its just that there is a lot of attention centered on my feet. . . He's all "You have small feet!" And I'm all "you have big feet! . . . Size 15, right?"
Turns out he is listed on Match.Com and actually put in his foot size into his description:
"Just bought some ice skates for my size 15's ..."
If THAT is not an advertisement, I don't know what is!
I feel like I'm little red riding hood and he's the big bad wolf: What big FEET you have, Grandma!!!
Anyway. . . He rubs them. Likes my socks. . . Reaches for the top of my socks. And I wear tall socks, you know? ITS COLD!. . . He removes my socks. . .
Maybe its just "How naked can I get her?" not an actual bona fide FOOT FETISH!
Teasing: So, Dr. Big likes the fe-et! He's heading SO-HOUTH!Skipping the equator and heading to the Antarctic!
That would be sad. That would be really sad. It'd be over if he had a foot fetish. I hate feet. I hate my own feet! I hate having my socks off. Hell. I hate SOCKS!! . . . Not shoes though. Love shoes. Shoes cover feet. Like rock-paper-scissors for feet.
Yeah. That WOULD be sad.
Yeah. Ending it before I had the chance verify the size 15s!
As all of the topical books will tell you, its rough out there for a thirty-something on the scene.
Recently, however, she's been seeing someone slightly more regularly, but it has been defined (mutually) as "casual dating."
This term is highly confusing to me.
Although BioMom and I didn't do the U-Haul thing, I don't think we EVER dated in a CASUAL way. So, I regularly query HFRM#1 for a translation and an update.
Today's lunch over sushi was the recent installment.
So, I'm getting a little concerned.
About what.
About *ahem* his preferences.
What do you mean, 'preferences'? Is he gay?
No. . . I wish. . . I could deal with gay. . . I'm concerned he might have a foot fetish.
Wha? Licking. . . Sucking. . .
Interrupting: NOOOO! No. No. NO! Nothing like that.
Then what? I mean, a little foot rub would be great!
Sure. A foot rub IS great. This is NOT a little foot rub. There seems to be a bit of a focus on the foot.
FOTF? Okay. Back it up. Explain. Put this in context. . . You're sitting and watching t.v. and he starts rubbing your foot? You're out to dinner and he reaches down and pulls your foot between his legs? That's called SEXY, my friend!
No.
Okay. You're making out and he reaches for your foot first?
Well, yes and no.
Huh? HE PICKS YOUR FEET OVER YOUR BOOBS?
No. . . Its just that there is a lot of attention centered on my feet. . . He's all "You have small feet!" And I'm all "you have big feet! . . . Size 15, right?"
Turns out he is listed on Match.Com and actually put in his foot size into his description:
"Just bought some ice skates for my size 15's ..."
If THAT is not an advertisement, I don't know what is!
I feel like I'm little red riding hood and he's the big bad wolf: What big FEET you have, Grandma!!!
Anyway. . . He rubs them. Likes my socks. . . Reaches for the top of my socks. And I wear tall socks, you know? ITS COLD!. . . He removes my socks. . .
Maybe its just "How naked can I get her?" not an actual bona fide FOOT FETISH!
Teasing: So, Dr. Big likes the fe-et! He's heading SO-HOUTH!Skipping the equator and heading to the Antarctic!
That would be sad. That would be really sad. It'd be over if he had a foot fetish. I hate feet. I hate my own feet! I hate having my socks off. Hell. I hate SOCKS!! . . . Not shoes though. Love shoes. Shoes cover feet. Like rock-paper-scissors for feet.
Yeah. That WOULD be sad.
Yeah. Ending it before I had the chance verify the size 15s!
Thursday, March 17, 2005
You Can Be Whatever You Want To Be
As feminist parents of a girl, you find yourself telling her that when she grows up, she can be wahtever she wants to be as though it is some sort of mantra.
This is more than a little ridic on more than one level, not the least of which is that neither BioMom's nor my parents used that mantra and we both turned out alright.
In fact, I remember the following interaction with Dear-Old-Dad when I was about the FYO's age:
Wanna know what I want to be when I grow up?
What?
A SCIENTIST!
You're not smart enough for that, [blog author]!
Harumpf!
Obviously I've still got a bit of "mad-at-dad syndrome" with which to deal.
