Arachnophobia

In the old house, pre-Treepocalypse, this once happened.

My Unit: "...and there was a big fucking spider under the fridge that was alive. It may have been -- what's the kind with the fiddle on its back?"
Me: "A brown recluse. Was it a brown recluse?"
My Unit: "I don't think it was brown enough. I just saw something red on it before I sprayed it [with vinegar]."
Me: "That would be a black widow."
My Unit: "I don't know..."
Me: "Did it look like this?" Bringing up spider images on the computer.
My Unit: "I don't know! I already sprayed it."
Me: "Did it....look like Scarlett Johansson?"

TIME Magazine Repost

(originally posted on May 17, 2012)

Since everyone else is talking about it, I might as well join in the fray.  I seem to be at the edges of organic, hippie, breastfeeding community, so what the hell!  Please note that this is simply a visual analysis of the TIME Magazine cover.  I have not read the article itself, nor do I intend to.

So, first and foremost, breastfeeding is about:  food, nutrition, health, and a loving bond between mother and child.  There is nothing loving or remotely food-related about this picture: 

Let's discuss why, shall we? 

• The cover's stark white background leaves the impression of something clinical, or -- at best -- a vacuum devoid of any feelings, especially those of love, care, and nutrition. 

• No one breastfeeds standing up. In addition to nutrition/eating, breastfeeding is often very soothing for children; they end up falling asleep. Therefore, mothers and children are often sitting, cradling, rocking, or even lying down when breastfeeding. I doubt this child is even "eating" during this picture. The fact that the entire thing, then, must be staged adds to the alien, uncomfortable feeling the viewer gets because he's literally hanging out with his mom's boob in his mouth for no particular reason. Boobs in mouths for recreational purposes is something adults do, not children. 

• Speaking of children, the cover states that this boy is three years old. Uhh, what? He looks like a first-grader. My Unit's nephew is nearly three, and he's a BIG boy (nearly twelve pounds at birth!), and he is neither this tall, nor is his face as mature looking as this boy's. You can be damn sure that the photographer or editor picked the oldest-looking child from the bunch for this picture to reinforce the discomfort and awkwardness of this image. Take, for instance what he's wearing:

• He's not dressed like a toddler. At the risk of sounding like a 1920s mother, he's wearing long pants! And said long pants are camouflage, which then makes us think of the military. The military brings up connotations of rigidity, masculinity, and aggression, not to mention adults. Again, nothing loving or nutrition-related there. 
• His grey, long-sleeved shirt matches the grey undertones in his camouflage pants, giving the overall impression of a tiny soldier, or -- worse yet -- a miniature adult. Toddlers' clothes tend to be brightly colored and/or patterned, with whimsical trucks or monkeys or frogs or what have you. There is no whimsy here. 
• He is a "he." It's not a mother and daughter; it's a mother and a son dressed like a miniature adult. Or, in other words, a woman and a "man," once again leading us to sexual connotations (can you say "Oedipus complex"?), rather than familial, maternal ones. 
• He's standing on a wooden chair. In addition to the above comment ("no one breastfeeds standing up"), the allusion to milking a cow (during which one traditionally sits on a wooden stool) cannot be ignored. 
• Let's look at the mother. I know lots of mothers of children under the age of ten, many of whom breastfeed, and none of them look like that. You can be damn sure that TIME's photographer or editor picked the sleekest, fittest, trimmest, "hottest" looking mom from the bunch for the cover. 
• She's Caucasian and blonde.  I don't even need to break that one down for you. 
• In addition to faux-breastfeeding her son, they have dressed her to show as much skin as possible. There are lots of tops and tanks out there made for breastfeeding or items that can be worn easily whilst breastfeeding, but they still put her in a tiny tank top with skinny straps to reveal as much skin as possible while still making her look "casually dressed." 
• Two words: skinny jeans. See above re: slimmest, fittest mom possible. 

The effect, of course, of all of these things working together is to present an alien, "unnatural" picture of what is, in reality, a very natural practice (that is, breastfeeding). When looking at the picture, we are experiencing what Freud calls "the uncanny." The uncanny (briefly, simply) is "an instance where something can be familiar, yet foreign at the same time, resulting in a feeling of it being uncomfortably strange or uncomfortably familiar" (Wikipedia Contributors). We recognize mother and child, but with the added layer of "adult-ness," the lack of a recognizably maternal setting, and the hints of sexuality creeping around the edges, we decide the overall image is foreign. We then reject it, are repulsed by it; something about it "does not compute" in our heads.

