Some Pig

A Thought

Why is it when someone like Plaxico Burress does something FRIGGING STUPID all kinds of highly paid hangers-on show up on air to make solemn pronouncements about how "tragic" the situation is and how it's a "challenging time" for everyone involved, and when I do something FRIGGING STUPID my husband just looks at me and says, "Caroline, that was a really dumb thing to do.  I thought you were smarter than that."  Why is that?

Don't Hassel Cassel

For all you haters and Belichick-beraters who rejoiced when Tom Terrific took an ill-fated chop to the knees?  Because you figured the Patriots were a one-trick pony and St. Bill of the Hoodie was a creation of the news media who was starting to believe his own press releases?  And you thought once they lost their marquee player, they'd roll over and let the rest of the AFC East tap dance on their silver helmets with that weird comet-cum-Minuteman thingie on it?

They won today!  Without Brady!  Against the Jets, Mangenius and Favre!  On Cassel's first start!  Whoot, whoot!

[Commence awkward, jerky attempt at an end-line victory dance that just proves for the record that unathletic, short, middle-aged women shouldn't attempt such things.]

Ya know, I bet in a strange way, Bill's enjoying himself.  After all, there's nothing our Little Mr. Sunshine likes better than sticking a thumb in the eye of popular perception.  Once again, he gets to be exactly where he likes to be - battling to get out from under a huge disadvantage, looking to make gold out of the proverbial straw.  Can't you see the gleam of joy in his eye?  Look, you can see it for yourself:

 

What's that you say?  You can't see anything any different from any other game day?  Huh.  Must be 'cuz you don't know Bill (he lets me call him Bill, BTW) as well as I do.  Trust me, it's there.

Live, From Some Pig, Super Bowl XLII - Annotated Version

Emails from two British friends, met during Junior Year Abroad (or is that, a broad, Junior Year?):

…super bowl – what’s that and can you write in English next time – didn’t understand a word!

Emma – this is how she repays us after a year’s patient teaching her the rudiments of speaking the Queen’s tongue. Goodness knows what she is teaching at that school of hers.

I think the superbowl is something to do with what our dear colonial cousins call football, or it could be baseball.  I’m not entirely sure.  I find nearly all American sports marvellously confusing.  I once went to Boston and watched the Red Sox (Boston team) play baseball.  It is very like rounders except that there are long periods when nothing appears to happen and yet these people get paid squillions for it. It goes on as long as cricket but starts in the evening and the most exciting thing that happened was that there was a real live American punch up right in front of me.

So now I'm on the hook to explain American rules football, which is sort of like expecting me to watch "House" (Ed. note to British friends:  American television series starring Hugh Laurie, with dreadful American accent - heard of it?) and explain neurosurgery.  Here goes:

American rules football:  (n)  A game in which improbably named men (Plaxico, Bam, Jabar, et. al.), many weighing upward of twenty stone, hurl themselves at an ovoid ball and one another in order to prevent or promote the attainment of a "down" (advancement of ten yards) en route to a "touchdown" (equivalent to that point when the annoying Spanish announcer yells GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLL) in soccer (i.e., real footie).  As with American baseball and European rules football, spectatorship requires copious consumption of alcoholic beverages and heavily salted snacks, sporadic pronouncement of annoying call-and-response cheers (DEE-FENSE!  DEE-FENSE!), and frequent impugning of the opposing team's mothers, often whilst covered solely in body paint, boxer shorts, and plastic novelty headgear.  There's also a lot of hoohah about "onsides kicks," "two-point conversion," "QB ratings," "nickel defense" and the like, but we'll not confuse the issue now.  That's like expecting someone in Introduction to Conversational French to understand the irregular subjunctive first time out.

Any of my loyal readers want to help me out, here?  What am I missing?

If anyone else out there in Patriotland is having a hard time adjusting, I offer you this.

Live, From Some Pig, Super Bowl XLII!

11:57 a.m.
Finally!  It's here!!  Super Bowl Sunday!!!  Brady!  Coughlin!  Belichick!  Manning!  The hoodie!  Spygate!  I may expire from impatience before 6:20 gets here.  Aieeee!

11:59 a.m.
The elder daughter wants a snack, the laundry still hasn't figured out how to wash itself, and there's a whole week of work to prepare for, so I guess my plan to sit meditating upon ways to help the Patriots succeed through the power of telekinesis will have to wait.