Anyway, I say this mantra to the FYO knowing that its not quite true. Let's face it, the FYO is not going to be a professional ballet dancer (those of you that know her can vouch for that). But she will also never be what she announced she wanted to be the other day while having lunch at Chapati.
After observing two beautiful women walk in with lovely Sari's the FYO says:
I want to be an Indian when I grow up.
BioMom: Well, you can't really BECOME an Indian. You are BORN that way.
Me: You could MARRY an Indian!
My suggestion was myopic. I was hungry and all-things-curry smelled good. Oh, and that pudding: Kheer. I WANTED that pudding. . . . Then I thought better of it, remembering two relevant facts:
1. My cousin (daughter #1 of "Lez", not the famed "Cousin" of this blog who is daughter #2 of Lez) married a Greek and now LIVES in Greece. The last time I saw her and her three kids was in 1997.
2. This post by Dooce:
This month you have also figured out how to open things, things that aren't supposed to be opened, things with LOCKS HOLDING THEM SHUT. You know the unlock code on the babysitter's cell phone and once called her Peruvian boyfriend, Chimmy. Chimmy Chimmy Cocoa Puffs has taken hold of your heart somehow because you will say things for that boy that you won't say for anyone else, things like, "Uh, oh," and "Wow wow wow," and "Taco." Here's the thing, kid: if you fall in love with some boy from another country and he takes you away to that other country where I won't ever get to see you or my grandchildren then you can just consider yourself grounded until you're 80, or at least until you fall in love with someone nearby who has a lot of money.
So no. You can't become OR marry an Indian. Unless, of course, he lives in the greater metropolitan area.
And is rich.
And has a good sense of humor.
Oh yeah. . . And is a good cook.
This is more than a little ridic on more than one level, not the least of which is that neither BioMom's nor my parents used that mantra and we both turned out alright.
In fact, I remember the following interaction with Dear-Old-Dad when I was about the FYO's age:
Wanna know what I want to be when I grow up?
What?
A SCIENTIST!
You're not smart enough for that, [blog author]!
Harumpf!
Obviously I've still got a bit of "mad-at-dad syndrome" with which to deal.
Anyway, I say this mantra to the FYO knowing that its not quite true. Let's face it, the FYO is not going to be a professional ballet dancer (those of you that know her can vouch for that). But she will also never be what she announced she wanted to be the other day while having lunch at Chapati.
After observing two beautiful women walk in with lovely Sari's the FYO says:
I want to be an Indian when I grow up.
BioMom: Well, you can't really BECOME an Indian. You are BORN that way.
Me: You could MARRY an Indian!
My suggestion was myopic. I was hungry and all-things-curry smelled good. Oh, and that pudding: Kheer. I WANTED that pudding. . . . Then I thought better of it, remembering two relevant facts:
1. My cousin (daughter #1 of "Lez", not the famed "Cousin" of this blog who is daughter #2 of Lez) married a Greek and now LIVES in Greece. The last time I saw her and her three kids was in 1997.
2. This post by Dooce:
This month you have also figured out how to open things, things that aren't supposed to be opened, things with LOCKS HOLDING THEM SHUT. You know the unlock code on the babysitter's cell phone and once called her Peruvian boyfriend, Chimmy. Chimmy Chimmy Cocoa Puffs has taken hold of your heart somehow because you will say things for that boy that you won't say for anyone else, things like, "Uh, oh," and "Wow wow wow," and "Taco." Here's the thing, kid: if you fall in love with some boy from another country and he takes you away to that other country where I won't ever get to see you or my grandchildren then you can just consider yourself grounded until you're 80, or at least until you fall in love with someone nearby who has a lot of money.
So no. You can't become OR marry an Indian. Unless, of course, he lives in the greater metropolitan area.
And is rich.
And has a good sense of humor.
Oh yeah. . . And is a good cook.
The Velveteen Rabitt
O.k. so thanks to Disurbonce for the book suggestion. I went to the library and found the edition with which I was familiar and read it to the FYO with great anticipation.
It was a little late in the day (8 p.m.) and we were snuggled in with some milk and a cookie.
I was reading away, hoping that she could tolerate the long-on-words/short-on-pictures story.
We got to the part where they were going to burn the shabby, well-loved rabitt after the boy's bout with scarlet fever when I hear a few sniffles coming from the FYO laying on my chest.
Are you okay?
Its so SAD!
Don't worry. It'll get better!
