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Archive for the ‘wtf?’ Category

Two anecdotes proving that I am well on my way to decrepitude.

Coming from the park, I was turning on to Maple Road when two of these guys jumped out into traffic. They were aimed at a bar on the other side of the street. Annoyed that they were too cool to use the crosswalk provided, I paused and then went around them. Through the open window of my mini-van I heard one shout, “……soccer moms!” I gave them a “hand signal” as I stopped at the crosswalk only a few feet away.

My mother looked at me in amused disapproval.

“Sorry” I said. “But he called me a soccer mom! He gets the finger.”

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Later that day I was talking with my dad about the guitar lessons he’s offering to members of his church youth group. In an effort to engage the kids, he asked them for the names of current bands whose music they might like to learn. Since names were not forthcoming, my father mentioned a few bands he thought they might like. He also told them a horrible groaner about Kurt Cobain and “decomposing”.

*crickets*

Probing why his “hilarious” joke had fallen flat he realized that not one of them had ever heard of Nirvana.

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exceptional

I’m a young mom. Mitten was born when I was 19 and a half, but I always round up and tell strangers or new acquaintances that I was 20. I think I’m understandably defensive. Most people equate parenthood before 25 (or hell, 30) with poverty, low educational attainment, questionable morals and Britney Spears. Sure, I have good credit, a B.A in Philosophy and am a great fan of underwear but not everyone takes the time to figure it out.

I can feel, if I pay close attention, the point during the “your age v. your kid’s age” conversation when my metaphysical label changes in the mind of the mid-thirties female suburbanite I’m getting to know, from “Mitten’s mom” to “reformed (?) harlot”.

Last year, I volunteered to help at a few of Mitten’s Brownie meetings. During one such, the girls I was working on a craft with asked how old I was. “28”, I said, inwardly cringing. A chorus of surprise rang out. I think 2 girls simultaneously said, “My mom is soooo much older than you!”

“Great”, I thought. “Way to endear yourself to other parents”. I could all too easily picture these girls going home and relating this information over dinner. I like to believe the best of people but I can’t help thinking that there might be a few, who upon hearing this, would be pricked by the comparison and easily soothed with a little condescension. If I’m lucky, I’m often regarded as a little sister. If not, well, play-dates are not forthcoming. To be fair, most of the people in our neighborhood fall into the former category.

A Girl Scout meeting isn’t the only time when being a youngish parent makes life “interesting”. After hours of worst-pain-of-my-life back labor with Toot, I burst into tears after being told I hadn’t dilated further. The nurse who was attending me laughed and said, “Honey, it isn’t a race!” As if the reason I was upset was unrelated to the horrible pain I was experiencing. Rather than ask, she assumed I had unrealistic expectations of the pace of childbirth because I was young looking. When Mr. Baby was born I finally got the satisfaction of answering a patronizingly cooed, “Is this your first?” with “No. My third.”

When I’m not feeling all brave and fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke about it, I look forward to the time when Toot and The Boy will be in school and my age will be completely unexceptional. A time when women can dislike or mistrust me for reasons I’m comfortable with, like being better looking and more interesting.

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I enjoy breaking rules created only for my own safety and the safety of others. Yesterday, I did not put my almost potty-trained 2 year old in a diaper when I took her to the pool. My son was in a diaper but it was not a swim diaper. It was a regular one that got super bloaty and added about 5 pounds to his weight. I cannot figure out the added benefit of a swim diaper. If it doesn’t hold water like a regular diaper, surely pee escapes it as well?

Today, I flouted the rules at a McDonald’s playland and let my children go on the equipment without socks. Another mother told me that she was yelled at by the manager (because Foot and Mouth disease spreads on play structures) and was told she could purchase socks from Micky D’s for 2$ a pair. Funny, that McDonald’s is concerned about Foot and Mouth but unfazed when it comes to heart disease. Can I purchase some 2$ Lipitor with my Happy Meal?

Also, what? Did he mean Hand, Foot and Mouth disease? And even then, what? Shit covered kids are allowed on the play structure? Oh wait – hand washing is free.

I learned this disregard for authority at my mother’s knee. At McDonald’s today, she kept laughingly telling the kids “to get in the damn tunnels already” so we could avoid detection by the sock nazis.

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I’d like to be writing about how my 9 year old is on the brink of becoming a “preteen” or how our family saw some great fireworks last night (Toot covered her brother’s eyes and said, “Don’t look, boy!”) but instead I’m sitting here obsessing over my iPhone. When will the iTunes store be available so that I may sync this bitch and get on with giving my entire life to Apple?!

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This alli drug is f-ed up. I’ll let the Angry Aussie explain.

“To me, this is the ultimate evidence that western society is utterly fucked. You can tell people that taking a pill will make them shit their pants uncontrollably. And your pill will be an utterly out of control success.”

What can I add to that? Do we want to be skinny *this* badly? Is shitting your pants really preferable to eating veggies and drinking water?

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http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=10889047

“Almighty God created the races white, black, yellow, Malay and red, and he placed them on separate continents. . . The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend for the races to mix.” — Judge Leon Bazile, in the original opinion.

This is what an attempt at legislating love gets you – a court opinion that 40 years later would be funny if it weren’t so sad.

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