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Princess Zurg: There was a boy in my class whose mom let him watch Spiderman 3 but wouldn’t let him watch Corpse Bride, even though Spiderman 3 is rated PG-13 and Corpse Bride is rated PG. She said Corpse Bride was too gross.
Giraffemom: Well, Corpse Bride is a little too macabre for some people. You know, it’s got all those dead people and…maggots.
PZ: But those maggots aren’t even real.
GM: Yeah, well…
PZ: And Spiderman 3 is rated PG-13 for violence. Corpse Bride only has one little duel in it. And it doesn’t have any naked people in it, or anything disgusting like that.
GM: No.
PZ: What’s grosser, maggots or naked people?
GM: Uh…I guess it depends on who’s naked.
PZ: You mean, if the maggots are naked, they’re grosser, and if the people are naked, they’re grosser?
GM: Something like that.
So those of you who have been studying for the exam might recall that I’m an assistant librarian at church. They called me to the position a couple of years ago, and I remarked at the time that Ward Librarian was a position of extreme power among Mormons because librarians are the only individuals aside from the bishopric who have keys to the church library. Why is the church library such a well-guarded facility? I guess because electronic equipment is stored there. Like old TV’s and DVD players and ancient cassette players. Oh, and erasers. People are always “borrowing” our erasers and “forgetting” to return them.
Totally irrelevant aside: We keep our chalk and erasers in an old wine crate. The head librarian was conscientious enough to black out the words “Red Wine” but not the word “Mondavi.” Nor was she conscientious enough to remove the paper towel that resides at the bottom of the crate that says, “Get me wet and I’ll erase for you.” For some reason that disturbs me more than anything else I’ve seen at church in recent years. End totally irrelevant aside.
Anyway, as I was saying, any jerk can get keys to the church building itself, but the key to the library is most precious above all other keys. So naturally I was rubbing my hands with glee, anticipating the moment they bestowed one of these babies upon me. Well. There’s a scientific term for this phenomenon; it’s “premature gleeful-hand-rubbing.” For about a year and a half I did not have any keys, to the building or the library, and every time I had library duty, I had to hunt down keys from one of the other librarians, or from one of the bishopric, and while it wasn’t like crossing the plains on foot in bitter winter and losing my toes to frostbite, it was still a trial for me to bear. Inconvenience is the scourge of our modern times.
About a year into this business, I became reconciled (mostly) to the fact that I was never getting a key to the library, and I would just have to settle for the power trip that accompanies eraser disposition. I kept telling myself, “You know, self, it’s not that they don’t trust you. It’s that they’re too lazy to make copies. I mean, they’re too busy. They are so busy, and they can hardly expect to make your individual library key a top priority, no matter how many times you and the head librarian keep reminding them that you still do not have a key, and you do in fact need one. It’s not like crossing the plains on foot in bitter winter and getting frostbite. At worst, it’s like being in a covered wagon and having a cold. So you can just suck it up, self, and stop trying to rise above your station.”
Then a wonderful thing happened. The bishopric member from whom I most frequently borrowed keys (because he lives down the street from me) came in one Sunday and presented me with a key to the church building. Which, as I told you, is the key that any jerk can get–but still, it was more than I had before. I was now equal to any jerk in the church. That was nothing to be ashamed of. Of course, I still needed a library key in order to discharge my librarian duties to the best of my ability–which I ever-so-humbly reminded him, whilst expressing extreme gratitude for the gift already given. At which point he said, “Oh. I thought you already had one of those.” I so humbly and graciously told him that I had not that precious key, but I would be ever so indebted if he could procure one for me. No pressure. I’d just been waiting a year and a half, which was not remotely how long it must have seemed to the pioneers crossing the plains in bitter winter, on foot or otherwise.
In spite of the fact that I was clearly not under any imminent threat, he promised that he would get me a key the following week. And you know what? Eventually he did. And I’m proud to say that since I’ve assumed ownership of that key, I have not once let my rowdy friends into the library to watch unauthorized videos or erase things with wet paper towels. I have been the very picture of responsibility.
Until I let Elvis play with my keyring with the iffy clasp and the keys to the church building and the library fell off. Actually, a lot of things fell off–the grocery store club cards, the Blockbuster Rewards card, the tiny and purely decorative rape whistle–but I found all of those things in pretty short order. The church and library keys were nowhere to be seen. Naturally.