2:00 p.m.
"Super Bowl" is such a mundane title for this monumental event.  How about "The Fan-foo-goo-tastic Bowl," or for us New Englanders, "The Wikkid Pissa Bowl"?  And why do we have to endure Tom Petty as the halftime show?  I mean, no offense, boomers, Tom Petty's fine, but couldn't the committee have picked someone more of this millennium?  At least I can take comfort in the fact that our Wikkid Pissa Bowl viewing strategery involves putting the kids to bed during the halftime show, so I'm not going to see it anyway.  I'm just hoping for a running game so we can keep things moving along.  I think there should be a revision of the rules that states if both teams are located on the East Coast, kickoff is moved up to 4:15 pm so people can function the next day.  Screw the Californians.  They all should be reading position papers to decide their vote for Super Tuesday anyway.  There you go - another meaningless "super".  It loses its punch, don't you think?  Given that both the Repubs and Dems are voting on the same day, why not "Twofer Tuesday"?  Get the DNC on the line!

3:51 p.m.
India:  "I am not a football person.  I'm a baseball person.  And a princess person."

4:58 p.m.
T minus 88 minutes and counting!

5:39 p.m.
Terry Bradshaw asks Tom Terrific about being a father, in essence, how it feels to be a babydaddy.  Way to hit that sore spot, Terry!  Then he follows it up with the question, "Do you want to get married?"  Like, to that crazy lady at the press conference?  Then he says, "Just thought I'd throw that out there."  Tom's squirming and looking around uncomfortably, like maybe someone else will come out and answer for him.  THAT was fun!

6:02 p.m.
Um, what WAS that Declaration of Independence reading about?  Not that we as a nation don't need a ginormous civics lesson, granted, but the context here?  I'm puzzled.  I went into the kitchen as it was wrapping up.  "Did Ron Paul pay for that?" Warren asked.

Oooh oooh!  The dancing robot's on!  And awaaaaay we go!

6:39 p.m. I don't know what's worse - the fact that Eli's just converted on two straight third downs, or the fact that it's dinner time AND game time.  Damn!  They're inside the 30!  Pats D gotta come up with sumfin'.  India is extremely put out by all this.  She wants milk.  She wants more rice.  She wants a Band-Aid.  And she wants it NOW.

6:45 p.m.  Good news, bad news - Good news:  The Pats held the Jints to three on that opening drive.  The bad news: They got the three.  You can't let Eli convert all those third downs, people!  Jeez, even I know this, and my football experience is limited to two seasons cheering for the Lake Region Lakers!

6:55 p.m. I'm in a mixed marriage.  Warren's cheering for the Jints. 

7:02 p.m.  TD NE!  Yippee!  The joy is quickly dampened by the panoply of violent commercials Fox is choosing to run.  Um, Fox?  America's Game?  Last time I looked, there were a lot of KIDS in America, kids who don't need to wake up at 1 a.m. screaming for mommy to save them from the animated cyborgs!  Me 'n' Obama, we're not down with that.

7:16 p.m. Innnn-terceptions!  Cause excitement!  And emotion!  Halleluia!  Halleluia!

7:25 p.m. Lizards dancing to Thriller?  I don't get it.

7:57 p.m.  There are certain things that are not conducive to live blogging OR watching the Fabulous Bowl, like fixing dinner, giving baths, cleaning the kitchen, et cetera.  Fortunately half of the dynamic duo has gone to bed just in time for me to ignore Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.  The game?  Between chores, it seems to be a nailbiter.  Pats!  You gotta stop 'em on third down!  And geez louise, guys, the turnovers!  There were a few smooth moves that made me hope the G-men were going to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, and yet ... the score of 7 to 3 stands. 

8:06 p.m.  I like the way the halftime folks had a fleet of twentysomethings rush the stage for TP & the HBs.  Like they even know who he is.

8:52 p.m.  Okay, I've missed a bunch of stuff.  Like, um, the GAME.  Jints went three and out, Pats went for it on 4th down and didn't make it, Jints 3 and out again.  I may need a heart transplant by the time this is over!  I get back from interminable bedtime stories and ... time for a commercial!  Argh!  Parenting small children and watching the Super Bowl are incompatible pursuits, clearly. 

