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Come along with me, won’t you?

I know, right?

So, I had been hearing some noise about this New York Magazine article (charmingly entitled “All Joy and No Fun: Why parents hate parenting”), and when the truly awesome and cute-baby-havin’ Lawyerish linked to it in her latest post, I took the opportunity to read it. My feelings about the article in general can be summed up in Lawyerish’s words:

“I think the fact that our society, including the highest echelons of academia, has become crazed with studying, measuring and analyzing happiness is, in itself, rather bizarre and sort of amusing and also so very distinctly American.”

Damn, Lawyerish, you always say just what I’m thinking, but all intelligent-like and shit. Steve Martin was right: “Some people have a way with words. Some people…not have way.”

I suppose I could just leave well enough alone and dismiss the entire article as kind of insane because YEAH, the fact that we are now attempting to measure happiness like it’s a fucking cup of sugar or something is just…well, it’s not the most scientific thing in the world. But why leave well enough alone when I have a blog on which to blather away about my own point of view? EXACTLY.

First off: I want it to be understood that I fully acknowledge the following things about myself:

1. I only have one child.
2. She is only 15 months old.
3. Therefore, I do not know what it is like to raise multiple children and/or older children.
4. I can only, of course, speak about marriage as it relates to my own experience, which has been a very positive one.
5. These are merely my opinions. Opinions = assholes = everyone has them, they all stink, some people do that weird bleaching thing, etc.
6. Wait. Forget that very last part.

That being said, I’ll also take this opportunity to remind you that I spent the first 30 years of my life staunchly opposed to the idea of having children. That stance changed, obviously, but back when we were trying (and failing) to conceive us a young’un, I remember telling Brad that if for some reason we weren’t able to do this whole baby thing, I was perfectly fulfilled with our lives as they were. Now, who knows how I would have felt if Sadie had never been born, but all I can say is that back then — despite all of our monthly disappointments — I was confident that we could be happy even if we never became parents.  And I think we would have been. Of course, I’m SO SO SO SO SO glad that I never had to find out for sure, but I know that having children is not the only way (and certainly not a surefire way) to be happy.

When I was first pregnant and feeling kind of assy and hormonal and weird, I felt really guilty most of the time because I was having all these thoughts of “WHAT HAVE I DONE?! Our lives were perfectly fine and now there’s this irreversible life-changing event going on and OMG BABIES EPISIOTOMIES POTTY TRAINING  where’s the booze oh wait I can’t have booze SONOFABITCH. I know now that this is a pretty normal reaction after the initial giddiness of the positive pregnancy test wears off, but I felt like such a massive, enormous, ungrateful whore. Who gagged at the thought of lemon hard candies.

Go ‘way!

Once those first trimester crazies wore off, I was left with my normal, underlying crazy, which was comprised mostly of “What if I don’t like motherhood or my baby and make Joan Crawford look like June Cleaver by comparison?” So I spent a lot of my pregnancy generally unconvinced that I’d be maternal worth a damn, and sort of expecting being a parent to suck really, really hard in a lot of ways, and to be insanely, mind-blowingly difficult on top of it all. I was worried that I’d feel trapped and frustrated. I was worried what it would do to our marriage. I was worried about this poor kid inheriting my bad eyesight and anxious tendencies and OMG she’s going to be terrible at math just like me, I know it, FUUUUCK.

I think we can all look at this and call my fears justified, no?

I had a friend who was pregnant (also with her first) around the same time as me, and she was pretty much my polar opposite as far as anticipating motherhood was concerned. She couldn’t fucking WAIT to dive into that shit, and had been wanting kids for as long as she could remember. This first baby was just the beginning of a whole brood of shorties she and her husband planned to have, and her enthusiasm for becoming a parent made me feel a little less insecure. “This is going to be SO AWESOME!” I remember her saying. And I thought, yeah, maybe, I guess. I hope so.

Cut to: five months later. We both have our babies. Guess who loves this whole parenting gig. Guess who really kind of hates it.

…FTW!

Let’s take a minute right here so I can be clear about what I’m NOT saying in telling you this little tale:

• That I am somehow an awesome person and awesome parent because I was a doubtful, anxious pregnant lady;
• That my friend is somehow a lesser parent because she was having a hard time adjusting;
• That I wasn’t right about parenting being really fucking hard.

What I AM saying, however, is:

• That going into ANY situation with expectations that high is pretty disastrous, especially when that situation begins with A PERSON COMING OUT YOUR BREWSTER.
• That I would like to ask some of the parents in this NY Mag article WHAT EXACTLY THE FUCK they thought they were getting into when they decided to add a person to their household whose main job is to scream, poop, bogart your attention, break your things, try your patience, and — later on — royally piss you off. (I am speaking mostly to the first paragraph of the article, in which the author seems somehow surprised and disappointed that her 2 1/2 year old son is acting…like he’s 2 1/2 years old.) Is the fact that kids are demanding 100% of the time somehow hidden from a large part of the population? Have these people never witnessed a toddler meltdown in Target? And if not, can they please tell me which Target they patronize, because I would like to start shopping there now, please.
• That we need to stop treating the act of having children as some sort of rite of passage, status-symbol-y thing you do because you’re bored and all your friends have kids. Having children is not a requirement. You do not have to give up that career you dearly love to get pregnant and have a baby. You do not have to turn your life upside down for 18 years plus if you don’t feel like it. You do not have contractual obligations to provide your parents with grandchildren (at least, I hope you don’t, good lord). But if you decide to do it, then sack up and stop acting put-out whenever raising kids isn’t motherfucking Pleasuretown 24/7, because you know who suffers the most from both those scenarios (being born “just because” and/or being viewed as this massive CRAMP IN MY STYLE, OMG)? The kids.

Who — as she will gladly tell you in her teen years –  didn’t ASK to be born, Mom, GOD!