I didn’t panic initially. I reasoned that since Elvis had most recently taken my keys down to the mailbox to get the mail (that’s his new favorite chore, second only to taking out the trash), the keys must be somewhere between our front door and the mailbox. Which is across the street. Yes, I let him cross the street by himself. “Street” is really an overstatement–it’s more like ”a stretch of asphalt separating my sidewalk from my neighbor’s sidewalk, that sometimes cars drive on.” Okay, this is really a topic for another blog. Forget I told you where the mailbox was. Suffice it to say that I visually scoured every inch of the path that Elvis would have taken to get the mail–and I found a couple of decorative doohickeys from my keychain that had been missing for several days–but no church keys. I’ve always been afraid that Elvis would accidentally drop my keys into one of the gutters and I’d never see them again, and if you think I didn’t check the gutters–twice–you are mistaken. That’s when I realized they (the keys) could be anywhere. Possibly even in my house–meaning that I might never find them! Augh! This was when the panic started.
Knowing that if I told the head mucky-mucks that I’d lost my keys–not just the key to the church building, which any jerk can get and which jerks lose all the time, which is why they have to keep re-coding it, but also the coveted, most-precious-above-all-other-keys library key–I had about as much chance of getting replacement keys as I did of getting my pre-pregnancy breasts replaced. Short of a miracle, it was simply not going to happen. And it’s not like they would have relieved me of my librarian duties, since I was obviously not to be trusted with church property. No, they would keep me as assistant ward librarian, forcing me to keep borrowing keys year after year, mocking me with their power–power that I would never again hold, so long as I lived. It would be a little mini-hell, not unlike what the pioneers went through when they got to Utah and there were no department stores yet.
So in desperation, I told my kids that my Very Important Keys had been lost and that whoever found them, I would buy that person a Webkinz. (Is Webkinz an acceptable singular, or should it be Webkin? This is the question I always ask myself, unless I am too worried about my keys.) To be perfectly frank, I didn’t expect I would have to deliver on that promise, as I am a pessimist and believe that once something is lost, it can never be found again, all historical evidence to the contrary. At some level I probably believed that God was punishing me for my negligence. Letting my five-year-old borrow the keys so he could get the mail, which is across the street–tsk tsk.
Anyway, I knew I was being extreme, but on the other hand, I really wanted my keys back. I wanted them at least $13.99 worth. So I did some back-of-the-envelope calculations and decided that the worst thing that could possibly happen was that I never found my keys. The second-worst thing would be that both of the older kids found the keys simultaneously and I’d have to buy two new Webkinz and Mister Bubby would say that was unfair because now Princess Zurg would have three and he’d only have two, which would remind Princess Zurg that some kids have seven Webkinz, and we’re really falling behind in the showering-children-with-gifts department, and they would both (continue to) grow up with this disgusting sense of entitlement and they’d never succeed in the real world. So that’s why I did what I did.
The next 24 hours I just spent re-reconciling myself to the fact that I was never going to have keys to the library. Then, on Tuesday, we were coming home from swimming lessons, and as Elvis was unlocking the door (with my utterly replaceable house key), Mister Bubby spied the church keys on the welcome mat. Yes, the welcome mat. The one that’s right in front of the freaking door. Now, I assure you people that I had looked all around the door, including that area with the welcome mat, including the welcome mat itself, and the keys were not there. So make of that what you will. This was either a test of my faith–which I think I failed–or it was fate smiling on MB, who has been yearning for a Bengal Tiger Webkin(z) for about three months. Maybe it was both.
So yesterday, true to my word–and ever so happy to be in possession of all my keys again–I took MB down to the local Webkinz dealer and I bought him a Bengal Tiger. You know, I still don’t really “get” what Webkinz is all about. It’s not a fad I ever would have bought into, except that my (or should I say the kids’?) babysitter bought MB and PZ Webkinz for Christmas, and the two have been obsessed with their online pets ever since. Like I said, I’m still not real clear about what the deal is with these things–they could be part of some weird cult or an international slave trade, for all I know. For the first couple months the kids had their Webkinz, I didn’t take any interest because a) I’m a busy person and I have my own frivolity to see to, and b) I’m generally negligent. Then one day MB called me over to see the new swimming pool he’d bought for his Panda, so I went over and looked, and there was this panda bear wearing swim trunks and taking a swim in a pool–and I just about died because it was just the cutest thing I had ever seen.