And here's the kicker: now that TIME has done everything within its power to stage this photo to make the audience feel as uncomfortable (or uncanny) as possible, both "models" are looking directly at the camera, thereby looking "at" us. So not only do we feel uncomfortable with the images presented, we now feel guilty about feeling uncomfortable because they can "see" us looking at them. It's a kind of reversed voyeurism, chock-full of judgment and criticism from the mother and son watching us watching them.

The last thing I'll address it the much-discussed headline: "Are you MOM enough?" While I think that so-called "attachment parenting" is a crock of shit, this headline makes parenting into a competition. Rather, it reinforces the idea that parenting or mothering is a competition of some sort. Unfortunately, there are many women out there who already view their maternal duties -- consciously or un- -- as a kind of competition. Parenting is not about how hard you can make it on yourself. If you choose to do things the most difficult way possible by growing all of your own food, literally wearing your babies/toddlers/children on you 24/7, and going without showering or bathing so that you can spend your days making your own homemade granola/yogurt/detergent/bread/sausages/toothpaste/ketchup/mayonnaise/pesto/wine, kudos to you! But no one is going to hand you an award and think, "Wow, she must be a great mom because she's so stressed out all the time." 
Well, I certainly won't.

There can be a happy medium -- or several happy mediums -- in parenting, and those ways are different for every parent, every child, every family. Things like "attachment parenting" and "elimination communication" strike me as neither happy nor medium. But it's not a competition, people. Shame on you, TIME Magazine, for contributing to the pressure that mothering is something to compete at, something to "win."

Throwback Thursday: A History Lesson

From the blog annals comes one of my favorite pieces, "The True Story Behind the Pyramids."

(Tiny ugly baby kitty picture courtesy of Wikipedia)

From the people who brought you "Smutty Kitchen Talk" and "Suggestive Non-Sequitor Day*," we present "The True History of the Egyptian Pyramids."

The Unit and I were lying in bed one evening when she started "angry humping" my leg. "Angry humping" devolved out of a completely different conversation, but involves fast ("angry") pelvic thrusts against an object one would not normally "hump," such as my leg or a chair, unless one were a dog. She then put a very cold hand under my shirt on my bare skin, at which point I complained: "I don't recall ordering any angry humping, let alone cold angry humping."

Unit: "That's what my receipt says."

Me: "Really."

Unit: "Yes. 'Please deliver one angry humping. P.S. Please add cold.'"

Me: "And who signed this alleged receipt?"

Unit: "Jack-Jack and Poe."

Me: "And may I see this alleged receipt signed by the cats?"

Unit: "Well, you could, but you wouldn't be able to read it. They wrote it in their old language, a combination of pawprints and symbols."

Me: "Like hieroglyphics?"

Unit: "Well, cat-a-glyphics, yes. Because you know that the Egyptian pyramids weren't built by humans."

Me: "Of course not. They were built by aliens. Everyone knows that. Didn't you watch Stargate?"

Unit: "No, they were built by cats. Well, by slave-cats. The royal cats (from whom Jack-Jack is descended) ordered the slave-cats to build the pyramids. Slave-cats were the hairless cats; they were hairless because they were out in the sun in the desert all the time."

Me: "Slave-cats...?"

Unit: "And all the mice were slaves, too. Of course."

Me: "Of course. So there were some royal cats, and some slave-cats, and some slave-mice. And the slave-cats and slave-mice dragged the blocks out in the desert to build the pyramids. Were there any free mice?"

Unit: "No, but that does bring up the subject of the Micesons."

Me: "The (snicker) Free Micesons?"

Unit: "Exactly. But most cats don't believe in them."

Me: "It's just a cat-spiracy theory."

What you have to know is about the time we got to "the Free Micesons," we were both laughing so hard (in bed) that we were crying. After that we started coming up with definitions for words, along the lines of "cat-spiracy." I can't remember what the definitions were, but I believe we had "catapult," "catalogue," and "catastrophe."

So there you have it. The TRUE history of the Egyptian pyramids. The recent unrest in Egypt has, of course, been very upsetting for Jack-Jack since it's her country of origin, being descended from royal cats as she is. She's very grateful that Mubarak has stepped down. Poe-Poe, being the black cat of the family, does believe in the Free Micesons (did you know you can find evidence of them in the hundred dollar bill??), much to the shame of his mother. It's a very sore subject, so please don't bring it up.