8:57 p.m.  Welker!  Maroney!  Can we get something going now, P-men?  Welker again!  Wes, if I didn't have two kids already, I'd offer you my womb so I could bear your genetically superior children.  Except for the fact that half their DNA would be mine.  Then you'd have a 50-50 shot of having a fabulous athlete, or someone who breaks a sweat tying her shoes.  Plus I don't know if you really relish the thought of physical congress with a short, frizzy-haired middle aged lady.  Never you mind.

9:11 p.m.  Touchdown Giants?!?!?  I'm dying over here!

9:14 p.m. India just asked for night night kisses.  I totally forgot she was still awake!  I'm the worst.

9:26 p.m.  Okay, I really suck at this live blogging thing.  Um, big stop, three and out for the Pats, time for a classic Tom Terrific performance!  Big seven, big seven, guys, let's go.  Whoot, whoot.  Boola, boola.  You may not see me back here for awhile.

9:32 p.m. Wellll-ker!  Wellll-ker!

 

9:39 p.m.  BRADY TO MOSS TOUCH DOWWWWWWWN!!!!!!!!

9:45 p.m. Jints three and out.  1:59 to play.  JUST DON'T F*&%# UP!

10:06 p.m.  Please .... leave me with my pain.

Knitting the Ravelled Sleave of Care, and All Like That There

I have stumbled upon a medical miracle.  No, really, I'm not overstating it.  I have found the one sure-fire cure-all for insomnia.  Never again need any of you suffer from what the French refer to as a nuit blanc, pacing the floor and wondering what will happen first, losing your mind or seeing the sun come up.  No longer will you spend the day in that strange insomniac fugue state where your eyes feel sandy and gritty when you blink, but your racing heart and thoughts tell you that another restless night awaits.  Best of all, it comes without pills, without drugs, without chemical or psychological dependence, without warning labels or fears of sleepeating or other unwanted and unpleasant side effects.  And I am willing to share this with you, my friends, for free!

Are you ready?  Here it is, The Some Pig Insomnia Cure:  Watch a press conference with Bill Belichick.

Wait, don't click over to Web MD just yet!  Hear me out. Our local CBS station serves the Boston metro area, so after the Pats game is over, the local sportscasters feel compelled to stick around or interviews with every dang person on the team, down to and including the second assistant Band-Aid boy.  The press interviews always culminate with compelling insights from Tom Terrific, followed by St. Bill of the Hoodie himself.  And what a snorefest it is, folks.  Whether the game just played was a blowout or a nailbiter, their presentation to the august members of the Fourth Estate is always the same.  Tom stands in front of the mic mouthing sports platitudes about how their win was a team effort, but everyone has to come ready to play for sixty minutes and they have a lot to work on.  (An aside:  If this boy is truly contemplating a political career after his years hucking the pigskin are done, he needs some media coaching.  Tom: Would it kill you to add some inflection to your voice?  A little expressiveness to the mug?  Some sign of original thought beyond quotes from The Official Book of Football Expressions?)  After some flashing of the chin dimple and thank-yous all around (it's that Midwestern politesse from his college days), Tom exits stage left.  Or right.  Whatever.

Then, looking like a man heading to a colorectal exam, Bill takes the stand.  Actually, scratch that.  I think Bill would enjoy the colorectal exam more than the press conference.  And, having watched several go-rounds between Bill and the press, I have to side with Bill on that one.  Sports interviewers ask the dumbest questions, yo. "How do you feel about winning today?"   Uh, better than losing?  "Did you ever think that you were going to lose during this game?"  Yeah, when the other team had more points than we did?  "What do you think about ________________________ (player from opposing team, coach from opposing team, official/ref/other random person)?"  What do you think he thinks, and do you think he's really going to say it to you?  After fielding these probing and difficult questions, Bill then mumbles his answers in a barely audible monotone.  His jaw and lips move so little I start looking around for the ventriloquist's dummy, because he has to be trying to throw his voice.   Either that, or he figures if he makes his answers as inaudible as possible, he'll be let out of the press conference early.  (Hey, I've sat through many an oral report with kids who were following that exact same approach, and after the third, fourth, and fifth class spent straining to hear muttered reports, you lose focus.) 