Do you get it? It’s a panda bear and he’s wearing clothes, swimming in a pool, brushing his teeth and sleeping in a hammock, just like he’s people. It’s beyond adorable. Maybe a small part of me wanted this Bengal Tiger just for my own enjoyment, and that’s why I lost my keys in the first place. The Lord works in a mysterious way, that’s all I know.
Giraffemom: Mister Bubby, that Bengal Tiger is freaking adorable.
Mister Bubby: I know. What should I name him?
GM: I don’t know. What do you want to name him?
MB: Well, one thing’s for sure. I’m not naming him Jeffrey.
GM: No, he doesn’t look like a Jeffrey.
MB: Maybe “Teeny.” No, that’s a girl’s name.
GM: Yes, “Teeny” is a tad effeminate for a tiger.
MB: I know. How about “Tigey”?
GM: That sounds…appropriate.
Recently my sister, bythelbs, had a “crazy search terms” contest (which I won, and not because of nepotism but because I rock the crazy-search-terms world). Ordinarily I don’t make a habit of looking at the search terms stats on my blog because it’s like those people who get the genealogy bug and just get obsessed with tracing their roots–I get caught up in the story of how people arrive at my web site, which is clearly inappropriate for most of these people’s needs. I also discover that a lot of people show up here looking for child pornography–a scenario I do not like to think about, unless I make up some elaborate fairy-tale ending in which the sicko pervs are so charmed by my wit and shennanigans that they are inspired to pursue more wholesome forms of entertainment for the rest of their lives. (Note to sicko pervs: Get off the internet. Save yourselves.)
However, I couldn’t resist this time. There were way too many of these gems to post on my sister’s site, so I gave her the best ones and you’re getting the leftovers. Just kidding. (Well, no offense, kids, but there was a contest going on.)
“come with me little girl on a magic carp”: Obviously, this is supposed to be a search for Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride,” but doesn’t a magic carp sound a lot more interesting?
“toilet stomach gurgle puke or vomit”: Only the story of my LIFE.
“gay life in oregon”: Oregon is a great place for the gay life. So is this blog.
“big boobs amateur”: As opposed to the professional big boobs. There’s a difference. You might say there’s a big difference.
“i am confused and i do not know what to”: Me either, my friend. Me either.
“potty training donkeys”: I don’t get it. What’s with all the potty training searches?
“how to pump a stomach at home”: !!!
“mormon and ‘elimination communication’”: I would love to know how these two things intersect in the searcher’s mind. Is he or she looking for a Mormon approach to elimination communication? The Mormon doctrinal position on elimination communication? There is that widespread belief that Mormon women plan to spend eternity being pregnant and giving birth, so I guess it follows logically that we would also spend eternity toilet training. In which case it looks like I really have made my home a heaven on earth.
“how to pronounce gefilte”: Like it’s spelled, meshuggah goy!
“bottom costume midsummer”: At first I thought this was another one of those sicko perv things, and then I realized it was just some naive Shakespeare lover. I can’t remember the last time I Googled with such innocence.
“mormons doctrine of losing reproductive”: What? Losing reproductive what? Reproductive rights? Reproductive capabilities? Reproductive organs? Where do I sign up?
“duran’s ‘infested tone’”: I’m sure this could only have led to one of my many posts on Duran Duran. This has not heretofore been public knowledge, but it’s in my blog mission statement to bring culture to the masses. I’m glad I could make a difference.
“can tuna ahi fish be eaten by sda member”: It’s also in my mission statement to educate the masses on the dietary habits of Seventh-day Adventists, especially as it relates to foods rich in Omega-3 fatty acids.
“why cant mormons go out on sundays”: Because Sunday is when we stay home and use our reproductive before we lose it.
“lisa jangles”: Okay, this was the name of Sugar Daddy’s first character on Knights of the Old Republic. He let Mister Bubby name her, and MB was actually planning to marry her when he grew up, but then he turned five and moved on to other ladies. Or maybe he hasn’t. Maybe he’s on the internet looking for his childhood sweetheart. Maybe Lisa Jangles is the name of a famous porn star. Maybe MB isn’t allowed to use the computer anymore. I’m going to stop talking about this.