Turns out she was totally paying attention and promptly reported about the possibilities of REALNESS to BioMom this morning!
It was a little late in the day (8 p.m.) and we were snuggled in with some milk and a cookie.
I was reading away, hoping that she could tolerate the long-on-words/short-on-pictures story.
We got to the part where they were going to burn the shabby, well-loved rabitt after the boy's bout with scarlet fever when I hear a few sniffles coming from the FYO laying on my chest.
Are you okay?
Its so SAD!
Don't worry. It'll get better!
Turns out she was totally paying attention and promptly reported about the possibilities of REALNESS to BioMom this morning!
6-Month Forecast Looks Rosy
From Your Five-Year-Old: Sunny and Serene by Louise Bates Ames,and Frances L. Ilg (okay, the language and some of the content is really sexist, but its great stuff and the pictures remind me of when I was growing up as these books were written in the '70s):
What can you as a parent expect of you Five-year-old boy or girl? It is a pleasure to tell you that with most Five-year-olds, some very good times are ahead. Five wants to be good, means to be good, and more often than not succeeds in being good.
Perhaps most delightful of all his characteristics is that he enjoys life so much and looks so consistently on the sunny side. "Today is my lucky day," he will tell you as he jumps out of bed in the morning. Or, enthusiastically, "Today I'm going to do all the good things and none of the bad things."
Even his language is on the positive side: "Sure!" "All right!" "Fine!" "Lovely," "Wonderful" are among his favorite words, and "I just love ____" is a constant refrain.
The key toa ll this goodness may be that for a few months at least, Mother is the center of the child's world. He not only wants to please her, he wants to be near her. Wants to talk with her, play with her, help her with her housework, follow her around the house. Many Fives would actually rather stay in the house with Mother than go out to play with their friends.
. . .
Five, by nature, is quieter, more pulled in, closer to home. He not only prefers to stay ithin prescribed boundaries but feels most comfortable wtih the tried and true. The time that interests him is now; the place he likes beset, here.
Unlike the child of some other ages, Five often shows a remarkable ability to protect himself from overstimulation.
Five is usually not a worrier. . . He likes life the way it is, satisfied with himself, and adores his parents.
Now for the following six months: the other shoe drops.
So here you are, sailing along, happy as a lark. Your little son or daughter for almost six unbelievable months may have been good as gold. . . . Thus it can be more than a little disconcerting when all of a sudden things aren't so rosy any more. That little angel who responded oh, so easily, with "Yes, I will," now is quite likely to say "No, I won't.". . . Quite possibly, no more than the beginnings of Six-year-oldness, a time that often brings trouble into the calmest households.
What can you as a parent expect of you Five-year-old boy or girl? It is a pleasure to tell you that with most Five-year-olds, some very good times are ahead. Five wants to be good, means to be good, and more often than not succeeds in being good.
Perhaps most delightful of all his characteristics is that he enjoys life so much and looks so consistently on the sunny side. "Today is my lucky day," he will tell you as he jumps out of bed in the morning. Or, enthusiastically, "Today I'm going to do all the good things and none of the bad things."
Even his language is on the positive side: "Sure!" "All right!" "Fine!" "Lovely," "Wonderful" are among his favorite words, and "I just love ____" is a constant refrain.
The key toa ll this goodness may be that for a few months at least, Mother is the center of the child's world. He not only wants to please her, he wants to be near her. Wants to talk with her, play with her, help her with her housework, follow her around the house. Many Fives would actually rather stay in the house with Mother than go out to play with their friends.
. . .
Five, by nature, is quieter, more pulled in, closer to home. He not only prefers to stay ithin prescribed boundaries but feels most comfortable wtih the tried and true. The time that interests him is now; the place he likes beset, here.
Unlike the child of some other ages, Five often shows a remarkable ability to protect himself from overstimulation.
Five is usually not a worrier. . . He likes life the way it is, satisfied with himself, and adores his parents.
Now for the following six months: the other shoe drops.
So here you are, sailing along, happy as a lark. Your little son or daughter for almost six unbelievable months may have been good as gold. . . . Thus it can be more than a little disconcerting when all of a sudden things aren't so rosy any more. That little angel who responded oh, so easily, with "Yes, I will," now is quite likely to say "No, I won't.". . . Quite possibly, no more than the beginnings of Six-year-oldness, a time that often brings trouble into the calmest households.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Warmonger Becomes Credit Allocator?
