Sunny Days in DC

Jack of All Trades, Master of 3-ish.

And then I screamed “HUZZAH!” and jumped off a cliff.

Babies are wonderful, joyous, tiny little assholes. And if you ever say that in public, people are like, “Oh, you’re a TERRIBLE mother! How can you say that?! Babies are our reason for BEING!” and then they walk away, and you have to take the tiny, screaming, poop-covered jerk to a bathroom where you wrestle with them to strip them naked, clean them, change them, and hope they don’t reward you by peeing on your clothes, or projectile pooping across the room. Cuz guess what? That’s totally a thing.

The nice part is, though, sometimes you get another parent in the room, and you’re like, “OMFG MY BABY IS BEING A TINY DONKEY DICK!” and they’re all, “I KNOW! I’m thinking of selling mine to passing Gypsies. Your thoughts?” And you bond over visions of running away to some warm, tropical island, and letting your child run naked across a beach, because that’s natural. And nature doesn’t wear diapers. Or poop itself.

No, I DON’T care if that’s wrong. Leave me to my beautiful world…

Anyway, that’s what I did this weekend… not poop myself. The Husband’s family was in from New York, and of his three female cousins, one has a baby Max’s age, one is pregnant, and one just got married. It was all very “Circle of Life.”

The One With The Baby, her husband, and I sat around and discussed the fact that I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in 9 months. If you’re not sure what that feels like, try backing up about ten feet, then run repeatedly into a parked car for about 15 minutes while listening to the dulcet tones of cats in heat.

It’s like that.

Oh, and everyone says, “Wow. You look like shit.”

Thank you. I’m raising a tiny human who burst forth from my womb, but I DID forget my mascara today, so you should TOTALLY FEEL FREE TO JUMP UP MY BUTT ABOUT THAT.

Anyway, She Who Has El Bebe and I were discussing sleep.

“We’re going to Ferberize him.” she said.

me: “That’s… kinky?”

Her: “It’s like a progressive Cry it Out thing. How old is Max? Six months? He should be sleeping for twelve hours straight…”

At this point, I lost all control of my brain and may have blacked out. I knew she kept talking, but a part of me went into shock at the thought of twelve hours straight. Of sleep. That I wasn’t getting…

…because every two hours, Max likes to wake me up.

“Are you… don’t… DON’T LIE TO ME!!! TWELVE HOURS?!?!” I may have gotten a little scary at this point, and I may or may not have run across the room, and pinned her to the wall like some kind of scene out Kill Bill.

Here’s the kicker though. At six months, babies learn that they can manipulate you with their cries. Why? I have a theory that at some point, all babies get together and agree that FUCK SLEEP. FUCK EVERY THING ABOUT SLEEP. AND FUCK YOU FOR WANTING SLEEP. So they’re going to fight you. And the only thing you can do is ignore them.

But not too much, because then that’s neglect (so Law & Order tells me). And not too little, because then you’re a “helicopter” parent, which sounds awesome because think of all the time and money you’d save on your commute if you were part helicopter.

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*And think of how much time you could spend popping all the bubbles on this kid! I mean, jesus, you could just punch him for FUN! Not that I would… cause that’s… bad?*

So, we’re Crying it Out. Kinda. I’m sitting here typing while I hear Max complain upstairs. If he really starts losing it, I’ll go up and snuggle him, and hate myself for it in the morning. But for now, I need to get on this “sleep” thing I hear so much about.

Because right now, I’m so tired, that I my kidneys feel like I have tiny cats dancing in them, and I need to commit to some kind of plan of action to get a good night’s rest. So, huzzah! Here we go merrily jumping off the cliff of SLEEP TRAINING!

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Who Would Have Thought Hell Would Be So Warm!

Once again, it’s time for that moment of, “Oh, you don’t think the same way I do?” featuring: me.

While strolling through the garden of WordPressiness, I stumbled upon this. It’s actually quite sweet; the author discusses how he’s filled with the holiday spirit, and how it’s very calming and soothing for him. I really liked it!