“how did odin lose his eye”: This is where SD wipes away a tear and wonders how he got so lucky to have a wife who quotes Manowar songs on her blog.
“things mormans wont tell you about”: Here’s something I will tell you about, dude–it’s MorMON. MorMON, dammit!
“wacky mormon beliefs”: You might try to narrow your search a little, buddy.
“yoplait lite ’seamstress’”: I am racking my brain trying to think of how low-fat yogurt relates to needlework. I’ve got nothing. I’m throwing it out to you all now.
“mistress + toilet training”: And I thought my life was hard.
“nymphomaniac blog mormon”: I’m pretty sure every Mormon gal with a blog shows up on this search, but I’m probably the only one who actually gets visited as a result of such a search. Why? Because I’ve got the toileting posts and the cultural stuff to recommend me. This is where it all intersects, baby.
I’m calling Pennsylvania for Hillary.
But I think Obama will beat the spread. I don’t even know what that means; I just like the way it sounds.
Once the Right decided to rally ’round McCain, circling the wagons and whatnot, they really went whole-hog–if I may use the expression “whole-hog.” Is isn’t politically incorrect, is it? Though I guess if it is, it’s still appropriate to use when you’re talking about Republicans, eh? (Not because Republicans are pigs, but because they’re politically incorrect. Or maybe because they are pigs. Suit yourself.) Anyway, as I mentioned in a recent post, I think they’ve been going a little overboard on their Obama-bashing–probably because they think he’s going to be the nominee.
I myself am not so sure. Random-jokes-I’ve-made-in-the-past aside, I really don’t favor one Democratic candidate over the other. Policy-wise, they’re enough alike that I just can’t develop a real preference. Yes, I know they’re not exactly the same. I don’t think all Koreans look alike either, okay? I’m just saying that when you don’t like peanut butter, you really can’t develop a hankering for Jif over Skippy or vice versa. All I know is that I’ve never cared for Peter Pan, and I’m really glad John Edwards is out of the race, too. Okay, the peanut butter analogy isn’t working for me because I love peanut butter and even though Peter Pan is not my favorite, it’s still way more appealing than John Edwards will ever be. Unless John Edwards became mute. Maybe if he were forced to eat a dozen Peter Pan peanut-butter sandwiches and he hadn’t got milk–no, wait, I’m just talking crazy now. What was I saying?
Oh yeah. I’m not sure who’s going to win this nomination. I doubted Hillary once, before New Hampshire–but I won’t make that mistake again. I knew she’d get Texas, but when she got Ohio, too, I thought, “Dude, I am totally never doubting the Hillster again.” I call her the Hillster sometimes. Like just now. Anyway, it’s true that one of my reasons for never underestimating the Hillster is that I simply won’t put anything past her. And by “won’t put anything past her,” I don’t mean like selling nuclear secrets to Iran. I’m talking everything short of that. (The Clintons may be sneaky, but they’re still patriots.)
On the other hand, Obama is still Obama. He doesn’t have a name I can easily transform into something hip and ridiculous–unless I went with “the Obamanator” (hey, that’s not bad)–but he’s still very appealing. For one thing, he seems nice. Doesn’t he? For another thing, he’s still the candidate of hope and change. For yet another thing, he is not Hillary. One should never underestimate the importance of not being Hillary. But are hope and change and not being Hillary enough to propel him to the nomination? I don’t know. He doesn’t strike me as being ruthless enough to get those SuperDelegates. But I don’t even understand what SuperDelegates are all about in the first place, so what do I know?
I have not read any of Obama’s books. I haven’t read Hillary’s books, either, so they’re even. I’m waiting for Hillary to write her real autobiography, at which time I will totally be reading it–unless Bill’s real biography comes out at the same time, in which case hers would have to take a back seat, no offense to her. I’m not particularly interested in It Takes a Village. Similarly, I’m not particularly interested in Barack’s The Audacity of Hope. No offense to hope, I’m just not interested. I have been meaning to read Dreams from My Father, but just haven’t gotten around to it yet.