I freely admit that parenting is really hard, and that’s coming from someone who has it relatively easy (happy, healthy baby, supportive husband). I remember changing Sadie’s diaper in the middle of the night during her first week at home, and as she lay there screaming bloody murder at my bloated, sleep-deprived face, I thought to myself “THIS IS MY LIFE NOW.” And I may have panicked a bit. Because babies do not ease themselves into your life, my friends. It is some serious shellshocking shit. And it is very easy for your life to become unrecognizable very quickly, and maybe for a very long time. I do not think there is any shame in having a hard time adjusting to parenthood, and if you claim that it was a breeze and you didn’t have AT LEAST one moment of Calgon, take me away (and by “Calgon” I mean “tequila,” and by “away” I mean “to the furthest reaches of the globe for a month or five”), I will not believe you for a second. And I certainly don’t think that we should make any secret of the sucky parts of parenting. I’m a firm believer in the lowered expectations, remember (or at least well-tempered-with-reality expectations), and I think knowing about the tough parts going in is immensely helpful and important for people preparing to dive into the abyss themselves.

But. BUT. This is where I get frustrated with the article. While I absolutely, positively DO NOT DENY that being a parent is hard in so many ways, I call total fucking BULLSHIT on the whole “kids have destroyed my happiness” point of view. Because there is one — ONE — person who is responsible for your happiness, or lack thereof. Know who that is?

Ewe.

(Not literally, of course. What I mean to say is “YOU.” I was just trying to be cute with puns and such. Although it would be kind of refreshing to just blame everything on this poor fucking sheep in a field somewhere. Stupid fucking sheep! Why can’t you ever let me be happy, DAMN!)

I don’t really believe the NY Mag article is actively arguing that people aren’t responsible for their individual happiness(-es?), but that’s the tone I get, and it’s cockassed fucking horseshit.  Yeah, it’s a challenge whenever my day starts out with a cranky toddler who delivers a barrage of sharp kicks to my gut when I’m trying to kiss her goodbye, and who slams an entire plate of lovingly-prepared scrambled eggs to the floor without taking a single bite. And yeah, my life sure was a lot more peaceful when my evenings did not consist of a whirlwind routine of PICK UP BABY! FEED BABY! BATHE BABY! PUT BABY TO BED! OH FUCK NOW IT’S 10PM AND I HAVEN’T EATEN AND POSSESS NO CLEAN UNDERWEAR FOR TOMORROW! But I can either choose to be a miserable fucking cuntbag about it, or I can choose to accept that this is what life (a life I chose!) looks like FOR RIGHT NOW, and be happy about it.

Because, after all, this is also what life looks like right now.

A few years from now, life will look totally different. And a few years after that, it will look eerily similar to a few years ago, because Sadie will be grown and gone and it will be just me and Brad again, deciding on a whim to go to happy hour after work or spending a Saturday afternoon at the (R-rated) movies. And I don’t know about you, but going to the movies is much more enjoyable when I can be confident in the fact that I didn’t choose to be a giant, raging bitch of a black cloud during the bulk of my daughter’s childhood.

Choosing to be happy isn’t easy, of course, and I’m not saying I’m a ray of Mary fucking Poppins sunshine all the time (and there are many inanimate objects that have been hurled across the room during these past 15 months who would back me up on that). But I fucking work at it. I make a damn effort. And that’s a sentiment I don’t see anywhere in the article.

And you know, the whole idea that parenthood is this unending slog punctuated with very rare (and short-lived) moments of happiness is kind of laughable to me. Because, uh, isn’t that kind of what LIFE is, kids or not? My life pre-Sadie wasn’t some fucking 32-year-long orgasm of unending parties and fabulous globe-trotting vacations. I still went to work every day. I still got the flu. I still had bad days and paid taxes and had to do the laundry. But now I do all those things AND I have a really awesome moment at 5:30pm every weekday when a little girl cries “Mama!” and flings herself into my arms like she’s been waiting ten years to see me. So IN YOUR FACE, life! You may think you’ve shit on me by making me a parent, but the laugh’s on you.

And while we’re (sort-of) talking about pre-kid life, I have to tell you I really hate the whole pretense of a baby “changing” who you are.  This paragraph had me rolling my eyes from beginning to end:

“While children deepen your emotional life, they shrink your outer world to the size of a teacup, at least for a while. (‘All joy and no fun,’ as an old friend with two young kids likes to say.) Lori Leibovich, the executive editor of Babble and the anthology Maybe Baby, a collection of 28 essays by writers debating whether to have children, says she was particularly struck by the female contributors who’d made the deliberate choice to remain childless. It enabled them to travel or live abroad for their work; to take physical risks; to, in the case of a novelist, inhabit her fictional characters without being pulled away by the demands of a real one. ‘There was a richness and texture to their work lives that was so, so enviable,’ she says. (Leibovich has two children.)”

Well, it seems that the nurses in my postpartum world totally forgot to shrink my world to the size of a teacup when I was discharged from the hospital, because I don’t know WHAT the fuck that means.  A teacup? Really? Granted, you weren’t going to find me on a flight to Japan when Sadie was 3 weeks old, but BITCH, PLEASE. I think the operative term in this entire paragraph is “AT LEAST FOR A WHILE.” Babies grow up, motherfuckers. Quickly. If you’re so sad about having to give up taking “physical risks” for a few years, then get another fucking Nuvaring and clam the fuck up. And the insinuation that having a baby would have caused the novelist to become a less effectual writer? FUCK THAT SHIT. I can’t stand the pretense that having a baby means you have to morph into this entirely different, talentless robot. People who think that are the same people who tell you that getting married will change you. No. No, it won’t. You’re still you. Just married. Or with a baby. If you find yourself changing into this person you don’t recognize UR DOIN IT RONG.