Only… when all the stores are closed, and everyone is in their homes, opening presents, or eating figgy pudding (or whatever), I like to go outside and walk around when it’s silent, and pretend I’m in a post apocalyptic world.

I’m such an asshole.

I do the same thing during blackout here in Maryland, which (Thanks very much, Pepco!), happens frequently. As soon as I hear that all the electricity is out, I pack the family in the car, and head to the mall. I walk right into Target, and sit in the camping section on a lawn chair, and watch as people wander the aisles. Inevitably, someone picks up an item they think they need, and tries to check out at the cashier, only to be reminded that the registers aren’t working. Forlornly, they’ll place their item down and walk away.

That’s how I know all those books and movies about the apocalypse are wrong. People will NOT run into a panic. First, they’ll just walk around dazed and confused, trying to buy random shit from Target.

…then, then the Amish will fucking OWN this country. Think about it. I can’t churn motherfucking butter! I don’t know how to birth a cow.

Maybe I could blog on, like, a tree or something for them. I’d be their dancing monkey.

…cause that’s all I got.

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Poly Dismorphic Disorder

Our evening went like this:

Hubs: “So, you’re heading out with Tim tonight?”

Me: “Yeah. His group is doing a class on the Poly lifestyle, and one of the things I want to find out is how they make that work. I mean, your communication skills have to be off the chart, right?! I can barely manage ONE relationship, and some of these people have FIVE!”

Hubs: “Maybe I’ll go with you.”

Me: “Oh jeez.”

Hubs: “Well! You don’t know! Maybe I’ll find another girlfriend there! How would you like that?! Then you can nap while someone else helps with the laundry!”

At this point, my husband thought he was UNBELIEVABLY clever. As thought all your problems could be solved by adding one more person to the mix. I tried to explain that I REALLY doubted that adding more people to a crazy situation actually helped stabilize it, but to no avail. My husband was pretty sure he was gonna start his own suburban harem. So I was all, “Right. We have a sitter, so let’s just go,” because when you have a child, you mostly just want to be out of the house. With or without said child. (Holy crap, I hope he never reads this!)

Let me say this: after having taken the class, I am now pretty darn sure that I could never be polyamorous (in multiple relationships), or even polyfidelous (in multiple COMMITTED relationships). Why? If you have to ask, you have no idea how much energy it takes with the ONE INSANE relationship I already have. Not my hubs, he was off in some crazy world where he had women falling over themselves to accomplish his every whim.

Ladies Man

*That’s right, ladies. These are original Dungeons and Dragons cards! OMG, PUSSY AVALANCHE!! – My husband’s brain*

The class started, and an average looking woman walked up to the front and started talking about what it takes to be in many poly relationships. AND THEN, she started talking about the difference between being Poly, and just being slutty. Surprise surprise, my hubs is a slut. As she was describing the difference I looking over at him and said (not too quietly either), “HEY!! THAT’S YOUUUUUUUUUU!!!” That went over REALLY well with everybody but him. Still, he is kinda slutty, so, you know: the spade is a spade.

The “instructor” talked about how vital communication is, and how many people think they want to be poly so that they can substitute whatever they’re not getting in their current relationship, by adding someone new. Doesn’t work, she says, because if you never confront and deal with problems in any relationship, you can keep meeting people but nothing will last. I thought that was just generally good advice.

“Are you coming next week?” Tim whispers in my ear as my husband sits flabbergasted at all the work he would have to do if he took on a new girlfriend… not to mention the bits of his pieces that he would have to hunt down in the middle of the night once I had cut them off.

“What’s next week?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the speaker who has somehow wandered into a conversation about talking monkeys and while I don’t know how that happened, I am enjoying it. Because TALKING MONKEYS.

“The board meeting. Politics. We’re going to outline the curriculum for the year, and discuss speakers and lesson plans.”

*Sigh.*

“Tim. When does your pervy group ever do anything, you know… PERVY?!”

“This is mostly an educational group.”

Figures I would fall in with the book-reading pervs.

The class ends and little chunks of people get up; 3 here, 4 there, and everyone starts saying goodnight. I look at the hubby, and he looks back at me.