A couple weeks ago Hugh Hewitt started playing lengthy excerpts from the audio-book version of Dreams (read by Barack himself) on his radio program. The first thing he played was an excerpt that had Barack using the F-word a lot. (They bleeped it, of course, but it was still pretty obvious.) Hugh Hewitt seemed to think that people wouldn’t like a presidential candidate who records his own book on tape and says the actual F-word actually himself–that being on audio record using such language is unbefitting the dignity of the office and Americans would be turned off. Most of his callers (none of whom were Democrats and none of whom planned to vote for Obama) disagreed.
I disagreed, too (and I wasn’t even a caller). While voters make decisions based on some pretty superficial criteria, I don’t think anybody makes a voting decision based on a candidate’s audio book. Because you know, year after year politicians come out with these books, promising they’ll be interesting or educational, but they never are, and after years of hearing all these promises of interesting books and never seeing any evidence of it in their own libraries, folks get bitter and frustrated and cling to the stuff they know is constant, like guns and religion. Obama understands this, which is why you can’t count him out.
On the other hand, he does seem to be heading on a downward spiral as of late. In my opinion, the Jeremiah Wright thing is on the back burner for now, but it would certainly resurface in the general election, whether it deserves to or not. On the other hand, who really cares about Jeremiah Wright? It’s impossible for me to gauge because I don’t care about Jeremiah Wright, but that’s because I don’t care about Obama. However, Obama’s performance in the last debate was, by all accounts, lame. I heard some clips on the radio and read the transcript on the internet, and I have to agree with all accounts: he was lame. Hillary was on her game–but when you consider the strength of her game when it’s on and the wind is blowing in the right direction, how much does that really mean? She was less lame. But what do I know? I prefer Skippy.
I hope Democrats don’t mind that I’m poaching y’all’s primary–because there just ain’t nothing going on over at GOP headquarters. Make that GOP-HQ, I like the sound of that, too.
Some commentators on the right seem to be laboring under the impression–or fantasy–that the Democrats are going to have a brokered convention and they could very well end up pulling a candidate out of their collective ass (pun intended–oh, like you wouldn’t have done the same in my position) and nominating some random guy like Al Gore. The wonks over at National Review keep telling me it could happen, but I think they’re just trying to get attention. Democrats seem to like the Al Gore, but I don’t think common folks would take too kindly to having all their primary votes ignored. Also, I don’t think Al Gore wants to be president anymore. I think he’s found his niche in life. He seems happy. Why would he run for President, when he’s already aging so poorly?
In the interest of entertainment, though, I’ll throw this question out to the audience. If the race were suddenly thrown wide open (short of a Constitutional change that would allow foreign-born citizens to become President–I mean, let’s not get too crazy), who would you want to run? Nominate candidates for either party or both. This is an open primary, so to speak. An open primary in Chicago, where you can vote twice, even if you’re dead. Maybe especially if you’re dead. (But don’t tell me you’re dead just to creep me out.) Mi comment box es su comment box. (That’s a nod to you voters who are still hung up on the immigration issue.) Go!
Sugar Daddy: Are you trying to tell me something with all these romantic movies in your queue?
Madhousewife: They’re not romantic movies. They’re movies without stuff blowing up. I can’t watch them when I’m with you because you always want the movies with stuff blowing up.
SD: Why would you want to watch a movie without stuff blowing up?
Mad: Exactly.
I’ve been out of the loop for a while, what with tap dancing and party planning and all manner of needless distraction, so I’m just now getting back into the news of the world. Oh, okay, not the world, just my own country. I’ll get back to the world tomorrow. What’s the hurry? The world’s problems will always be with us. Sensationalized American news stories only stay relevant for so long.
Tempest-in-a-teapot stories have the shortest shelf lives, so I’ll start there. I’ve been reading about this remark that Barack Obama made at a fundraiser a little over a week ago:
But the truth is, is that, our challenge is to get people persuaded that we can make progress when there’s not evidence of that in their daily lives. You go into some of these small towns in Pennsylvania, and like a lot of small towns in the Midwest, the jobs have been gone now for 25 years and nothing’s replaced them. And they fell through the Clinton administration, and the Bush administration, and each successive administration has said that somehow these communities are gonna regenerate and they have not. So it’s not surprising then that they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren’t like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations.