If you watch his face, though, sometimes The Great Stoneface lets his true feelings show. After the AFC championship, one particularly lunkheaded reporter asked, "Who would you rather play in the Super Bowl, Green Bay or the Giants?"  Which is basically saying, "Which team do you think is worse?"  Gee, let's see.  The team you name will think you're calling them pussies, and they'll hate you; the team you don't name will think you're scared of them and you're pussies.  There's a Hobson's choice for you!  Bill turned his head at the last second, but he couldn't turn fast enough to hide the look of utter contempt on his mug.  Can't say I blame him.  And occasionally, Bill does, um, "smile" (insert finger quotes here).  No, you didn't miss it; that's the technical term for that faint upward twitch of both outer lips.  Then it's back to the standard answers (putting together sixty minutes, any given Sunday, et. al.) in the muttered monotone.  Ripping stuff!  I don't care how rabid or ingrained your Pats fan-dom, there's really only so much of that a body can take.  From experience, I can confirm that you feel the adrenaline draining from your body as Bill speaks, so that mere moments after you were leaping around, yelling, "That's what I'm talkin' about!  That's what I'm talkin' about!" and scaring the cat, you're ready to toddle off to snoozeville.

You're welcome.  Just don't let Big Pharma find out.

These Are The Things That Keep Me Up At Night

As I watch the Green Bay Packers put a hurtin' on the Lions on this, our national holiday, I am struck by the following thought:

If the Packers wind up playing in the Super Bowl versus the Patriots, what am I going to do?

As a perennial rooter for the underdog, and an increasingly geriatric one at that, how can I not root for the Packers and their superannuated QB, who is having a Peter Pan season that can be neither explained nor dismissed by the Newtonian laws that affect the rest of us mere mortals?  On the other hand, as a lifelong New Englander who remembers the many years when the Pats were better known as the Patsies, and who still basks in the afterglow of that golden season when Brady came out of the understudy role to replace Bledslow and lead the red, white, and blue to their first Lombardi trophy, how can I not root for my hometown team? 

Well, there's always hope.  Maybe the Cardinals will come out of nowhere and resolve this dilemma.

God May Be Your Co-Pilot, But You Don't Get to Drive in Cruise Control

I am driving to my parents' house to pick up elder daughter after a very successful girls' weekend away (About which:  Uh.  Muh. Gaad.  Why, why have I not done that earlier?  Like, months and months ago?  I had soooooo much fun.  Judy, I owe you. You may just have saved my life, or at least my sanity and my marriage.).  Because my preset radio stations no longer work in this area, I am scanning the dial for some good driving music.  In the process, I stumble across a Christian talk show focusing on "inspiring" stories involving born-again Christians - and am promptly reminded of everything that bugs me about evangelicals.

The main feature of this radio program was the story of a family consisting of a husband, wife, and three kids.  Since I came in partway through the show, I missed some of it, but I gathered the family was going through some tough times caused by a prolonged period of unemployment on his part.  Before these economic hard times, the husband had gone out and gotten a Great Dane, which was expensive to feed and which the wife never liked in the first place. When times got tough, the girls were going without necessities because the dog had to be fed, and the wife resented the cost of feeding the dog (and probably the drool and dog hair, too, but that wasn't the focus).  The husband was ignoring the problem, the wife was nagging, the girls were shoeless (or something) and things were unpleasant.  To make a long story short, the husband went to their pastor to ask for guidance.  The wife prayed to God and decided to keep her mouth shut and allow herself to be led by her husband.  The pastor invited the husband to "invite God into his heart" and let God tell him what to do about the dog.  God then instructed the husband to give the dog away to someone he had shortchanged in his pre-saved life, the girls got their necessities, the wife was confirmed in her decision to be dutiful and obedient, and all was made right. 

What a load of CRAP.

Here's what bothers me about this whole scenario:  Why do some Christians insist upon abdicating responsibility for their own actions and decisions in favor of "letting God tell me what to do."  You know what?  You don't need God's intervention to realize that if you have to choose between winter jackets for your kids and food for your dog, you don't have enough money for a dog!  On top of that, there's this unpleasant state called "adulthood," wherein you think about the ramifications of your actions, pull up your socks and make the tough decisions.  I don't think it takes a higher power to figure this out.  Saying that you're going to do "what God wants" instead of just flat-out claiming culpability for your decisions is a cheap cop-out.  The wife is just as bad.  Exsqueeze me, but if we still had the boat and we were struggling to eat, I wouldn't be sitting on the sidelines, wringing my hands and hoping for a divine thunderbolt from above to smite my dim bulb hubby on the brow.  That boat would be on eBay, or in the front yard with a "for sale" sign on it pretty damn tout de suite, I'll tell ya.  I wanted to leap through the radio and say listen:  You're adults, people, and you have three kids who are totally reliant upon you to be smart enough and mature enough to figure out how to take care of them.  I'm glad you have your faith to give you strength and comfort in tough times, but don't imagine for a moment that this relieves you of the need to think for your own selves.  Expecting God will be your crutch in a crisis is not much of a contingency plan.

