BABIES AREN’T ZEN

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.’”

The male mind is a mystery. Not a good mystery, though. In normal mysteries, there are a few suspects and some not-so-suspects and usually at the end of the 200 pages you’ve figured out, or they tell you, which not-so-suspect did it. Not so with the male mind. NOT SO.

Some male minds = suspects and not-so-suspects
Other male minds = puppies
Other male minds = bright blue
Other male minds = where’s the post office

As you can see, it can be very confusing, and lacking a consistent, comfortingly predictable narrative structure.

I just realized I do a fair bit of bitching about working from home. “Loooonely,” etc etc. “Only interaction with sentient beings is ducks,” wahhh wahhh. “Would die alone if house randomly caught fire, rather than dying in company of others,” and so forth. Well, NO MORE. Today, I bring you Five Good Things About Working From Home.

1. Can make my own smoothies. Which I just did.
2. The ducks really are pretty cute.
3. More in touch with Neighborhood and Community Life, e.g. hearing exactly what time the trash and recycling get ceremoniously dumped into the dump trucks.
4. Can blast Joan Jett without scornful glances from coworkers. Which I just did.
5. Can blast Interpol without scornful glances from coworkers. Also just did.

I’m sure I will think of more any time now.

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.

1. “What is Twitter?”
2. “How much does an iPhone go for nowadays?”