I admit, however, that the article makes some good points about the effects of having children on a couple’s relationship. Babies are hard on relationships (and do not even get me started on the bone-headed notion that having a baby will somehow “fix” a struggling union). I think the toughest non-anticipated struggle of parenthood that I experienced was just how much time Brad and I end up spending apart now that there’s a shorty in the mix. If chores need done or errands need run during waking hours, one of us has to be on Sadie duty while the other completes the task in question. If there’s something fun and non-baby-friendly we want to do (but not exactly worth the hassle & expense of finding a sitter), we have to do it in shifts (or maybe forgo doing it at altogether).  If one of us is in a show, the other is home with the baby. This can be lonely. And for all my doomsday anticipations, I didn’t foresee all this time apart, which is hard for the attached-at-the-hip couple we were before the baby. It takes time (and, again,  MAKING A GODDAMN EFFORT) to find your rhythm again as a couple once you become parents. And as the baby changes, the effect she has on your relationship changes (sometimes for the better, sometimes not), so it’s a constant process of adjusting and re-adjusting. And then if you have MORE kids — well, as I said, I don’t know what THAT would be like, but it certainly does give me pause when I ponder having another baby. I’m pretty sure it would mean even more time apart for me and Brad, and I might need him to start wearing picture ID around the house lest I wonder who that strange man making coffee in the kitchen is.

The article makes some other interesting points — especially about the shift in how parents view children in the current day vs. in the past, and the “concerted cultivation” of middle- and upper-class children — and it is helpful to explore how putting off having children creates such monumental expectations whenever the long-awaited babies finally arrive. But you know what’s not helpful? Quotes like this: “[Children are] a huge source of joy, but they turn every other source of joy to shit.”

Uh, thanks, Dad!

(And if you’re childless and reading this blog, allow me to tell you that the sentiment above is entirely untrue. Because when I was contemplating having a baby, I believed miserable assholes when they said things like that, and in hindsight, I am SO ANGRY to have been scared and manipulated by people who clearly just wanted to shock me or fuck with my head.)

OK. I think I’m done now. I just had to get all that out. Feel free to agree or disagree as you see fit in the comments — I’m certainly not claiming to be any kind of parenting expert.*

Parenting experts generally do not recommend turning your child into a giant agave plant.

*Is there really any such thing as a parenting expert, when we talk about how to raise individual children? I’m pretty sure the only expert when it comes to Sadie is ME, motherfuckers. I didn’t see her slide out of your vagina, Dr. Sears. And I’m pretty sure it was me getting up with her multiple times a night for several months and figuring out how she likes to eat, nap, sleep, poop, take baths, and just about everything else.

Oh, and of course Brad is an expert on Sadie too. OMG I FORGOT BRAD. This article is right! Having a (naked, banjo-strummin’) baby is ruining our marriage!!1!!11!!!

Just what I’ve always wanted: to have the mindset of a 15-year-old boy. Or, in this case, a 15-year-old Eric Idle. With a totally rad gold chain bracelet.

Subject: FW: A DIY story

Sounds like a show on TLC, but you will soon understand why no, it most certainly is not.

Gosh, Internet, I just…I’m having such a hard time comprehending what’s going on here. If only there was some sort of — I don’t know — visual explanation?

Ah! Much better. Now I get it.

Seriously. This is in the body of the forward. The Facebook profile photo of someone’s douchey Uncle Rod, taken mere minutes before he left to go have some brews at Chili’s with his brahs and make awkward passes at the underage hostess. Also, I think I spy another gold man-bracelet…

Yeah, again — no comprendo here, amigo. Visual aids, please?

ANIPPLESAYSWHAAAAA?!?

I just…REALLY, forward? Is there some sort of shortage of sexy sexiness available on the Internet that would necessitate inserting this picture (of someone who I’m certain is a celebrity sans makeup but I cannot determine who) into a goddamn FORWARD?

Also: NIPPLES. GOOD CHRIST, THE NIPPLES. It looks like she broke into some poor kid’s Halloween stash and stole the Dots.

I certainly hope she had the foresight not to use the green ones. Yikes.

Holding…

…AND RELEASE.

Now wait a second, Internet. You’re going to want to prepare yourself for this next one.

GAH!

Who the name of weirdly-distorted picture files IS this guy? I’m betting the answer lies within that blurry print on the bottom right-hand corner (which I tried to decipher by enlarging the pic, but only gained a pair of soiled drawers from having to see this man’s serial killer combover on such a large scale). My gut tells me it probably contains the words “sanatorium,” “head janitor,” and “Amber Alert.”

That’s the last image the forward gives us. I’m guessing they were so deeply disturbed by the juxtaposition of Croptop McNipples and “He was a polite neighbor and kept to himself” up there to be able to locate any more photos. So the rest of the lame joke is (sadly? thankfully?) picture-less.

Wait wait wait: POUNDS? The BRITISH brought this scourge upon us? I’m disappointed in you, England. I thought you were classier than this. I will accept a year’s supply of scones and clotted cream as retribution.

Also: who the fuck over the age of TWELVE makes a joke based on the whole “screw as noun and verb” situation? Actually, maybe this forward was written by a 12-year-old. It certainly would explain the lame punchline and DEAR LORD the gratuitous nipples.

Nipples!

AND ANOTHER THING: You can all thank reader Sarah for this installment. I know that she does not normally find herself forwarding other people such areola-rich reading material, and I appreciate her taking one for the team.

NIPPLES.

Grrrr.

It was great, and I feel rested and refreshed and like we made the most of our days together. Still, it stings to be back to reality. Especially when reality involves another summer-cold-ish scratchy throat and an awesome little girl who whimpered and clung to us at the daycare drop-off this morning.

I miss you so much, Crazy Spaghetti Face.