The same goes double for the guy interviewed on NPR.  This fellow said he was going to vote for Gov. Huckabee in the primary, because Huckabee is born again and shares his evangelical values.  However, if Huckabee doesn't make the ticket, this person is going to vote for whomever is on the Republican ticket because if Huckabee doesn't make the ticket, "it's God's will."  Gee, I didn't realize God had registered as a member of the Republican party!  I always thought a supreme deity would be above such petty human considerations as political affiliation, but apparently He's announced for the GOP.  So I guess if the GOP nominates a totally unfit, unexperienced, incompetent boob to run for Prexy and that person promises to get right with God, then we might just wind up with an unfit chief executive for four to eight years ... oh, whoopsie!  Too late.  But what scares me is that after the eight years of complete dunderheadedness we've just witnessed, there are people lining up to do it all over again.  Geez, people!  Don't you think God wants you to use the not-inconsiderable mental capacity we've been given to, say, weigh the pros and cons of all the candidates and then, gee, vote for the one who seems like s/he will do the best job?  Those Founding Fathers the evangelicals seem so fond of claiming for their own were pretty hot on concepts like freedom of the press and freedom of speech for precisely these reasons - I think they said something along the lines of an educated citizenry being necessary for the administration of a democracy, so keep close watch over our essential freedoms.  Nowhere did they say that we should turn over the decision-making process to the deity of any religion.  In fact, I think they'd be spinning in their graves at the thought of it.  Notice the saying is, "God's in His heaven and all's right with the world," not, "God's in the voting booth telling me what to do."

Having said that, I am grateful for the divine providence He showed by allowing the forces of goodness and righteousness to triumph on Sunday with the Patriots' win over the Colts!  What?  If God can get all wrapped up in our choice of politicos and household pets, surely He was instrumental in our QB's demonstration of tactical brilliance and levelheadedness under pressure.  I just wish He hadn't allowed the go-ahead touchdown to occur when I was in the bedroom reading night-night stories.  Ah well, as we all know, the Lord moves in mysterious ways, and clearly I wasn't meant to see it.

NB:  Obligatory disclaimer - of course I believe in acceptance of all faiths and creeds (except the obviously stupid and/or harmful ones) and in everyone's right to practice his/her religious beliefs as s/he sees fit, and so on and so forth.  Feel free to post blistering comments about my incipient journey to infernally warm nether regions; I don't believe in it anyway, so I'll just delete them (and shake my head about it as I do). 

Anybody Besides Me Notice These Things?

Football is back!  The season opener was televised last week, which was on what, a Thursday?  What is up with that?  I thought it was a law:  Football is played on Sunday and Monday.  But never you mind that.  I'm annoyed that MNF is now on pay cable.  What are we cheapskates to do?  On the bright side, maybe I'll get to bed a little earlier on Mondays.

A couple of observations:  Number one, I was hugely disappointed in the opening theme song this season.  Last year Pink covered it, and dang, she owned that song!  The woman sang like she was pissed off and looking for blood.  I feared for whatever team she was backing, because she made it sound like if her team wasn't getting the job done, she was going to leap off the screen, run out on the field, and put the beat down on the opposing team, immediately prior to unmanning all of them with her teeth and then publicly humiliating them.  She sang the crap out of that song, and she sounded like she meant it, yo, sneering and snarling and bouncing on the balls of her feet.  That nice country lady they have this year? The best I can say is, she tries to bring it, but it just ain't convincing.  Oh sure, she made some tough comments after the famous husband-package-squeezing incident, but I can just tell she's the kind of woman who doesn't care about third-down conversions and picks winners for the office pool based on whose uniforms she likes better.  She probably wins, too, dang her.