*SN-S Day went something like this: "Dammit, a spice jar just broke! There's cumin all over the counter."
"That's what you get for putting on underwear!"

Follow up:  The original "History" was posted in February of 2011, and sadly, the facts about Egyptian unrest, riots, and political problems are still relevant over two years later.

Bird Shit and Bee Stings

Another oldie but goodie from the vaults.  It still makes me laugh (now.  At the time, there was no laughing).

Bird Shit & Bee Stings (08-08-06)

Subtitle:  Why I don't go outside.

I am not an outdoorsy person.  Even people who barely know me, know this.  I am a house cat.  I like the comforts of home.  I like my computer, my electric lights, hot water, and, of course, air conditioning.  If I could, I would build a shrine to my A/C and worship it daily.

I do not like bugs, dirt, sweat, or sleeping in uncomfortable places.  Yes, I am a rather spoiled and high-maintenance Leonard, but at least I can admit that.  And admitting it is half the battle.  Therefore, I do not go outside if I can help it.  I don't do "outside things."  However, only 50% of this is because I don't like it. The other 50% (okay, maybe it's more like 60/40) is because if I know I won't have a good time, I don't want to ruin other people's good times by whining and complaining and being an all around pain in the ass.  Let's just save ourselves the trouble and not make Leonard go outside to begin with.  At least that's my logic.

I have always been this way.  My mother swears that, as a baby, whenever she took me outside, I would immediately start to cry.  I have never broken a bone, had poison ivy, or seen a shooting star.

But I do like some outside things.  I like rappelling and rock-climbing, oddly enough.  I also like riding motorcycles (riding on the back of said bikes; I can't drive one).  An ex of mine was happy to accommodate the latter.  So one Saturday afternoon, we went for a leisurely late lunch and drive around the city.

Sometimes when we were tooling around, the end of the chin-strap on my helmet would fly up and smack me in the face.  It hurt.  A lot.  Especially if we were going down the highway.  It felt like I'd been sliced in the face. But Saturday afternoon, doing maybe 40 mph should not have produced such an effect.  Nonetheless, I felt a sharp stinging sensation that I at first assumed was the chin-strap.  

But it was too high for the chin-strap.  It was in my ear.  My next thought (granted, all of these happened in the course of about three seconds) was that my earrings were caught on something.  But it still HURT.  It kept hurting, stinging.  I stuck a finger inside my ear-flap and immediately heard an angry buzzing sound, and my finger plucked out (and promptly threw away) a bee.

And it HURT.  It stung.  It burned.  It throbbed.  I had already said, "OWW!" quite loudly.  As soon as I processed what had happened, I think I beat my girlfriend on the helmet, saying, "Go home!  Go home!  Go home!"  Obviously, we were already heading home, but this translated into:  "Please go home now using the most direct route because I am in severe pain."

My ear was stinging, burning; I could actually feel it swelling up.  Every bump in the road made it throb; the wind whistling past just emphasized the heat radiating.  I had my hands on my girlfriend's shoulders, gripping for dear life, her shirt clenched in my fists.  I cried nearly the whole way home, unable to do anything but wait out the ride.  At stoplights, I occasionally wondered if people thought she was kidnapping me.  "What is that butch woman doing to that poor girl crying on the back of the motorcycle??"

In addition to not having any broken bones or outbreaks of poison-whatever, I have never been stung by a bee or wasp or anything.  Never.  Ever.  Not even once, not even a tiny sweat bee.  I had no idea it hurt so badly, even though I've feared it for the past twenty-some years.  When we got back to my place, and I gingerly removed my helmet (convinced that side of my head had swollen up to Quasimodo proportions), and looked at her, and just said pathetically, "It huuuuuuuurts!"

To which she replied, "Yes, well, probably because the stinger is still in your ear."

Aaack!  Using tweezers, she gently removed it from my right ear, and I promptly removed all jewelry.  I also called my mom to ask, "What do you do for a bee sting?"  I had no idea; I had never had one before.

Unfortunately, Mom didn't know either.  She said, "Ohhh, did you get stung by a bee?"

Me:  "Yesss. (sniffle)  It flew inside my helmet."
Mom:  "Oh, while you were out on the motorbike?" (Yes, my mother actually used the word "motorbike."  I have no idea why.)
Me:   (still pathetic)  "Uh-huh."