(Also: Please note hairclip. That is a real, honest-to-goodness LITTLE GIRL up there.)

(Related: WHERE IS MY LITTLE BALD BABY WAAAAAHH.)

Looking forward, I’ve got some fun stuff ahead this month, including a gathering for artistically-inclined, card-holding vagina owners (theatre ladies, for short) that I’ve been asked to attend. It’s a sort of brainstorming session for a local theatre company, during which they hope to pick some ladybrains about…hell, I don’t know. Periods and whatever? I hope to bring some enlightened introspection to the group.

I was told there would be judging and name-calling…?

All my poorly-expressed sarcasm aside, I am really excited for the opportunity to be a part of this, since I’ll be in the company of some of the coolest local ladies I know. We’ve all been sent a list of questions that will be a springboard for the discussion, and because I am kind of cranky and unoriginal today, I thought I’d post them here as a sort of meme for you all to snag if you feel so inclined. I’d love to hear your answers. I’m weirdly nosy like that.

Let’s go:

Please finish this sentence: “My friends would be surprised to know that I…”

Here is where I will probably bring the whole room down by sharing that I hate, hate, hatehatehate working for female bosses. I have worked for my fair share of ladies in the past  (eleven of them, to be exact*), and with the exception of one supremely awesome Australian chick, they were all nit-picky, undermining micromanagers who never hesitated to scream at me in front of others and/or pass the blame to me whenever there was blame to be passed…and then would always conveniently forget they had ripped me a new asshole whenever they needed something else done (at the last minute, of course) (and, oh, you’ll have to stay late).

I feel free to pass judgment on LadyBosses mostly because I have worked for just as many (if not more) DudeBosses, and WOW, what a difference. Male bosses — by and large — do not micromanage. They mind their business. They always give Christmas gifts. They ask me how the baby is doing.

This is what I get from my male bosses:

“Here’s your work; I trust that you’ll do it. If you don’t do it, I’ll ask you why. If I have a problem with you, I’ll confront you, we’ll deal with it, case closed. If something goes wrong, I’ll assume it wasn’t your fault, because I know from past experience that you are a good worker. If it was your fault, no big. Just make it right, and we’re cool. Are you taking your vacation days? You should. Go do something fun. Don’t worry about work.”

Whereas from the ladies, I get:

“Here’s your work — have you started it yet? Now? Now? How about now? Can you email me progress reports of your work every two hours? Can you copy me on all your emails? Why didn’t you let me know about that meeting? You emailed me about it? Well, I DIDN’T SEE THE EMAIL, AND YOU SHOULD HAVE SENSED THAT AND FOLLOWED UP WITH A PHONE CALL AND A TEXT MESSAGE TO MY CELL.  There was a typo in that email. OMG THERE WAS A TYPO IN THAT EMAIL! END OF DAYS! APOCALYPSE! Why was there a typo? Well, if someone gave you the wrong information, you shouldn’t have assumed it was the right information. You need to catch these things. My computer isn’t working. CALL SOMEONE! And while we’re waiting on the IT department to get back to us, I’ll yell at you in front of the entire office because I NEED MY COMPUTER! Oh, wait — it was unplugged. Oops. But don’t expect an apology. I’m sure this was your fault somehow. And I really hope you’re not planning on taking any more than two days off in a row this summer. I really need you here.”

I’m not exaggerating very much. AT ALL. In fact, most of those things have actually been said to me. Even the computer thing. And yes, the problem was that the fucking thing was unplugged — a detail I did not bother to check because certainly a regional president of a major international marketing firm would know to PLUG HER FUCKING COMPUTER IN, right? Right.

(Oh, and that was also the woman who wept — openly– when I got downsized and kicked to the curb. She told me I had been the best assistant she’d ever had. Mindfuck, anyone?)

I’ve had people tell me that the shit I get from LadyBosses comes from some weird competitive thing about me being younger or some such, and I don’t buy it. For one thing, some of the women who have given me the most shit work in other locations and have never seen me face-to-face.  I could be hovering on the cusp of menopause and snacking on chocolate Viactiv chews at my desk for all they know.  And it’s not like I’m angling for their jobs (DEAR GOD, NO). Basically, I think they’re defensive and insecure because they think they have to prove themselves five times over as a woman in a high-level position, and when it comes to dealing with me, they have absolutely zero politeness and patience to spare. This does not mean I excuse their particular brand of shit, but I do understand.

But then again, some of them were just raging bitchfaces. So there’s that.

Who were your role models growing up? Who are they now?

I hate questions like this, because I feel like I have to answer with “Michael Jordan” or “Jesus” or “my great-aunt Hazel who gave birth to twins in an assembly line while building fighter jets during World War II” or something like that, and…I just don’t really feel that way. About anyone. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I know plenty of people who inspire me in different ways — friends, relatives, teachers — but there’s not ONE person I can pinpoint as being someone I admired so much I’d like to wear them like a skin-suit a la Jamie Gumm. And I think we’re all better off that way.

Name 3 events that changed your life.

Easy! Performing for the first time (in 5th grade, and getting laughs and applause), meeting Brad, and birthing the best baby in the world.

What accomplishment are you proudest of thus far?

I would say “my family,” meaning Brad & Sadie, but I didn’t really accomplish that. They are awesome all on their own. But I am insanely proud that I have been a good mother to Sadie for these past 15 months. Up until she was born, I was a little afraid I’d be as maternal as a fucking tire iron. I am happy to report that this is not the case.

What are your words of wisdom for other women?

My words of wisdom for anyone are: “Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” – Plato

My words of wisdom specifically for women? Never buy store-brand tampons.

Also, eat the fucking cookie and shut up about it. No one thinks you’re fat.

How easy/difficult is it to develop and maintain friendships with women as you get older?