“Not what you thought it would be, huh?”

“Not even close, babe.”

“No girlfriend for you?”

“The CLASS was exhausting enough!”

Poly Dismorphic Disorder: Thinking you can go poly until you find out what it is and realize, no, you’re just slutty.

2 Comments »

Thou Art G-D.

Twenty points if you know the reference.

I’m feeling beat down and exhausted. Not necessarily in a bad way, just in that, “I could really use a week long vacation” sort of way. Some place warm. With sun. And umbrellas because I’m fucking pasty as hell and burst into flames in direct sunlight. True story.

Anyway, the hubs and I are at something of an impasse. For the past two years,we’ve had these friends who have been sliding down what I consider to be the very slippery slope of religion.

This won’t be a long post because, again, I’m completely done in, but suffice it to say that while I consider myself a relatively “religious” person (I… you know…. no, ok, maybe not), I don’t trust other “religious” people.That’s a terrible thing to say… but I’m ok with it.

These friends have begun putting more and more pressure on us to join them, and their merry cult of faithful. I have zero interest. I don’t mind Friday night dinners, and I don’t mind celebrating holidays, but when you start telling me that G-D has a vested interest in whether or not I wear a skirt, you’ve lost me.

Until now, however, the hubs and I have had a detente of sorts, where I just don’t attend the more religious services, and he goes, but just hangs out with our friends.

Enter: The Peanut.

However, now with our son, I’d like to go to services as a family. That presents a problem, because as our friends continue their descent into the abyss of graceless obedience, I’m left standing on the edge, and feeling like a party pooper.

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*SHUT UP, HOUSE! JUST BECAUSE IT’S TRUE, DOESN’T MEAN IT’S NICE TO SAY OUT LOUD!*

Why can’t I be ok with going to a “Women’s Section” of the synagogue, while my husband hangs out with the men? Why can’t I just wear skirts, cover my hair, keep a kosher home, and obsess over not using electrical appliances after sundown on Friday night? I think, in so many ways, my life would be easier if I could stop fighting against the river of Faithful that surrounds me, and float along, buoyed by apathy and compliance.

But then, that isn’t me. I don’t like being sidelined. And as much as my husband thinks he likes these people, let any one of them have a gay child, and we can all sit back and watch just how “welcoming” the community is then. Or a transgendered child. Or even just a kid who’s different.

And I LIKE being different. I like wearing pants, and I like cursing, and I’m going to tell my son that masturbation and sex are ok, and hanging out with non-Jews is not only perfectly ok, but he SHOULD. Because the world isn’t made up entirely of our community, and there’s a richness to different perspectives.

And it’s sad to me that some people neglect to throw themselves into the world and experience it from as many angles as possible, choosing instead to withdraw into a community of exclusively like-minded folk.

At the end of the day, and in all honesty, I believe each person really has a responsibility to themselves to learn, and do, and see as much as possible. You can’t grow every aspect of yourself if you shut down everything that doesn’t fit in with a group. And how sad is that? To not live up to your potential as a human being. To not do everything you can, when the possibility is there?

Wow. I’m pretty fucking tired.

Forget I said all that.

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And That’s How My Mom Ended Up On The Stage With The Male Strippers. I Swear.

Ok, yes, this post starts out kinda sad, but I promise you strippers. Strippers, Las Vegas, and drugs. Male strippers, it’s true, but strippers nonetheless. So, you know, work with me here.

I haven’t always been the well-adjusted person you’ve come to love over the past few… days. Actually, I guess we don’t really know each other that well at all. Still, it’s amazing how you can look at the things that other people go through in their lives, and somehow, completely relate.

Depression and anxiety run in my family. They run in my husband’s family, too. When he and I were dating, I took a minute on more than one occasion to consider whether dating and marrying someone, and also probably having children with them, when you both share a propensity toward… that… is a smart idea. What if you end up having kids with depression? What if what they have is worse than anything you ever wrestled with on your darkest nights?

It gives you pause.

My depression and anxiety were never that bad, until 2003.