While this was going, the girlfriend was looking up online how to treat bee stings.  My grandmother was also deathly allergic to them, so I was paranoid about that, too; although, you can't usually discover an allergy until the second sting.  Finally Mom asked, "Well, were you at least having a good time up until then?"

I said, "Yes, I was fine -- until five minutes before I got stung when a bird shit on my arm!!!"

At this point my mother just started laughing, then tried (unconvincingly) to apologize for laughing at me.  "Oh, sweetie, you're just not meant to be outside!"

"I know!" I wailed into the phone.  "But I thought maybe if we were going fast enough, Outside wouldn't know I was there!!"

Yes, a bird really did shit on my arm about five minutes before "the bee incident."  Two things in one day, within five minutes of each other, that have never, ever happened to me.  So when I say no to camping, river-rafting, float-tripping, please remember this story.  Oh, but do call me when you go ziplining!  I totally want to do that.

 

(Image courtesy of I Can Has Cheezburger) 

Fuck Off and Die: A Pre-Menstrual Translation Guide

From the vaults, here is an oldie but a (timely) goodie!  This information is for your continued good health!

In the future, I simply need to mark off the 3-5 days before my period and the first couple of days of said period on the calendar with a large warning of "OFFLINE TIME." The Internet is a horrible place to be when one's snarkiness is out of control. Faster than a card-carrying NRA member with an itchy trigger finger, my typing fingers fire off round after round of sarcasm and just plain meanness. Sometimes I don't even know what's happened until I see the carnage: hordes of innocent surfers and Facebook users in my wake, slain with my deadly wit and acerbic phrases.

Even a website as innocuous as Pinterest.com awakens my ire. Some poor user who said "gray & navy -- two of my favorite neutrals" about a dress nearly got the following response:  "Navy is not a neutral; it's navy -- a blue, a cool color."

Another person who thinks they're oh so funny nearly got a snarky and snappy "Way to reinforce gender stereotypes!"

I actually published someone’s hair tutorial on Facebook with the following commentary:  I don't understand shit like this. Why go through all that work for a "not too perfect" wave? You can just put your hair in a giant clippie when it's wet (put some curly-girl gel in if you want), and later in the day, take the clippie out. Ta-da! Messy waves.   And no offense to Erin [my hairdresser] and my other friends who are more hair-talented than I am -- although I think even Erin would agree that my way is easier. :-)

In an attempt to curb the acid tongue, I've started saying things that really don't reflect what I'm thinking at all. Here's a handy-dandy translation guide for the brave.

• "Congrats!" or "Congratulations!" = "Fuck off and die."
• "Sure, I can do that for you!" = "Yes, I will do that, but please for the love of God and all that's holy, stop boring me with your endless reasons of WHY you want me to do that because I don't really give a fuck. At all. Not even a little bit. Why are you still talking?"

In fact, many of the statements from the second bullet point are useful translations for most anything said during this ten-day Internet sabbatical (5 days of PMS, 5 days of period). Nevertheless, I have provided you with some further translations to clear up any confusion. 

You Said:	I Said:	It Really Means:
“How are you?”	“Fine.”	“I hate everything today.”
“How are you?”	“Okay.”	“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! Fuck off.”
	“Fuck you!”	“Fuck you.”
	“Fuck off.”	“Off is the direction in which I want you to fuck.”
“Sure is hot outside.”	“Yep, sure is.”	“Oh. My. God.  Why are you talking?”
“Could you/Would you/Will you [fill in the blank’?”	“Sure.”	“I have nothing better to do than hemorrhage and be bloated and listen to your never-ending list of bland, everyday life – DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN MAKE IT STOP!  Before my ears start bleeding.”
	“Thank you for the information.”	“I do not need more proof of your idiocy.  Stop boring me with details of your ineptitude.  I don’t care!  I don’t care!  I don’t care!  La la la la la la – NOT LISTENING!”
	“I love you!”	“You brought me a present!”
“I love you.”	“I love you, too.”	“Your offering is displeasing to me.  Go away and do not return until you have something worthy and useful like snacks, vodka, jewelry, a new book, a new movie, new yarn, SOMETHING SHINY, a kitten.”

This Public Service Announcement bought to you by ibuprofen, Playtex Glide tampons, and a whole heapin' helpin' of vodka.

(Image compliments of ICanHasCheezburger.com)