I’d say it’s difficult, but that the Internet makes it infinitely easier — both when it comes to meeting new friends and maintaining relationships with old ones. As much as I fucking hate Facebook sometimes, it enables me to see my friend’s cute baby photos mere hours after the shorty joins the world. Awesome.

What do you think are the biggest misconceptions about women?

Damn, I just had a brilliant fucking idea, Internet. I’m going to open a maternity store and call it Miss Conception. GET IT? Fuck yes.

Anyhoo, I think one of the biggest misconceptions about women is that having babies makes us weaker and/or less valuable in terms of contributing professionally or otherwise. Just because a woman has a baby does not mean she will start sucking at her job. But it does mean that she likely has less patience for people who underestimate her. Mama only has room for one whiny baby in her life, yo.

What is your greatest strength?

I have an ass that won’t quit.

(Although it has taken the occasional long weekend since the baby was born.)

Also, I am a loving person, goddammit.

What is your greatest weakness?

My fears. And yellow cake with chocolate icing.

What is your greatest fear?

People I love getting hurt. Because then who will bring me yellow cake with chocolate icing?

What do you find most challenging about being an artist a blogger?

[OK, this survey was for "artists," but hows about we change it to "blogger" so everyone can participate?]

Not being able to write about the juicy, real-life shit I want to write about sometimes.

What is most rewarding about being [a blogger]?

The sweet, sweet release of complaining to the untold anonymous masses. And when I can make you guys laugh.

What do you want to accomplish as a [blogger] in the next five years?

I want to compile all the PAY IT FORWARDs on another site.

Well, that’s about it. Sorry if I bored your ass off, but this Turkey was fresh outta ideas today. Back with more in a couple days, my pets.

*I know that sounds like an excessively large number, but I temped like a motherfucker in NYC and was a chronic job-hopper throughout most of my 20s. And most of that hopping was done to get THE FUCK away from one crazy bitch-ass boss or another.

“What do you MEAN you couldn’t get me an upgrade?!”

Oh, and I had a great callback, thanks to all your wishes of luck. Got the call from the producer yesterday that I did not get the part, and was, quite honestly, totally fucking relieved. She paid me lots of lovely compliments on what she had seen at my audition and callback, and really, that’s all this attention whore needs right now. Plenty of time for acting; must focus on nuzzling adorable baby at present.

Speaking of babies, look who had another delicious, delicious son. The happy news of Baby Phineas was followed by the arrival of Baby Tess, daughter of one of my oldest and dearest friends. Babies a-poppin’!

I hope all of you had a lovely 4th of July weekend, like, five days ago. I ate a piece of peach pie AND a piece of graham cracker pie in one sitting, and that’s all I really remember. It was the highlight of the weekend anyway.

See you next week!

Sad.

You happy now, bitch NBC?!

I love that sketch so much, in fact, that I seemed to have passed on the HOLDING…AND RELEASE gene to Sadie, in that she routinely holds her shit together for the entire eight hours of daycare each day, only to release a shitstorm of cranky tantrumness when we pick her up in the evenings.

For real. I mean, it’s very cute and all, but…for real.

It’s even more pronounced when I’m on single parent duty, as I was this week while Brad was in NYC for a few days. She was all smiles when I’d pick her up, but by the time we got home, it was tantrum after tantrum after throwing-all-her-goldfish-crackers-on-the-floor-and-then-crushing-them-with-her-adorable-little-shoes tantrum. And — I ain’t gonna lie — after an entire day at work chomping at the bit to pick her up from daycare and spend those few precious hours of the evening with her, having her act completely miserable towards me was tough. I’m pretty sure she does have another molar coming in, so that could have been part of the problem, but then how does she manage to be 100% tantrum-free at daycare all day long? When I ask her teachers if she ever fusses at diapers changes or tries to bite them out of frustration, they look at me like I’ve got a unicorn sprouting out of my ass. “Sadie is so mellow,” they always say. “She never gets upset. She smiles all day long.” But at night, she behaves as though I’m severing her limbs during nightly diaper changes, and on Tuesday night during an ill-fated evening walk when I tried to STOP HER FROM RUNNING INTO TRAFFIC? She bit me. Three times. REALLY HARD.

It seems I am raising the Marv Albert of babies.

It’s difficult, because on the one hand I KNOW she’s just tired out of her mind and so completely DONE with sharing and being nice and all the other crap she has to do at daycare. And I try to be understanding, because I know she’s not intentionally taking my dream of a lovely summer evening at home with my baby and biting it to shreds, but man. I thought we had at least 12 more years before she started acting like I was ruining her life on a daily basis.

I’d better hurry up and find a handkerchief and some cat’s eye glasses to wear. And Brad had better hurry up and become a middle-aged black man.

No worries, though.* Tomorrow is my Friday at home with her, wherein I get to see RealSadie (i.e., smiling from ear-to-ear Sadie) all day long, followed by a long holiday weekend with the self-same awesome shorty. Although I do plan to see if Old Navy is carrying anything in chain mail this summer.

OK, I’ve had a little bit of wine, but I submit that Disembodied Chain Mail Head is possibly one of the most entertaining things I’ve ever seen.

*Guess what! I totally got a callback for that play! And although I still feel a little weird about voluntarily trying to be a part of something that will make my life incredibly difficult/take me away from my adorable little Chompy McNOMNOMNOM in the evenings, I am pretty fucking proud of myself. Apparently my Australian accent is somewhat decent after all. Quick! Someone buy me a Bloomin’ Onion!

Actually, don’t. Those things weird me out. It looks like someone deep-fried a fucking chrysanthemum.

Also, you might want to go ahead and re-watch any episodes of Seinfeld that you really enjoy, because that show is about to be ruined for you forever.

Yeah. Told you.

I had to include a screenshot here because I really wanted you to witness the intellectual glory of “email me you thoughts.” Also: how cute to imply there is actual thinking involved here!