In 2002, my college sweetheart (d’awwwww!) and I graduated. Well, I graduated. He was an English foreign exchange student, so he went back to the UK to finish up his last year. I traveled back and forth between New York, where I lived, worked, and was attending graduate school, and London, where he was finishing up school.

As hard as it is for some people to believe, it really wasn’t that tough. Yeah, it sucked that we couldn’t see each other every night, or even every weekend, but honestly… military wives have it worse. All I had to do was save up cash, and I got to see my boyfriend, AND Big Ben… yes, take that last sentence as you will. 

At some point, shit took a turn for the worse. My family lives in Brooklyn, and both my mother and step father developed Cancer as a result of exposure to the crap in the air during 9/11. I quit my job to take care of them, but things got more complicated, so I ended up quitting school as well.

That sucked, but I honestly don’t have any regrets. My life is taking a different turn anyway.

Then… then in 2003, on a trip where he had planned to propose, the boyfriend broke up with me. Any one of those things would have been a lot, but all combined, it was too much for me. I spoke with a doctor, and he agreed to put me on a combination of medications: Clonazipam, and Zoloft.

Holy. Shitballs.

The first thing I get asked by a lot of people is: did it work? I guess some folks have a hard time with Zoloft?

Hells yeah it did!

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*FUCK YEAH!*

But I knew that these things were only meant to be temporary, so I decided to work my way off of the anti-anxiety meds (Clonazipam) as soon as I could manage it.

That’s when my mom won an all-expenses paid trip to Vegas.

For clarification, Vegas on Clonazipam looks like this:

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*Your hotel room is behind the giant screaming triangle. Welcome to Bat Country.*

So now, I’m trying to come down off of a highly addictive anti-anxiety medication, in one of the most stimulating cities in the country, while simultaneously ignoring all the strip clubs and nude/ partially nude/ at-this-point,-it-doesn’t-even-matter-because-YOU’RE-IN-FUCKING-LAS-VEGAS-WITH-YOUR-PARENTS flashing signs and images.

Anyway, my step father had officially proposed to my mother only weeks before, and since we were in Vegas, my mom decided she wanted to see a show. Because Las Vegas is known for its…. theater scene? Anyway, she finds a show called “Australian Thunder from Down Under,” and buys tickets for the two of us. I’m not sure where my step father was… honestly, I’m not sure about a lot of things that week.

I’m pretty sure that donkey thing never happened.

Anywho…

When I would later ask her why that show, as I delicately removed a piece of a male performer’s costume from the back of my shirt (no lie), she would say that it was “nearby,” and she’d “never been to Australia.”

It all seemed so perfectly logical, until the lights went down, and the strobe lights came on. That was also the moment that my anti-anxiety medication chose to kick in, and I realized that I could taste music, and feel the universe breathe.

It was everything you can imagine from a (legal!) drug freakout in a dark room filled with oiled up men who were dancing around you and your mother, who had purchased her tickets using the AARP discount. At some point, they asked if anyone there was engaged to be married.

Of course, she raised her hand.

They brought her up on stage and proceeded to give her a personal lap dance, while I sat quietly in the front row and wondered whether this was all really happening, and if it was, did it mean that I now needed more or less medication to deal. I still ponder…

On our way back to the hotel room, we walked through the slots section of the floor, because everything in Las Vegas is “on the other side of the floor, through the slots.”

It’s an odd kind of clarity you get from these drugs sometimes. I can’t speak for illegal drugs because I’ve never done any, but as I floated across the room with my mom in tow, I suddenly felt sad for all the people sitting at the machines. They were just these tiny people, sitting in impenetrable plastic bubbles, never talking to each other, never interacting. A room chock full of people, each inside of their own little worlds, all of which were touching each other, but who were each completely alone… 

But coming down was oddly the most amazing/terrifying experience of my life. I don’t think I would ever have been able to have had those thoughts, or look at people the way I did, if I hadn’t been coming off of my meds. I’m not promoting pharmaceuticals, or saying that everything can be solved by them, or that even ANYTHING can be solved by them. My meds worked for me, and I’m no longer on them. I’ve moved past that stage of my life. But I get how someone can say that drugs could alter how you look at things. I think it’s fine, and even accurate to call these things a “crutch.” If you break your leg, you rightly need a crutch. Then, ideally, you learn to wean yourself off of it. But a crutch isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

In sum, I found Zoloft to be numbing. The anti-anxiety meds gave me tremendously odd experiences, but Zoloft dulled the emotion I felt around them. Instead of being sad about the slot machine slaves, I just felt… observant. I don’t miss that part, and I don’t know that I would ever want to go back…

But holy shit y’all, what a wild fucking ride!!!!