Now, that’s offensive on a couple different levels, but not something I would have considered noteworthy, were it not for the fact that Hillary Clinton responded by calling Obama’s remarks “elitist.” Excuse me for just a minute.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Okay, sorry about that, couldn’t be helped. Seriously, Hil? Seriously? I mean, I expect this sort of commentary from right-wingers, who are quick to take umbrage at lefties calling folks racist gun-nut Jesus freaks just because they don’t always vote their pocketbooks the way they should. But are you really trying to tell me that you yourself don’t personally subscribe to every word of Obama’s ill-considered characterization of Pennsylvanians who aren’t buying what he’s selling?
Oh, sure, you’d be smart enough not to say anything until after you lost the primary. True, true, there’s a lot to be said for timely elitism as opposed to premature elitism. But still. Seriously?
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Ah, that’s a good one.
Speaking of Hillary and her famous non-elitism, I wish she’d stop dropping the g’s from her -ing verbs whenever she gets in front of an audience she suspects is less educated than she is. Her husband can get away with that that. He’s from Arkansas. George W. Bush can get away with it, too, because he talks like an uncultured rube in front of everyone. Hillary, on the other hand, needs to just stop it. right. now. because it’s getting on my nerves. Seriously–no, really, seriously serious this time, no laughing–it is not even remotely endearing because it is so obviously phony and condescending. As Obama might say, you’re likeable enough, Hillary. Just be yourself and don’t try so hard.
I said, no laughing!
This one is a little musty, but in the interest of bipartisan sniping, I am also going to condemn my fellow right-wing nutjobs for commenting on Obama’s recent remarks about the importance of sex education. Speaking of his own daughters, ages 9 and 6, he said, “I am going to teach them first of all about values and morals. But if they make a mistake, I don’t want them punished with a baby.” He also said he wouldn’t want them punished with a sexually transmitted disease. So naturally social conservatives jumped on this and said it demonstrates that Obama must think the following:
Baby = Punishment
Baby = STD
And then they said it was understandable, given that Obama has something like a 100 rating from NARAL. If he favors abortion, of course he thinks babies are punishments! They’re like STD’s!
Okay, number one, that’s stupid.
Number two, just drop the “every child is a blessing no matter what circumstances he or she is born under” business because I don’t hear this kind of rhetoric when the subject is how much out-of-wedlock births hurt our society.
Number three, Obama may be “articulate” and “clean,” but he’s still a mortal man. Honest people should concede that this was just an imperfect way of saying, “Having a baby when you’re a teenager tends to screw up your life.” Is it a death sentence? Is it the end of the world? No, but it’s still not every father’s dream for his little girl. Nor is an STD, for that matter. So let’s just drop this and focus on him being an elitist. Hillary needs our help.
Well, that’s it for today. I’ve got some lunch to make and some babies to be punished by. Catch you crazy kids later.
Dear Princess Zurg,
Today you turned 10. That means you’ve been here with us for a full decade, and also that I feel old.
I was just thinking about how grown-up you’ve become. Today we hosted the biggest birthday party of your partying career. Fourteen of your friends came. (It rained, of course.) You got along well with everyone, even the annoying kids, and accepted all of your gifts graciously. I was especially impressed later in the day, when your brother made a comment in front of your friend that might have embarrassed her, but you quickly changed the subject. That was mature and thoughtful, and I was very pleased with you.
I was also pleased that you weren’t too mature for a rousing game of Pin the Fork on Lord Barkis. You’ll be in double digits a long time. There’s no need to grow up too fast.
Happy Birthday, my sweet girl,
Mommy
This might be the weirdest thing I have ever seen.
My initial response was, “I wanted to like that. But I think it just made me really uncomfortable.” Then I decided to watch it again. Why? I don’t know. Do you ever pass by a really bad traffic accident and then decide to go back and have another look? Me either. And yet I did here. I can’t explain myself.
On second viewing, I thought maybe I did like it. Because it is just that bad. It’s really bad. On the other hand, it is also awesome. How can I reconcile these two facts? I should watch it again. And yet, I should not. I should let the thing die. I should not post it on my blog. So why is it here?
I think that maybe, rather than being like watching a bad traffic accident, it is like pressing on a bruise to convince myself that it doesn’t hurt that much. See, I’m pressing on it and it doesn’t hurt that much. Except that it does. It hurts worse. But then I start to think I like to hurt. That’s what this video is like.
HT: Mormon Mommy Wars. Thanks for nothing, ladies.
