BABIES AREN’T ZEN

Oh, Disney stars attempting a pop crossover. Someday you will also learn to read and write.

“Is Birth Control Aborting Our Health?“

:: groan ::

Yes. My health was a couple weeks along, but then it got canceled like Dollhouse should’ve been. Because health is a being, not a condition that can be either good or poor. Because it’s cool to imply with your headline that women, with our crazy ideas about independently managing our reproductive systems, are poisoning the rest of humanity!!!1 Yeah, the problem is definitely Promiscuous Women, and not America’s medication fetish. (Freaky chemicals in our water supply creep me out too, and I care about the fishes, but can we please have a headline that villainizes the pharmaceutical industry, not women trying to make responsible choices about our bodies?) That is all.

I do a lot of complaining on this blog (the world is fraught with babies and assholes, after all). But sometimes, in snapshot-sized moments, life is good. The sun is buttery and people are kind. There are ants and the color magenta. And porches. (PORCHES, people! Do you know what you can do with a porch?) You can do all sorts of exciting things like loll and catnap and get the nicest teeniest ache in your back from laying too long on warm paintpeelingy planks.

It’s delicious.

That is all.

HEY IM THUGGY MCTHUGGERSON

I SERCHED YR PROFILE

WANNA KNOCK BOOTZ//?

YOU MAY HAVE SEEN ME RESENTLY IN THE “MOVIE” “FIGHTING”

SUM PPL SAY I LOOK LYKE CHANNING TATUM

WANNA KNOCK BOOTZ?]]z?[2

THEIR ARE SUM GREAT LIP ENHANSING TECHNOLOGIES OUT THEIR

LIP PLUMPERZ AS A WHOLE ARE GROSSLY UNDERRATED

I have company at the kitchen table this morning. Its name is 14″ Push Reel Mower. Its friend Fed-Ex dropped it off at my house and we’re going to hang out for awhile.

You know things are bad when you MAKE FRIENDS WITH A CARDBOARD BOX. I need a cat. Or an office. Or a padded cell.

Wow. If by “Wishing for a baby” they mean “Wishing for a baby kitten that never ages, but not a human child, no,” then yes!

Hmm, many roads I can take? Family-building? Suddenly reproduction sounds a whole lot like highway construction work, complete with miniature orange hard hats. I guess the metaphor works. You can’t “build” a “family” without a “hammer,” and if children are absolutely necessary, hopefully someone will get screwed. (Would abortion be a U-turn?)

But really? A road sign that says FAMILY on it? Better luck with a rest stop, or Dunkin Donuts, or Humptulips.

Sometimes I need to go to a quiet place. A place of serenity and privacy where I can escape from the world and think uninterrupted thoughts. I’m talking, of course, about the bathroom.

But bathrooms aren’t zen, say you. In fact, aren’t they actually even less zen than babies?

That’s where you would be wrong, and it would be clear you’d never used the women’s bathroom at The Bohemian in West Seattle. This particular bathroom rivals what I can only imagine a spa to be like. Classy light fixtures, paper towels softer than I knew existed, and — in addition to a classy freshening fragrance spray — complimentary hairspray and hand lotion on a swanky little wooden table.

I had the privilege of using said bathroom today…but I didn’t stay too long. A yoga class was beginning in there soon.

I just submitted a complaint to QFC about their choice of music yesterday evening. It contained the words, “Was it tinnitus? No, it was Paris Hilton’s ’song’ ‘Stars Are Blind.’”

Inside a recent tiramisu chocolate wrapper: “What would you attempt to do if you knew you would not fail?”

1. I would not ATTEMPT to do anything. I would DO something. Ever heard of Yoda?
2. This is not a Dove promise. This is a question. What happened to “Wear something red. It looks good on you,” or “You deserve it!” or “You’re right; your husband WAS sleeping with that waitress, and that’s why he didn’t want to go there anymore; it wasn’t your imagination”?
3. Who am I telling the answer to? The executives at Dove? I’m pretty sure they don’t have a slew of licensed therapists on staff readily awaiting my answer.

I glance over in the coffeeshop and a little old lady with a floral-patterned bag is peering at her white MacBook and a patient bearded guy is explaining things to her. The three icons on her desktop–for the hard drive and two spreadsheets–were each as large as my fist, magnified almost to the point of absurdity.

Someday, I will be that old lady.