Observation #2:  While watching the Colts prepare to pogo-stick all over the sAin'ts, poor dears, I got a gander at their Mad Av marvel, ole Peyton Manning his own self.  Hmm, that boy certainly is a little overly gifted in the craniofacial department, isn't he?  To wit:  the man has a heeyooooge noggin!  As someone who has pushed a couple of melons out of her nether regions her own self, I gotta say, my heart goes out to Mrs. Manning for birthing that blockhead.  And it's a real Frankenhead, too, just give the guy some screws and a zigzag scar and he is all set for trick-or-treat.  Yikes.  I don't know how they make that dome look normal in all those commercials.  Must be that trick lighting.

Observation #3, Don't be a poor winner, or, Say it ain't so, Bill!  Why, oh why, with all the hype around the Pats being ready to four-peat as Super Bowl champs -and don't you just hate the way sports folks take a perfectly nice word like 'repeat' and mutate it into some nonsense word like 'threepeat'?  Anyway, since the word on the street is that the Pats are looking like strong contenders for yet another piece of victory hardware already, why did Bill allow one of his staffers to clandestinely film the Jets coaches signaling on the sidelines?  I mean, c'mon, Billy boy, in this day of YouTube, TiVo and the like, you can't pick an errant booger on the sidelines of a pro sports contest without ten thousand people getting a chance to critique your technique.  I've already had a couple of cringing episodes over Bill's occasional lack of sportsmanship (Not shaking hands with Eric Mangini at the end of a game?  Poor form, my friend, poor form.) and this is just the cherry on the sundae.  A boor I can live with, but a cheater I can't.

Observation #4:  Dis 'n' dat.  TO is still a blowhard who needs to have his toys taken away and to be sent to bed without supper.  Michael Vick - thousands of irate words have already been written about his subhuman treatment of helpless animals.  Just imagine them repeated here.  The Giants' Tom Coughlin is making a rookie teacher mistake - he wants the team to like him more than he wants to lead them.  Tom:  Look in the mirror and repeat after me - "I'm being paid to coach and I don't need any more friends."  Inside the NFL was one of my favorite shows last year.  I'd watch it at 11 pm while nursing a little baby Celeste.  Now she's asleep by 7 pm, I'm gassed by 9, and we don't have HBO anyway.  I'm going through withdrawals.  I'd like to recommend that CBS (or whichever channel's nightly news is in the basement now) fire their news anchor and hire Bob Costas and crew.  If world events were presented as well as these guys cover NFL doings, a lot more people would watch.

I'm Just Sayin'

Well, the sporting/celebrity gossip machine is all abuzz with the news of the Stork's impending visit to Tom Brady, despite the slightly awkward fact that, um, he and the mother-to-be broke up some time ago.  What with all the free time I have on my hands (insert sarcastic tone of voice here), clearly I needed something to do, so I let my fingers do the Googling and found out that his ex just happens to be thirty-six years old. 

Hmm.

Y'know, I was 35, 36 years old when Warren and I decided to start trying, and I well remember looking around the terrifyingly competent Dr. A's waiting room and realizing that most of the other pregnant people there didn't remember our nation's Bicentennial, mostly because they weren't born yet.  I also remember being acutely aware that the door to the 'hood, as in motherhood, wasn't going to be open indefinitely, and possibly wouldn't be open for very much longer - never mind the fact that the welcome mat wasn't exactly out there front and center in my case. 

So let's see.  You're 36 years old.  You're dating someone who, by popular measure, is one of the best-looking, physically most gifted men of our time.  [Don't take that to mean I'm all a-swoon for  Tommy's looks personally, as happy as I am that he QBs my local team.  Yeah, he's good looking in a College Republican kind of way, but that doesn't really do it for me.  I'm much more of a Gabriel Byrne/William H. Macy/rugged intellectual type.  And that Warren's pretty darn cute, too, doncha think?]  You make plenty of money and can support a kiddo on your own if needs be, never mind the fact that Daddy could write one check for all four years of Harvard if he so chose and be done with it.  The clock is ticking, you're having it off with The Father Of All Sperm Donors, and your relationship is heading south faster than a charter flight full of college kids in March.  You know he probably won't pressure you to get an abortion, what with the staunch Catholic upbringing and all.  Wouldn't you be just the teeniest, tiniest bit tempted to play Baby Roulette?  Not that that's what she did.  I'm just sayin', I was there once myself...