Last night I heard someone on the radio mention that there was this survey done of American women, and some significant percentage of them said that they would rather have their wisdom teeth pulled than go shopping for a new bathing suit. I thought this was odd. I’ve had my wisdom teeth pulled. It was painful. I’ve gone shopping for bathing suits. That was unpleasant, but still better than a trip to the dentist, in my opinion. And generally I like the dentist. I just don’t like having my wisdom teeth pulled. Fortunately, they don’t grow back. (They don’t, right?) I can honestly say, though, that if you held a gun to my head and said, “Wisdom teeth or bathing suit?” I would pick bathing suit every time.
Of course, I am something of a freak when it comes to bathing suit shopping because the last time I tried on bathing suits, my thoughts were, “This is hideous, this is hideous, this is merely ugly–but dang if I don’t look good for having four kids. Check me out. Not in this suit, though, it’s hideous.” Okay, maybe that’s not exactly how it went down. But generally, if I don’t look good in a bathing suit, I blame the suit, not me, because what human woman should be expected to look totally awesome in a bathing suit? It’s the bathing suit manufacturer’s job to make me look good. I’m paying them, am I not? Did they, at some point, change the expression to “the customer is occasionally right”? No. I rest my case.
That said, I am currently in the unenviable position of needing to do some truly depressing shopping. Since I’ve weaned the baby, I find myself in the market for a new bra. The last time I went shopping for a new (non-nursing) bra was after I weaned Mister Bubby. I went into the store with big dreams and came out with…nothing. Because I couldn’t find the Misses section where they sold the Double A’s. Do they still make AA bras? Because I haven’t seen any since I was in the fifth grade. I guess these days they make the sports-type bras, which don’t have to fit so very precisely because their only job is to smash down whatever bosom you have, which is probably what you want in the fifth grade. It was what I wanted. It’s what I want for my daughter, who got her first bra in third grade. But that’s another blog.
Before I had kids, I wore a B cup, but just barely. I was really more of a B+. That’s what you call a B that’s almost an A, right? Which would make my current size an A+. That’s what you call an A that’s almost…irrelevant. One might wonder why Madhousewife has to bother with a bra at all. Well, if I have to explain these things, you’re not invited to the conversation. I’m eccentric, okay? Humor me.
So these days I wear one of those sports-type bras, which is really comfortable and suits me just fine unless I actually want to look like a woman, and then it is somewhat insufficient for my purposes. And I realized recently that I have no idea where to look for a bra that suits my figure–if I may use the term so loosely. I know lots of women swear by the Victoria’s Secret, but I have not observed that Victoria’s Secret sells anything in an A cup. Maybe I just visit the wrong Victoria’s Secret stores. Perhaps I live in a region of the country where breasts tend to be on the big side, and it just isn’t worth VS’s while to stock stuff for the little gal–though if anyone needs the Victoria’s Secret, you’d think it would be the little gal, wouldn’t you? Well, I would. I do. But that’s neither here nor there.
From what little casual shopping I’ve been able to do in recent weeks, I have ascertained that department stores sell about 437 different types of bras, most of which cannot be worn by women like me without also investing in a ten-pack of tube socks. I would really like to have a bra that gives the illusion of breasts being there. I’ve looked at the “padded” bras. Yeah. For the woman who wants to add a couple millimeters to her bust size. I’m a little more ambitious than that. Also, I take one look at the “padded” A-cup bras, and I wonder, what am I going to do with all that space? I could wear it, and maybe I’d look like I had breasts–until someone bumped into me and the thing just caved in because there was nothing but an inch-and-a-half of air behind the padding.
I need something functional. Like, maybe a bra they would sell to (double) mastectomy patients? I mean no disrespect. I’m just trying to give you an idea of what I have to work with, which is nothing. Which is why I can’t wear the “push-up” bras. I don’t need cleavage. It’s against my religion to show cleavage anyway. I just want a little, I don’t know, “stuffing.” You know what I’m saying?
And please don’t think that I’m ungrateful. I’d much rather have my little bosom problem than a big bosom problem. If you have a big bosom problem, you have my sympathy, truly. But enough about you. Can we get back to me? I’m particularly interested to hear from others in my situation–small-breasted women who wear bras. What do you recommend? Tube socks? Surgery? If your answer is getting pregnant again, forget it. I’d rather have my wisdom teeth pulled.
