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Adopt a midget.

Issue Date: Wednesday, Jun. 20, 2007

Spencer (my iPod) was jacking with me this morning on the drive into work. He played all most of the stuff that used to rip out my heart and make the back of my throat sore from the heaving sobs and the ropes of snot falling out of my face onto my perfectly cute twin set. This morning? I was all, “eh, over it.”

That is progress people!


I am happy to say that Rascal Flatts’ Movin On, Matchbox 20’s If You're Gone, Bonnie Raitt’s First Night Alone Without You*, Charlie Robison’s El Cerrito Place, Keith Urban’s Raining on Sunday and Anita Baker’s You Bring Me Joy no longer make me feel like I am going to vomit, cry, rage against the angst... one at a time or all of the above together. And Spencer, that little shit, played them back to back. I did not vomit, cry, rage against the angst nor were there any ropes of snot involved.


Here’s a little story.

(Dear Lord, please stop her now.)

When the 7 foot tall junkie was living in my one bedroom, one bath apartment ... when things were... let’s just say, “Not good.” and leave it at that. I woke up to my clock radio (the same one I have now... that I have beaten so mercilessly that it gave up the snooze button... so now every morning, I have to fumble for that teeny little switch INSIDE THE CLOCK to make it shut the fuck up already) and the station that I had programmed was playing Bush’s Letting The Cables Sleep.

I remember laying there as the song played and hit the first chorus: “Whatever you say it's alright / Whatever you do it's all good / Whatever you say it's alright / Silence is not the way / We need to talk about it / If heaven is on the way / If heaven is on the way.” I sang along softly to the lyrics while a sleeping giant lay next to me. Not knowing which would wake up that morning, the mean Fee Fi Fo Giant? Or the Ben, the gentle one.

He and I rarely spoke about the disaster that was our relationship, choosing rather to let everything ride, let it lie, leave it alone. We let those cables sleep until I lost it one afternoon and the fucking cable snapped in half (as referenced in the link above). The bridge of our relationship teetered to the side letting most of the good stuff slide off unnoticed and leaving a cracked and ragged shell of the previous structure.

It was a metaphor. Dammit.

I knew that communication was the key. I just didn’t know how to talk to this guy without a reasonable conversation ending up without me sighing, giving up and shutting down, or him going on about some conspiracy theory and how he was the messiah** or something.

**totally not kidding.

It turned out that communication wasn’t the key with that particular relationship. A heavy rhino tranq dart and a straight jacket, sized 4XLT would have been better because that motherfucker was certifiably insane. (Totally just tried to Google him. Found some pictures of him in High School Basketball... but nothing on whether he is stalking my neighborhood right now.)

But I didn’t know. I had no clue that it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know that the problem didn’t lie even within my very DNA. Just because I was female I thought I was weak and that any outward sign of softness of being vulnerable was worse than, no saying... I can’t do this anymore. Admitting defeat.

I think what made me think of this again was the whole music deal with Spencer and also this conversation that I had this morning with a co-worker.

Neal would appeal to my nurturing side. He would say that we would make beautiful babies. He would tell me all the things that spoke of permanence, stability, solid foundations and someone taking care of me for a change. I responded and showed him my softer side. Never fully taking down that wall, but showing him my soft furry underbelly... if you will, and I know you will.

I had never wanted children in the past, wanted to have that permanently taken care of when I was in my twenties. The doctors always told me I was too young, I would change my mind. I did. I changed my mind about the government, doctors, God, your parents telling you what you could and couldn’t do with your own body.

Neal did bring that brief, “A baaaaaaby?” [le audible sigh] to the forefront of my mind. But I realized I didn’t want a baby. I wanted a cat. I was approaching thirty and lonely. I just wanted something warm to squish.

So, Neal eventually left and I? Got a cat.

Much more time went by and I met the man of my dreams who was tall, handsome, stable, had the same core values that I did, and he found me incredibly hot and desirable... which (ah, the follies of ego) in turn, made me feel incredibly hot and desirable. Win/Win situation, No? I thought so too.

