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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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TWO STUPID BRAIN TRICKS IN ONE DAY 1. I am on the train, and a group of young guys gets on, and one of them is quite cute. Good features, just-messy-enough post-punk haircut, big nose (I have a Nose Thing), and a goofy self-deprecating manner, at least from my vantage point across the aisle. So I take note, in the kind of vague way that us old married ladies take note, and since lately my libido has been in a frisky upswing I even have some lustful thoughts.* Afterwards, I tune back in to the world around me and Cute Guy is saying something like "dude, I turned fifteen in July." FIFTEEN! Cue the mixture of awe and shame, cue the feelings of I Am So Going To Hell, compounded to the max by the fact that I am officially somebody's mother, and add a dash of wonderment---when did they start making fifteen-year-olds so good-looking? *I cannot find a textual reference, and Google does not work with memories this sketchy, but it was either Nicholson Baker or David Foster Wallace (I think) who once wrote about having trouble with overly detailed sexual fantasies. Unless he mentally jumped right to the hardcore sex he would get all bogged down in particulars---how did we meet, what are we wearing, what does she say, what do I say, we're on a crowded bus do we get off and have sex in the alley? Does she come to my place? Does she have any sexual hang-ups that stem from her unhappy childhood? And so on. Let's just say I can relate, and with me there is the added bonus of the inner critic, which often whispers that my current sexual fantasy is unrealistic, which triggers the counter-critic to shush the inner critic, saying that this doesn't need to be realistic, it's a fantasy, and of course on the macro level there is the rest of me, left wondering if a quick solo orgasm is even worth all this angst and Voices In My Head meta-bickering. So now, when masturbating, I do my best to ignore the who what when where and why and just jump straight to the HOW. Or, you know, just use porn. Porn! Does your thinking for you! That would be a great porn slogan. 2. Then I'm on the bus, and it is really crowded, and an elderly Chinese man gets on with his preschool-aged grandson (I assume). He directs the kid to sit down in one of the last empty seats, next to me, and then goes to sit quite far away. It is slightly odd to be sitting next to an unattended two-year-old child, and I have a series of lightning-quick, half-formed thoughts about it, the weirdest one being something like "Well, people will probably just assume he's mine." Immediately after thinking that comes the DUH! WAIT A MINUTE! moment, since why would onlookers "assume" that an Asian toddler would be my offspring? Being Nora's mom has completely brainwashed me (in a good way). I used to read the China adoption message boards and remember certain posts where a person would say that they occasionally "forgot" their child had a different heritage from them. I never thought that "forgot" was the right way to put it---it definitely ceases to be an everyday thought, but how can you "forget" something like that? Until, of course, it happens to you. BRINGING THE INCOHERENT SMACKDOWN, PART II I am still receiving the droolingly retarded Parents magazine, and I already ranted about it once. Turns out I should have saved the rant until now, although who knows if this month's issue is the very zenith of Parents' stupidity (I have a sinking feeling it may not be). I almost screamed when LT brought the magazine in from the mailbox and I saw SHOULD YOU QUIT? STAY-AT-HOME MOMS TELL ALL on the front cover, and oh my god FUCK YOU. Also note that Parents magazine asks the question "should YOU quit" and follows it up with something about mothers. I wish their editorial board would just quit screwing around and change the magazine's name to EGO-STROKING FOR WOMEN WHO DON'T WORK OUTSIDE THE HOME AND WHO HAVE A PATHETIC NEED TO HAVE THAT CHOICE VALIDATED BY MAINSTREAM MEDIA, except that's probably too long for a magazine name. How about SMUG: Stay-at-Home Moms' Unbearable Gloating? Your one-stop shop for sexist, classist, consumerist, cult-of-domesticity bullshit! Whoops, there I go with the too-long taglines again. ---mimi smartypants, never succinct. back/forward |