Oh boy.

Wow. Two sentences in and we’ve already broken the fact barrier. Who the fuck ever said only white people are racist? Although I would argue that white people are, apparently, hell-bent on using more than their fair share of ellipses.

File “Michael Richards…does make a good point” under “Shit no one has ever said while sober,” right along with “Very well stated, Mr. Leno.”

Whoa, whoa, hold up: IN COURT?! This little bit of TOTALLY FALSE INFORMATION buried in here sent me over to Snopes, which confirmed that Richards never went to court for being an asshole in a comedy club (see: Freedom of speech, even for fuckwads).

Turns out this disgusting forward existed WAY before Kramer’s little tantrum, but his image was connected to the sentiment after the fact. Congratulations, Michael Richards! The fully ignorant forwarding community is behind you 100%!

A generous portion of the Tea Partying community, I suspect.

Ha. Um, yeah. I mean, I can’t TELL you how many times I’ve been SNEERED AT on the fucking STREET because I have the audacity to be “American.”

(Oh, and “American” = WHITE, just so we’re clear.)

For the record, it’s OK to call Michael Richards just about anything.

(Except intelligent.)

(Or talented.)

(Or — God save you — “My boyfriend.”)

Internet, please believe me when I tell you there was not one single currently-black-barred term up there I felt remotely comfortable letting you see.  Rest assured they were all just A HAIR more offensive than fucking “white boy,” I mean, are you KIDDING ME with that shit?!

Oh, I see. They’re cleverly insinuating that only non-whites live in ghettos, instead of the correct assumption that VERY POOR and PRETTY FUCKING DESPERATE people of ALL COLORS live in ghettos, and, you know, I’m no anthropologist, but I’m pretty sure that poverty + desperation + lack of options usually = NOT EXACTLY FUCKING MAYBERRY about 100% of the time.

Please tell me “The Men of Mayberry” isn’t an adult-themed calendar, PLEASE tell tell me “The Men of Mayberry” isn’t an adult-themed calendar…

I think we all see where this is going — the racist’s favorite argument: “Where are the holidays to celebrate my awesome whiteness OH WAIT that’s every day.”

This list is taking on a unintentionally polite tone: “You have the NAACP.”  “Oh, but no, I insist! YOU have the NAACP.” It’s like those cute little overly-polite cartoon gophers!  But racist.

“After you!”  “No, after YOU!”

Wait…

That’s better.

Actually, no — you’d probably be in the adult entertainment industry. Come on, WET TV?!

Perhaps the author of this forward is forgetting that someone has already sort of claimed the whole “White Pride” corner of the market — those people being GIANT FUCKING NAZI SKINHEAD RACISTS, so, yeah, White Pride Day WOULD be racist, genius.

Oh, gosh, if we ONLY had organizations that would provide advancement for white people!

Won’t someone think of these unfortunate souls, struggling to succeed?

Yes, but the Miss Black America pageant was founded because black women weren’t allowed to enter the Miss America pageant, ASSHOLES.

(Also, this wasn’t in 1925 or something. This was IN FUCKING 1968. Gross.)

I love it when the forward pretends it’s ever been within 50 yards of an institute of higher learning. (EXHIBIT A: OMG the fucking grammar in this thing.)

Not to detract from how fucking ignorant this section is, but…orange?

Oh, right. Sorry. Loompa Pride!

And really, it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.

Wait, the drug dealer is a racist? He’s dealing drugs and running from the law and posing a threat to society AND sending racist forwards? Man, what a jerk.

That’s because you’re a racist.

Seeing as how I feel like I need to take a scalding bleach shower after just mocking this disgusting bullshit, no, I don’t think I’ll forward it to anyone.  Sadly.

Where is this alternate reality where white people have lost most of their rights? I suppose it’s located in the same place as where the super-scientific “Racist Email Forwarding Frequency” study was conducted.

OK, Internet. We made it. I hope your head is still intact. Thank you to sweetbird for sharing this particular piece of repulsiveness with me. Sweetbird, did you notice that the subject line SPECIFICALLY asks for your feedback? Please feel free to refer the sender to this link, if you are so inclined.

[LEGAL DISCLAIMER: Jive Turkey cannot be held responsible for any and all major family fall-outs and/or excommunications.]

GET IN MY ARTERIES, SIR.

One thing that lots of Kentuckians love is Stephen Foster, a.k.a. the guy who wrote “Oh! Susanna” and “Camptown Races” and lots of other songs that any given Fisher Price musical toy will undoubtedly have in its repertoire.

The toy industry has thankfully neglected to use ALL of Foster’s 1800s-era, minstrel-inspired songs, because one supposes it would be kind of revolting to hear Pooh belting out the less-than-savory lyrics to “Old Black Joe.”

Stephen Foster was actually a Pittsburgher by birth (born in the same neighborhood as my Dad was, coincidentally) and never lived in the South (and only visited once!), but he somehow felt inclined to write songs like “My Old Kentucky Home,” and, well, the rest is revisionist history, I guess. Such as it is, every summer in Bardstown, KY there is a massive Stephen Foster orgy that takes place, in the form of “Stephen Foster – THE MUSICAL!”

It’s outdoor, it has its own theatre, and there are HOOP SKIRTS APLENTY.

One of the acting professors at my college directed this ginormous thing for years, and that meant that LOTS of students spent a summer or two sweating their balls off in period costume while mincing around to banjo music twice a day. And JUST GUESS who was lucky enough to land that gig.