When Mister and I met***; and soon after got married; we had discussed the children that we would have. They would have curly hair like me, perfectly round nostrils like his, both of our height and long legs, his incredible smarts, my smile and creativity. Of course they would be perfect.

***I’ve never told y’all this story have I?

But our flights of fancy into the, “Well, maybe we’ll have a baby.” Were few and far between. We are coming up on 5 years together, and 4 married and when we decided that, “No. We aren’t going to have any children.” It was a sure decision. It was level headed and very well thought through. We were certain. We had a plan and it was sure to work.

Ah, HA! Oh, Arturo, Prince of Irony... you ass. Leave me alone. I have had it.

The tubal ligation didn’t work and if my tubes were anymore open then I would have salmon spawning.

We haven’t yet decided what we are going to do about how to get that last ounce of assurance that I need to make sure that we don’t get pregnant. Hey, have ya’ll noticed that I am a little bit of a control freak? No? Good. Then my secret is safe.

I still haven’t really told anyone at the office about my surgeries except the boss man because I needed his help lifting something before I was fully healed and he was confused... as I am of sturdy farm stock and can easily lift (and throw) the required 50 pounds that our job descriptions call for.

Also, in one of our departments (that is all of oh, six people: 1 dude, 1 lady over 50, 1 lady I suspect as being family, 1 who gave birth in December, 1 who gave birth in October and one who is pregnant with twins.) a woman wanted me to come see her brag book to appropriately ooh and ahh over her new pictures of her precious little baby boy.

Of course I went to look. I do like children. I like to play with them, I like to talk to them, and I love to hear a good full-body chuckle from a toddler. Also, I like to chew on them. Their little chubby legs just cry out for sweet and sour sauce. And babies normally love me. I am like baby Prozac. Need your child to sleep? Put them on me. I also sweat whenever I hold a baby. It is hormonal, yes... whatever. Leave it alone.

I also like to give them back to their parents the moment either snot, drool or anything sticky comes into play.

Regardless, that doesn’t explain the cruel and very poor behavior that two words can expose so quickly, especially if the words (or particular phrase is) are said twice.

To wit:

me: He is such a handsome boy!
coworker showing brag book: I may be partial, but I think so too.
me: No, I am speaking as an unbiased party and he is a very beautiful child.
csbb: Well, thank you.
me: You are welcome.
csbb: So, when are you and [Mister’s real name] going to start trying?
me: ::blink::
csbb: ::head tilted to the side in questioning way, small smile playing on her face::
me: Well, we have decided not to go down that path.
csbb: For now.
me: No, seriously. It is not in the cards.

Here is where I was hoping like hell she would think to herself, “Oh, foot in mouth, FOOT IN MOUTH! The poor thing is barren!” and let the subject die. But, no, poor etiquette ruled the morning.

csbb: For now.
me: No. Not at all.
csbb: ::Still smiling sweetly as if talking to an addled senior citizen... head tilt and all.:: So, you guys have just put it off?
me: No. We are not having children.
csbb: ...
me: We couldn’t even handle a dog, okay? ::I got up and walked out of her cubicle::

I could still hear her talking as I walked off.

csbb: You gave your dog away?

If you are wondering what two words I was latching onto as being poor behavior... I meant the “For now.” comments. Number one, that was extremely rude and number two, I don’t see how it is any of anyone’s damn business whether or not Mister and I have decided to add to the gene pool. And the whole mess about, “When are you going to start trying?” That always kills me. Like we don’t know what goes where.

So I found the following extremely fitting for the subject matter at hand.

From the brilliant Jay Pinkerton:

Like most sane people in their twenties who don't get married out of high school and start families before they're allowed to buy beer, I maintain a healthy dislike of children. Oh, I recognize the need for children on a purely biological level, certainly; I'm just glad it's not me having to lug screaming miniature idiots around to restaurants and supermarkets just so I can keep my bloodline in the gene race. Children: they're cute at first, sure, but they're also loud, destructive, not very bright and frankly horrible conversationalists. I don't adopt retarded, violent midgets and invite them into my home for decades at a time, either, and I fail to see the difference in principle.

So if you are riding the fence on whether or not you want to start a family. Adopt a midget. A retarded, violent midget. Or, you know... a dog.


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

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