Obligatory Disclaimer Here:  Yes, I know it takes two to make a baby.  And if he was THAT staunch a Catholic, he wouldn't have been - ahem- in a position to be playing Baby Roulette, now, would he?  Here's wishing them a healthy, happy baby.  I hope she can counter Tom's sad predilection toward reactionary Republicanism, nature vs. nurture and all that.  Plus Tom certainly is going to get a schooling in unwed parenthood, isn't he?

It's a Guy Thing

My parents came by last Saturday night, intending to give Warren and me a much-needed night out of the house at the only price we can afford to pay (i.e., free).  What they found was a house full of people staggering around in no fit state to leave the sanctuary of hearth and home. 

It was a long week.

Going back to my job has been a challenge.  Actually, the job part of going back to my job isn't bad.  The job part is kinda fun.  It's everything else that's a challenge.  I have to get up at five a.m. in order to get myself and various small humans fed, clothed, nursed, pumped, and out the door in time to get to daycare as early as they will open their doors, so that I am only slightly late to work and not monumentally late.  Then there is the whole rigmarole of 'second shift' - the housework, the dinner preparations, the nurturing of one's offspring in hopes of staving off a nasty meeting with a confrontational therapist twenty years down the road.  Then, while I am trying to knit the ravelled sleave of care with some high-quality rack time, Celeste kicks into human-Hoover mode, trying to make up for the lack of face-to-face time - or rather, face-to-breast time throughout the day.  Then, just after she finally gets her fill and we all doze off for the last time, hark!  The dulcet screech of the alarm is heard throughout the land.

And, because Mother Nature is a callous bitch who enjoys playing with us, India came down with a cold - a doozy of a cold, a real blue-plate special of a day care viral monster.   Man, did she get it good.  From the looks of things, her brain was removed from her skull, rendering her entire head an enormous gland dedicated to the production of snot.  India woke up every night at two a.m., requiring large doses of cold medication, drinks of water, Vicks chest rub, and daddy huggle-snuggles to coax her back to sleep.  For the high point of the week, she managed to dump a full glass of water all over me, her sister, and the sheets, at two a.m.  As I'm sure you can imagine, by Friday morning I was applying the concealer to my eye bags with a spackle knife.

Warren was enormously helpful, as usual, and I am not saying that in my typical snarky tones.  He puts in a long day at work, a long commute to and fro, then rolls up his sleeves and pitches right in.  I am fortunate in that sense.  We spend a couple hours playing tag-team chore wranglers (grocery shop! fetch firewood! fold laundry! administer cold medicine! read stories! bathe babies!), rustle up something edible for ourselves and collapse on the couch.  I'm ready to escape into an episode of the Sopranos for an hour and then hie myself to bed for six or seven (frequently interrupted) hours of sleep.

But not so fast.  We finish dinner.  We finish the night's DVD.  And then, just as I'm about to yawn my final yawn and make my way upstairs ... my husband decides he wants to talk.  As in, have a heart-to-heart conversation about his feelings and emotions.  He wants to share what's going on in his life.  Great jumping jelly beans, what is it with men, especially this man?  Is it the Y chromosome?  The chest hair?  The fact that he makes three times my salary?  What??? Can't a girl come home at night after a long, hard day in the trenches and relax without having to be all "emotionally present" and "supportive"?  Me, I'm a simple girl. I just wanna sit on the couch with a glass of red wine and my TV show so I can not think about anything for a few minutes and he's all "I'm trying to communicate".  I mean, geez Louise, the man has an hour long commute in both directions, can't he call one of his guy friends and have one of those long, meandering, pointless conversations men like to have analyzing who said what to whom and how they feel about that?  I'd tell him this, but I bet he'd get all sensitive and offended and start spouting all this arglebargle about how he just wants to strengthen our marriage, and we need to have a strong relationship so our girls don't go off and shack up with the first jerk who comes down the pike, and we need to make sure we're honest and communicative and yadda yadda yadda blah blah blah.  So instead I put on my listening face and say "yup" and "mm hmm" and "and then what happened?" until he's happy enough that I can go to bed.  All I can say is, he better not go on one of his "we need to really talk to each other" jags during the Super Bowl, especially if Adam Vinateri winds up in a position to kick another game-winning field goal.  And just what was Belichick thinking, anyway, letting Adam leave the Pats for the Colts, of all things?  I'm telling you, I have a lot on my mind.