Aaaanyway, I am taking the WAY long way around to tell you that I’ve had more than my fair share of Stephen Foster in my life, and yet I still love banjo music. I have accepted the fact that I will probably never play the banjo (I have never played an instrument, I have weak little tender fingertips, music has WAAAY to much fucking math in it, like time counts and measures and FUCK THAT), but I heartily enjoy listening to the banjo. And since giving Brad  his anniversary banjo earlier this month, I’ve actually gotten to hear REAL MELODIES played on that thing, because Brad is all trained and musically gifted and knows math and shit.

Stop ruining music for me, MATH.

Pittsburgh is also home to “Banjo Night” at a local chapter of the Elks. Every Wednesday at 8pm, the Pittsburgh Banjo Club gets together for a big banjo-playing extravaganza, and while I’d known about this event for years, I didn’t get to witness it myself until last night.

Please excuse the totally shitty cameraphone pic, but you’re looking at tables of people drinking beer and a stage (backed by an American flag) full of people turning that mother out on their banjos.

I joined up with a few friends at Banjo Night after my audition (which went extremely well, and thank you for all your wishes of luck, mates), and within ten minutes of arriving, I was already kicking myself for not having been all up in this shit years ago, when going out on a Wednesday didn’t require a babysitter. The music was awesome, the drafts were $1.50, the crowd was friendly, and I got a rare glimpse inside the world of old people who — you know — still go out and do shit and enjoy the hell out of life.

I’ve been working on another “Deep Thoughts” post about aging, and I have to admit that the tone of it is, well, not so cheery. Aging can be some truly depressing shit, after all, and sometimes it seems like getting older is pretty much the worst idea ever. I mean, when it comes to the older population, all we usually hear about is medical ailments and failing memories and nursing home horror stories, and it becomes all too easy to forget that these are still people, with interests and talents and the desire to have a few beers and (very slowly) kick up their heels to “Ain’t She Sweet” on Banjo Night at the Elks Lodge. Last night, I sat next to a woman at the bar who had to be three times my age and half my weight, and dammit if she didn’t drink my ass under the table and still walk out of there on her own power, all 5-foot-3 of her dolled up in lipstick and earrings and perfectly styled hair (and not even a wig, I mean DAMN). I saw a man who could barely walk hoist himself out of his chair, grip the sides of the table in front of him, and dance — hunched almost completely over — for five songs straight. There was a coronet soloist who elicited round after round of applause from the audience, and it was only when he went to leave the stage that I realized he was almost completely blind. I saw couples whose combined age was somewhere in the neighborhood of my street address cuddling and flirting with each other, and nearly fell out of my chair when I learned that D.J. — a woman in her nineties who usually dances onstage with a feather boa — was taking a breather tonight to deal with the fucking SHINGLES, but would be back full-force next week, as in seven days, as in holy FUCK, that is kind of hard core.

This, Internet, THIS is what I want to be like when I’m old.  I may be shitting my pants on a regular basis, but good lord, I want to be able to enjoy whatever life I’ve got until it’s gone.

Besides, all the coolest people I know poop their pants. If you’re not in diapers, you’re out of touch, man.

OK, point taken, Ziggy, you pathetic little pantsless bastard.

I tried very hard to provide Brad with a nice Father’s Day, and — after a day of sleeping in, blueberry pancakes, and a massive sausage-and-beer rich meal at Hofbrauhas — I think he was quite satisfied.

Thankfully, he left room for some after-dinner tea.

As an update on the last post, I’ve decided to go ahead with the audition. I got the sides I’ll be reading, and it seems I’m going to be auditioning for the part of a young Australian woman. And I’ve been asked to read in dialect.

Can’t wait!

I’ve had a fair amount of dialect training, and will take this opportunity to brag that I can fucking tear it up in a British or Southern American accent, but this will be my first time attempting Australian. I guess chances are slim I’ll be saying something like “shrimp on the barbie,” “This is a knife,” or “No rules, just right.”

I still cannot get over the fact that Outback sells a dessert called “Chocolate Thunder from Down Under.” AND PEOPLE EAT IT.

Much to my surprise, I’ve found that I’m already quite adept at the Australian accent, thanks to the fact that I worked for two Australian bosses for a year back in New York (who pronounced my name GYE-ull), and I once spent months transcribing interviews with many a heavily-accented Aussie. And — as  I mentioned — I have a nice bit of dialect training to my credit, the most helpful portion of which I completed during my first (and last) semester of grad school. We actually didn’t learn any dialects in particular, just the phonetic alphabet — which, conveniently enough, is like a key for decoding any dialect that uses the Roman alphabet. Hi, I’m a dork who really enjoyed learning this shit.

Also, I’m an asshole who spent a lot of money to repeat sentences like “He has forgotten the carton of hot satin mittens” in a room full of my peers.

The weirdest part of this particular class was having to re-learn the pronunciation of basically every damn sound in the English language. Our goal was to sound as neutral as possible, accent-wise, and to learn how to correctly enunciate our consonants so that we’d totally fucking nail that voiceover audition for Fancy Feast in the future.

Seriously, you guys. Next time you’re watching a commercial for cat food or tampons or whatever the fuck, keep in mind that the actor you’re seeing has probably spent upwards of ten years being trained as a Shakespearean actor. And then weep/mock accordingly.

That class was a total mindfuck in an overthinking-what-you-presume-to-know kind of way. After a lifetime of, you know, SPEAKING ENGLISH, it’s pretty messed up to be told that you (and the entire English-speaking population, basically) produce the “s” sound from the wrong area of your palate. And this results in an entire 90 minute class of listening to the teacher say “sss” and then you saying “sss” in exactly the same manner, only to have her say “Close, but not quite.”

My childhood dream of becoming a king cobra? Dashed to smithereens!

Actually, way at the beginning of the semester, the teacher pulled me aside and asked if I could tape myself reading a few paragraphs from a book. “You have an interesting mix of dialects that I’ve never heard before,” she said.  “It’s very hard to place.” I suppose this should have made me feel exotic or special in some way, but instead I just assumed it was her way of saying “Put that east coast hillbilly shit on record because you are the Eliza fucking Doolittle of Rutgers University, ho!”