I'm glad I don't live in Bangladesh or Bulgaria. . . From the Washington Post:
Bush Recommends Wolfowitz to Head World Bank
I don't know which is worse, this or John Bolton for the position of UN Ambassador.
Bush Recommends Wolfowitz to Head World Bank
I don't know which is worse, this or John Bolton for the position of UN Ambassador.
A Word Of Advice
There is NOT a more boring first four words of a paper than:
"My essay focuses on . . . "
J.H.C. That makes me want to stop reading.
Not to mention that essays can't exactly focus.
"My essay focuses on . . . "
J.H.C. That makes me want to stop reading.
Not to mention that essays can't exactly focus.
I Can't Stop Thinking About It
Maybe its just because I am grading.
GRADING.
And bored with it all. I have more papers to do than I have done and I want to be doing ANYTHING BUT GRADING. Laudry? OKAY!!! HFRM#1 needs help dropping her car off at Subaru and then wants to go to REI to spend our dividends? OKAY!!!
Anyway, BioMom and I watched Kissing Jessica Stein the other night and I can't stop thinking about it.
I don't know what the glbt police say about the movie--I am irresponsibly un-critical about movies. I just go. I just eat popcorn and enjoy.
The main character was sexist and homophobic? What? I didn't notice.
My critical skills are wasted on student papers and ridiculous economic theories.
Anyway, Kissing Jessica Stein is so friggin sexy. The two leads were also the writers, Jennifer Westfeldt and Heather Juergensen. Together, they are smart, fun and sexy. The writing is smart and imho, realistic.
For me, its been like finishing a book that you don't want to end. What happens next? How did they resolve a, b, and c? PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!!! I'LL MISS YOU WHEN YOU'RE GONE!
Anyway, see it if you haven't. Comment if you have. Am I missing something or is this just a fantastic movie?
GRADING.
And bored with it all. I have more papers to do than I have done and I want to be doing ANYTHING BUT GRADING. Laudry? OKAY!!! HFRM#1 needs help dropping her car off at Subaru and then wants to go to REI to spend our dividends? OKAY!!!
Anyway, BioMom and I watched Kissing Jessica Stein the other night and I can't stop thinking about it.
I don't know what the glbt police say about the movie--I am irresponsibly un-critical about movies. I just go. I just eat popcorn and enjoy.
The main character was sexist and homophobic? What? I didn't notice.
My critical skills are wasted on student papers and ridiculous economic theories.
Anyway, Kissing Jessica Stein is so friggin sexy. The two leads were also the writers, Jennifer Westfeldt and Heather Juergensen. Together, they are smart, fun and sexy. The writing is smart and imho, realistic.
For me, its been like finishing a book that you don't want to end. What happens next? How did they resolve a, b, and c? PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!!! I'LL MISS YOU WHEN YOU'RE GONE!
Anyway, see it if you haven't. Comment if you have. Am I missing something or is this just a fantastic movie?
Student Envy
Emails to and from one particularly confident and fun-radiating student who reminds me of a guy with whom I studied during grad school. In my next life, I want to be his girlfriend:
Him: Here it is...my final masterpiece....enjoy the hell out of your break. I'll drink a Molson Canadian, or a Labatts Blue for you...adios.
Me: i'm already just having a blast looking over your eco308 exam. thriller.
Him: feel free to email me a test score or two if you're feeling the urge.
Me: eco308: 20 points above the mean.
Him: Cool. Thanks. Just arrived in Toronto today. Jamie and I took the train from Montreal this afternoon. Montreal was amazingly integrated. I wasn't used to all the French..forgot to brush up b4 I went. Hope you're gettin ur sheeot done and enjoying yourself at least a little.
Him: Here it is...my final masterpiece....enjoy the hell out of your break. I'll drink a Molson Canadian, or a Labatts Blue for you...adios.
Me: i'm already just having a blast looking over your eco308 exam. thriller.
Him: feel free to email me a test score or two if you're feeling the urge.
Me: eco308: 20 points above the mean.
Him: Cool. Thanks. Just arrived in Toronto today. Jamie and I took the train from Montreal this afternoon. Montreal was amazingly integrated. I wasn't used to all the French..forgot to brush up b4 I went. Hope you're gettin ur sheeot done and enjoying yourself at least a little.
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