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the latest
waddle: good morning, wordpress - 10:36 a.m. , 2009-07-03 elaborate murder attempt - 2:56 p.m. , 2009-07-01 building a tractor in the basement - 10:42 a.m. , 2009-06-19 ask no questions tell just a few lies - 3:17 p.m. , 2009-06-09 my long lasting flavor really lasts long - 1:10 p.m. , 2009-06-04
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TEE EM MOTHERFUCKING EYE This is going to be a huge, overly personal mishmash, but I need to write it down. Lately I feel like crap, much of the time. I feel dumpy and awkward and weepy and mood-swingy and extremely low-energy. Pick your metaphor: in a fog, sleepwalking, phoning it in, eating beige banana pudding while everyone else enjoys the Indian buffet. It is absolutely impossible to pick apart how much of this is my brain chemistry, how much of it is stress, how much is the realization that right now is the rest of my life (a realization I've been having in slow motion since I was about, oh, fourteen years old, but maybe it is one of those things that never really stops), and how much is just a reaction to society/the media's relentless implication that everyone is having a better time than you are. But I am an American, and thus it is my birthright to reject shades of gray! Verily, I loathe complex solutions to complex problems! Cut to the chase! I'm Veruca Salt, and I want it now! Give me a pill! Or, perhaps, stop giving me a pill. In my (semi)-desperation to locate the source of my dis-ease, I have started to blame my birth control pills. Yeah, I know, historically I have sang their praises---I have enjoyed the even hormonal keel and the itty-bitty three-day fake period and, especially, amassing a huge collection of placebos. But it has been years. I am kind of sick of the whole scene, I am kind of curious about what my body would do without them, and because I am flailing around wildly looking for something to blame, I am blaming birth control. In fact, the Blame Birth Control campaign is gradually becoming an id�e fixe for me, regardless of its rationality. I plan on talking to my doctor (annual girl-parts exam in just a few weeks) and all that, but in the meantime here are the options as I see them, in order of increasing difficulty/invasiveness/holy-fuck-osity: 1. Do nothing and stay on my current pill. My problem, if I even have one, is most likely the modern condition or just me being me (read: sort of crazy). SUCK IT UP. THAT'S IT FOR SUBSTANCE, LET'S GET TO THE FLUFF 1. Just like Mister Pants (come back Mister Pants!), I too have a long-term fascination with the Association of Lincoln Presenters. My main beef with last year's pictures is that, other than the Lincoln riding the merry-go-round, there is not enough documentation of Lincolns doing mundane Lincoln stuff. Where are the Lincolns getting a soda from the machine? The Lincolns at the urinal? And where oh where are the Lincolns having gay Lincoln sex in full Lincoln regalia? I do not know if any of the Lincoln presenters are in fact homosexual---the ratio of Lincolns to Mrs. Lincolns seems to be off in the pictures but that could just be due to women having less patience for dress-up games (and the fact that a fake beard is way cooler than a hoop skirt). But wouldn't it be lovely if there were a spin-off society of gay Lincoln presenters? LT and I talk about this way too much, to the point where we often say, "Sweet buttfucking Lincolns!" as an expression of surprise. So often, in fact, that it took me some effort to remember where the expression came from. It came from the desire for an Association of Gay Lincoln Presenters. Of course. 2. I saw Snakes on a Plane and yup, that's about the size of it. Snakes on a plane. I love this beyond all reason, however. I read it about once a day to cheer myself up. 3. Some catalog of zines and bumper stickers and other lefty products came in the mail, and for some reason Nora and I ended up looking at it together. The page full of anarcho-vegan-radical-ecology buttons included one with a picture of the Lorax, and she was struck dumb with awe and avarice. "That's...that's...the Lorax!" she said. "I wish I could have that! I would put it on my jean jacket to say that I love Emily [the engine, and the other button on her jacket] and I also love the Lorax." I mildly object to the culture-vulture proclaim-your-lifestyle-through-fashion stuff starting so early, but what the fuck. Seventy-five cents. I ordered it for her. (PUSHOVER MOM) 4. Nora is getting really particular about what she wears. Dresses are RIGHT OUT, as is anything with "curlies," which she defines as the slightest hint of a gather, or a ruffle, or that lettuce edging that little girls' turtlenecks have, or even sometimes puffed cap sleeves on t-shirts. For the most part, I let her wear what she wants and try to shop accordingly, but occasionally I will pull out one of the adorable barely-worn sundresses and try to get her to put it on. The "but a dress is so much cooler!" argument sometimes works, since my girl has a horror of being hot, but not always. A few weeks ago I tried to appeal to her inner jock by postulating that the sleeveless cotton tank dress was really a "basketball dress." And yes, the whole time I was jiving and conniving I knew how ridiculous I sounded. But I wanted her to wear it at least once before the season was over, and it worked. For a while. The whole rest of that morning, Nora acted like a total shithead. She whined and acted up and backtalked and was hyperemotional and I have never seen such bad behavior from her, ever. I was trying to get ready for our outing and doing eight million things and it just kept getting worse and worse, so finally I said, "Nora, what is WRONG with you?" That's when she started crying hysterically, hiccupping and sobbing, "I DON�T WANT TO WEAR A DRESS!" Well JESUS, you don't have to! Go ahead, take it off! Particularly if it means you will act like a human again! I knew Nora had no love for dresses and skirts but I did not know that wearing one for a few hours would color her ENTIRE WORLDVIEW. The dress-hate runs deep, apparently, and I won't ever try to pull one over on her again. |