The rain in Jersey falls mainly on the turnpike!

Anyway, that class was one of my favorites of all time, even though it gave me the inconvenient habit of becoming SUPREMELY annoyed whenever I hear someone replace an internal “e” with a short “i” sound (“pen” becomes “pin”), and I damn near want to slap a bitch whenever I hear someone pronounce the “t” in “often,” mostly because the individual involved is usually attempting to sound intelligent and well-spoken and GODDAMN IT’S PRONOUNCED “OFFEN!” “OFFEN,” you uppity whore, “OFFEN!”

Perhaps having this particular pet peeve makes ME the uppity whore? Fine, then. I’ll just put on my Uppity Shoes and be done with it.

Another kind of useless piece of information I learned from that class: the “ou” sound in “nourish” is supposed to be identical to the “u” sound in “nut.” Go ahead, say it like that. You sound like you’re on a fancy face cream commercial, don’t you? With goat’s milk and vitamin E nuh-rishing your skin? Fancy!

Anyone still reading?

OK, I’ll mercifully stop the rambling now. I need to go work on this dialect shit anyway.

“Working on this dialect shit” = 27 consecutive viewings of Muriel’s Wedding.

Um, God, I NEEDED THAT SLATE, THANKS.

Also: You best believe I just spent a very entertaining morning on PositiveButterflies.com.

Allow me to bring it bulleted-list style:

• Sadie clung to me today when we dropped her off at daycare, despite the fact that she had an entire plate of waffles & syrup at her disposal. My lady loves daycare, and she loves to eat even more, but an end-of-cold coughing fit left her a bit clingy this morning, and she velcroed herself to my arm (and then my legs when I stood to leave). She didn’t cry when her teacher picked her up to facilitate my quick getaway, but the little mournful gaze she gave me was somehow much, much worse.
• I got called to audition for a show with my favorite company in town. I read the script last night, and every single role is awesome. It’s been a long time since I’ve done something really challenging like this (assuming I’d even get cast, of course). ENTER GUILT: I know the way this company works. I’d be looking at three intense weeks (and weekends) of rehearsal, and a month of shows (with only Mondays and Tuesdays off). Add to the mix that the show runs in October and November, and overlaps with a play festival that Brad is slated to produce. We’ve been operating on a taking-turns system with our theatre pursuits, and his turn is next. Furthermore, he had this planned first, way before this audition. He still wants me to go to the audition, but I know if we were both tied up with theatre commitments, there would be a hellacious string of days to live through come November. Days where I’d see Sadie for 60 minutes or less. Days where she’d transition from daycare to an evening babysitter. I remember how hard it was for me to do the last show, and this would be much, much more demanding. But, oh, I still want a part so badly. Every time I try to get a gut reaction from myself (What do you want more — the month with Sadie or to do the show?! Quick!), I honestly have no answer. I’m so torn. To do the show would be really unfair to Brad and Sadie, right? To not do it, I guess, would be unfair to me. FUCK.
• Thank you all for your comments and get well wishes. I’m sorry if I’ve not been to your blog lately. Work is still pretty chaotic, and this FUCKING COLD is still making me want to pass out on my keyboard (but I am feeling better today, thank you).
• Apologies, all those projects I’ve been meaning to start/plays I need to fucking write/that one play I REALLY need to fucking write because of the LOOMING FUCKING DEADLINE. I am not sure when the hell I’m supposed to find time to start/work on/complete you.

Great. Now I’ve gone and reminded myself of Jerry Maguire, a movie I hated so much that I walked out of the theatre — and I am the woman who suffered through the entirety of PAUL BLART: MALL COP in the theatre, my friends. Shut your giant head hole, Lipnicki.*

• I had been volunteering for a while as, basically, a pen pal to a cancer patient. My job was to write to this woman in Iowa twice a week (or more) to lift her spirits and make her feel a little less alone during treatment. The organization I was working through sent me an email last week telling me that they hadn’t heard back from the woman in over two months (patients in this program are supposed to respond to monthly check-in letters/emails sent by the administrators), so I was instructed to stop writing. I immediately felt a little sick and suspected the worst, and — because I’m sneaky like that — I Googled the shit out of this woman’s name (which, luckily for me, is pretty unique). I found her Facebook page — as well as the pages for her kids and mother — and, apparently, she’s fine. Just ignoring me, I guess, and shitting all over the efforts of the people who wanted very much to help her through a difficult time. I am guessing that the true spirit of volunteering doesn’t entitle me to be angry about this (and then bitch about it on the Internet), but I kind of am. I mean, what the fuck, lady? It’s not like sending two cards per week was some monumental effort, but it definitely took some time and planning and creativity and fucking dedication to do it for as long as I did. And then, of course, I realized that her last Facebook post was at the end of May, and even though the rest of her family has been posting in recent days (with no mention of any kind of tragic event), what if something bad DID happen? I mean, I guess that wouldn’t explain why she has ignored MONTHS of check-in requests — seeing as how earlier in May she posted about relaxing on the porch with a beer and talked about a promotion at work — but who the fuck am I to judge? Have I ever had to go through chemo while taking care of three kids? And yet, here I am, taking it all personally and feeling slighted, like it’s all about me. Embarrassing. Also: GUILT.

That’s it. Thanks for letting me bitch and moan about my “problems”-that-aren’t-really-problems. Feel free to do the same in the comments. What good is the fucking Internet if we can’t air this shit from time to time?

*This is what he looks like how. Apparently, his body caught up to his massive head and he’s a giant? Or just has a fondness for being photographed with tiny guitars? Either way, nice hair, douche.

Sorry, Lipnicki. But I definitely don’t feel guilty for saying that.