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*Yeah, not all of us make it out alive, kid. Sorry!*

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And That’s How My Nipples Stopped the Mayan Apocalypse.

A couple of months ago, I went up to NYC to visit my mom. Naturally, I brought my son, as Child Protective Services seems to look down on placing your children in crates, like some folks do with dogs.

Fucking nanny state!

Anyway, while on a walk around Prospect Park with my mom, my son decided he was hungry, and now was a good time to eat. Whatever. After you’ve perched in a backless gown on the end of a bed as an anesthesiologist shoots a needle into your spine and tells you the latest jokes he heard from his eight-year-old, while your body is wracked with the wondrous joys of burgeoning motherhood, you really don’t give a shit if someone sees your boob.

Let me clarify: I am completely discrete. You don’t need to see my nipples, and I don’t necessarily WANT you to see my nipples. That being said, my mother’s reaction was a little frustrating.

“OH MY G-D!!!” she shouted, and threw her body in front of me like she was blocking a pass during a game of English Premier League soccer.

“HOLY SHIT, WHAT?!?!” I got all pissed. CLEARLY, she was blocking my view of something awesome/terrifying that was happening just out of my line of sight.

“You’re EXPOSING yourself! Oh… I hope we don’t get arrested!”

“Don’t get…. what?!” I looked at her in surprise. This is the woman who chained herself to the White House gate. This is the woman who went down to Alabama to support integration in schools… and this… this was just… my boob.

“But… mom… it’s just a boob. Look. Look at my boob, mom. LOOK AT MY BOOB!”

Ok, admittedly, this is where things took a turn for the weird. When you’ve been out of work as long as I have, and you enjoy making people as uncomfortable as I do, you sorta just gotta make your own entertainment in life…

“GAZE AT MY MAGNIFICENT MAMMARIES, MOTHER!! BEHOLD, AS I FEED MY CHILD FROM THIS VERY NIPPLE!!!”

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*Like this, but with more…. no, exactly like this.*

As many people know, not much makes New Yorkers stop and take notice anymore. Most of us are able to glance at a situation, quickly assess what’s going on, and continue with our lives. But when you have a young woman, sitting on a park bench nursing a baby, shouting,

“BEHOLD, THE GLORIOUS AREOLAE!”

I feel like some people are just going to stop and look. And let’s be fair, I sustain a person ENTIRELY off of muh boobs. Respect, yo.

But in all seriousness, is that really the worst thing I could be doing in public? I mean, you can’t SEE anything. I’m subtle, because I recognize that not everyone wants to see my lovely lady lumps, and that’s cool. I respect that, and I would hope that other people respect that I need to feed my baby. We’ll all agree to look the other way, and pretend nothing is happening, and everyone can have a delightful day in the park.

But if you’re going to make a big deal out of the fact that I have just whipped out my fully operational glamor guns, then I’m going to have to publicly humiliate you by launching into a dissertation as to how my nipples are not only fantastic at sustaining small humans, but also have the potential of averting global catastrophes.

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*Not if MY boobs have anything to say about it, asshole.*

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The Happiest of Happiness

I GOT A JOB!!! IGOTAJOBIGOTAJOBIGOTAJOBIGOTAJOBIGOTAJOBIGOTAJOBIGOTAJOBIGOTAJOBIGOTAJOBIGOTAJOBIGOTAJOBIGOTAJOBIGOTAJOBIGOTAJOBIGOTAJOBIGOTAJOB

YES, I’M A WORKING WOMAN AGAIN!!!