Which reminds me, with these new and reduced breasts, I’m going to need a new bathing suit, too. Fashion industry, be on alert.
Tomorrow the housekeepers are supposed to come, and this house is a disaster area. Ever see that old Whoopi Goldberg movie, Corrina, Corrina? There’s that scene where Whoopi/Corrina the housekeeper goes to clean a rich person’s house and it’s a disaster area but she has to clean it anyway because that’s her job? That’s not my housekeepers’ job, cleaning disaster areas. They clean surfaces “reasonably free of clutter.” None of my house’s surfaces are currently “reasonably free of clutter.” I am so tired. I don’t know how I will get the surfaces reasonably free of clutter in the next 18 hours. Yesterday Elvis got into his closet and discovered all of the boxes full of stuff that the insurance people packed up after the fire and which we haven’t seen fit to deal with yet. Elvis saw fit to deal with it all. By “deal with it,” I mean that he opened all of the boxes and dumped their contents onto his bedroom floor. Including the box of miscellaneous toy parts which I was planning to throw away when no one was looking. Including the box of our framed pictures, one of which had its glass pane broken when the box fell to the floor. It was uncool. The whole situation is uncool.
I know, you should have my problems. Why am I blogging when I have so much to do? Because I’m a lazy crapface who likes to whine, that’s why. Haven’t you figured that out yet?
This morning I was driving to the grocery store and watched a school bus pass in front of me. I saw one of the students through the windows; she looked unhappy. Not suicidal-unhappy, just bummed out to be going to school. Monday morning, you know. Or maybe she was suicidal, who knows. I was just thinking back to when I used to take the school bus, when I used to go to school. I lived in Oregon and went to school on many a morning just like this one–damp and non-commital. You look eastward and you see fluffy white clouds against a bright blue sky. You look westward and there’s a storm happening or about to happen. You’ll see the sun today, but it’s impossible to tell how much of it or how often.
Often the weather triggers memories of my childhood. I don’t know why that would be. I’ve intentionally suppressed most of my childhood, for no particular reason, but little things bring it back to me against my will. This morning I was thinking how glad I was not to be on a bus headed for school. Sometimes when I visit my children’s schools, I put myself in that place again, behind the little desk next to all the other little desks, alphabet marching the perimeter of the ceiling, walls smothered in pertinent information. Education is very colorful in elementary school. It looks delightful from the outside, but when I imagine myself inside, remembering those days as a young child at school, I can’t help getting a little bit sick. I realize you couldn’t pay me to do these years over again.
Princess Zurg asks me from time to time whether it’s harder to be a kid or an adult. I tell her adults have more responsibilities, because to her that’s what “hard” means. I also tell her that adults have more freedoms–because they have more responsibilities. She doesn’t really process any of this. She’s convinced that kids have it worse, and frankly, I’m not sure that she’s wrong.
I didn’t have some horrific childhood. I recall some very pleasant experiences, even in school, which I really liked for the first few years I went. I wonder if part of the reason I don’t like to remember those aspects of my childhood is that my children’s experience is and will continue to be so different. They don’t get to spend their afternoons exploring the vacant lot, randomly meeting kids in the neighborhood streets, riding their bikes to the local store, generally enjoying the lack of adult supervision and consequent interference. But mostly I think I just don’t like remembering that general sense of helplessness, being at the mercy of adults and their plans for me. Was this really the way I felt at the time, or is it just my perspective as an adult? I treasure my adult perspective; maybe this is my problem. I don’t want to trade experience for innocence because innocence doesn’t last. That’s why the prospect of reliving childhood fills me with dread. Fortunately, you only have to do childhood once. Unless you become a parent, that is.
Next Tuesday Princess Zurg starts at the School for Incorrigible Girls. Initially I was disheartened to learn that they’d accepted her to their program. Deep inside I was really hoping that they would tell us PZ wasn’t bad off enough to benefit from their services. I thought, This is not what I want for my child. But in the last week it’s become clear to me that this is the correct course of action, and the fact that I don’t want it is basically irrelevant. I don’t want a lot of things, but to a large extent they are out of my control. Where I was once at the mercy of adults and their plans for me, I’m now at the mercy of my kids and their plans for themselves.
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