We are still a hair’s breath away from losing the house, and until I sign the offer letter, and even then- until I walk in the door on the first day- I’ll still feel like I could lose it at any minute.

I was in the grocery store when I got the call. After ten months of being unemployed, I pictured the moment differently. I know that sounds weird… who “pictures” the moment they hear they got a job? But I did. I pictured myself being very dramatic, handing my son off to my aunt as I collapse in a puddle of relief on the floor, thanking every deity I can think of, and making up a few on the spot.

But it didn’t happen like that. I had my son in the carrier on my chest, and I was pushing a cart full of groceries that, two weeks ago, I would not have been able to afford. My unemployment had come through, but the hubs and I were still discussing just how to make the mortgage payments over the upcoming months. Then, my phone started vibrating. I picked it up, and the recruiter said that she wanted to congratulate me on my new job, and was I still interested?

Time didn’t slow down. I didn’t collapse. I didn’t cry, and Ed McMahon didn’t walk into the store with a giant offer letter and balloons. I just stood in the frozen food section and thought, “Ten months. Ten months of begging for help from family. Of staying up at night, not sure where I would get the money to buy Max cold winter clothes. Ten months of crying, but trying to smile so he wouldn’t think there was anything wrong with mommy. Ten months of trying to figure out which bill I COULD pay this month. And it’s over. I can breathe again.”

And I’m stupid, because of COURSE there are people who live this life longer than ten months. There are people who live like that for YEARS. They live less than paycheck to paycheck, and they don’t have friends who pitch in and buy warm jackets and pants for their kids (I was very, very lucky that I have such giving friends and family). I’m a foolish woman who just stood in the frozen food section of the grocery store, thanked the recruiter profusely, and then splurged in celebration, and bought the expensive orange juice.

And yes, we’re still so close. Are my bills paid off? Is the mortgage settled? No and no. And my credit is shot to hell.

But fuck it all, I got a job. I start January 2nd. And I’m finally starting to feel like some of the pressure is releasing. Not all. Not yet… but it’s a start.

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…in which I fall in love with Wil Wheaton, and my vagina turns into the Sahara.

Two things of note happened to me this week:

1) I discovered Wil Wheaton’s tumblr page. I won’t say he’s “king” of the nerds, but he’s probably a pretty-high-up-there Duke. Or Baron. Which one is higher? He’s THAT.

ww

 

2) In MORE exciting My-Body-Just-Loves-Having-Babies news, I found out that you go into a state of quasi-Menopause when you breast feed. Did you know that? Uh huh, guess how I figured that one out….

Hubs: “Hey honey…. I love you….”

Me: “Babe, I’m ummm… I’m uhhh…. I seem to be having some trouble…”

And then a tumbleweed fell out of my vagina, and we heard the distinct sounds of a camel train. We went to the OB for my appointment on Friday.

“Oh yeah,” my doctor says, like I’ve brought up the fact that your hair continues to grow after you cut it, “Totally normal.”

Uhhh, agree to disagree on that. Things should be HAPPENING when my hubby and I get down to business. Things that are NOT happening, and I would like SOMEONE TO FIX IT! Or at least have had the decency to WARN me about this! How did I not know this would happen?! This is serious bologna right here.

“You can use an estrogen cream, or maybe some KY…” I know he kept talking, but honestly, it was hard to hear him over the nomadic tribes that had set up camp on my labia.

So to summarize: men have sex. Women then swell, bloat, get nauseous, possibly throw up, get exhausted, continue to bloat, get kicked in various internal organs by a tiny human who then BURSTS THE FUCK FREE FROM YOUR BODY LIKE A DELETED SCENE OUT OF ALIEN, THEN you have to feed it from your boobs (assuming that works out for you, and a nod to the ladies out there who have a tough time, or who never get the chance), which-btw-hurts like a mofo, then you recover from childbirth as best you can on 30 minutes of sleep at a time, THEN – the kid starts teething, and there’s THAT whole mess to deal with…

And on top of it all, it becomes near fucking impossible to have an orgasm, because your body thinks you’re 60.

HOW have we continued on as a species? I feel like, two generations in, our ancestors must have thought to themselves, “You know, this is just a whole lotta work. Ugg, you go invent the condom. Lugg, get started on the pill. This shit is bananas.”

And we would have died out.

And no civilization.

And then there never would have been Wil Wheaton.

…nicely played, Universe. Nicely played.

 

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Here’s what I’m going to say…

Doubtless, you’ve read/seen dozens of posts or newscasts about the shooting in the elementary school. It’s horrible. It’s…. unspeakable is a good word.

If you ever feel alone, or angry, or hurt enough to not just take it out on yourself (although that’s bad enough), but take it out on others, remember: there are people out there who care about you and are here to listen. They want to hear what you have to say, and they want to help. You may not think so, but it’s true.

I’m one of them.

If you ever need to talk, I am a very good listener. No judgement. Just listening.

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I’m The Reason You Can’t Have Nice Things

The thing is, I never really feel MORE Jewish than during the Christmas season. On the one hand, I totally love the lights, the music, the evergreen trees everywhere (but not having to deal with needles in my carpet, or cleaning up after them!), and the general festivities of the winter time. On the other hand, unlike most of the country, I will not be out spending insane amount of money on family and friends right now, because the only person who could want presents from me is six months old…

…and also I’m broke as hell. I don’t know if I can emphasize that last part enough. Though, after two months without a dime, Unemployment DID finally come through. I splurged, and bought groceries. WATCH OUT! BIG SPENDAH!

Anywho, it’s nice, because I do really get a feeling of happiness and goodwill toward people. It’s pervasive. It’s in the air. Like a nerve gas.

But I’m not Christian. So, while people are decorating their homes, I’m actively reminded of the fact that we will NOT be decorating. Which, let’s be honest, kinda sucks. I mean, you get used to it, but those twinkly lights are festive as FUCK, y’all! I want to throw potential fire hazards all over my house, and have people “Ooooh” and “Ahhhh” as they drive by.

You know what my options are? I get a giant menorah to put out front, if I’m SUPER religious. Which, if you haven’t really picked up on it by now: I am not.

Menorah

*”Shmuli! Get me the EXTRA long marshmellow roaster! Dammit, these things are a bitch to make s’mores with!”*

Don’t get me wrong; I am SUPER proud to be Jewish. And I encourage everyone to be proud of what and who they are. You don’t have to resent someone else to be proud of yourself. I can be thrilled to be Jewish, without thinking there’s anything wrong with Christianity. But let’s be fair: when it comes to decorations, gifts, and a general monopoly on this upcoming month, Christians take the cake.

The delicious, delicious, possibly fruit cake.

So, getting to the point, the husbinator and I have been invited to a Hannukkah party tomorrow night at Chabad, which I guess is like the “hippy-dippy, love-everyone, come join us and sing along,” group of Jews.

To which I replied: k.no thnx.

“Why not?!” asked my ever-patient husband.

“Look, seriously, I don’t want to sit around with a bunch of super religious people, eating fried latkes (potato pancakes), and socializing with ONLY women, because the men are too busy ONLY socializing with men. I always feel like it’s the 1950’s up in there.” This part is totally true. The women chat with the women, and the men chat with the men, and that’s just not me. I don’t MIND chatting with other chicks, but I don’t like being pigeonholed into one group, simply because my genitalia are internal. Honestly, it seems almost as arbitrary a line to me, as if you said “everyone with green eyes sits at this table, and everyone with brown eyes goes over there. We don’t mix.” Like, what?

“We don’t have a lot of options around here, hun.”

“There are the Chinese.”

“I…. what?!”

This is probably why my husband and I don’t have conversations about religion anymore. I feel like Hindus and Buddhists and those folks can relate. We could totally start our own group, and just hang out with a bunch of cool, non-Christian folks this time of year, and I won’t have to put on a skirt.

Not that all of this is a push-back so that I don’t have to put on a skirt.

…all of this might be a push-back so I don’t have to wear a skirt.

Jesus, I make my own life hard!!

FP

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