Friday, September 25, 2009

Then Again I Don't Seem *That* F-ed Up

Lately you hear a lot fist clenching and concerned look-making over the topic of just how badly the children of mommy bloggers will need therapy. The theory goes that once 4 year old Blog Fodder Jr. grows into 14 year old Googling Alldaylong he will find mommy's little online journal where his every goo and poo was documented and commented on by the mothers of half the population of his freshman class and the mere thought that Ms. Nextdoor has heard about the stinky green turds he layed down from ages 1-3 will cause our good teenager's head to explode. The end.

I have never been capable of taking this tsk-tsking very seriously since I choose to document my own goo-ing and poo-ing for all to read and look! I'm totally fine! (seriously.). But today as I tried to make sense of this story over on The Sneeze where his kid runs around "drive-by anusing" his parents I finally felt a little sympathy for our perhaps over loved tots because for some reason this story reminded me of a little story of my own....

*cue wavey screen effect signalling blast from the past*

When I was really young -- probably from age 2-4 we had a family, we'll call them The Yothers, living in the house located pretty much in our backyard. I have little recollection of these years which is unfortunate because the older sister of the Yother clan turned out to be much more popular than me in high school and if only I'd had some good blackmail material ages 15-18 may have been smoother. But alas.

Periodically throughout my later child years (say 8-18) my family would run into Mr. Yothers, the dad of the family, and he would of course take every opportunity to reminisce about when they lived in our back yard. This might not have been so terrible except for that fact that his only memory from that time period if of me at age 3ish coming out of the house to tell my dad that I had pooped my pants. For Alex this is the best and most hilarious story ever told. For Brianna not so much. In fact I distinctly remember dying on at least 47 different occasions, death by poop story embarrassment is not pleasant.

A horrible tale, no? Now picture that little nightmare repeated over and over only this time everyone you know can access the play by play of your greatest pooping hits. They can print out a poop score card and plaster the school with it. They can do dramatic readings at open mike nights. Frankly I doubt these kids will live past age 12.

Tuesday, September 08, 2009

Turns Out I'm an Awful Human Being/Daemon From Hell

Last Friday was a much appriciated random day off from work so G and I took advantage by finally getting around to visiting Governer's Island. We strolled through colonial homes, admired the Manhattan skyline juxtaposed against a little New England town, saw some art, picnic-ed on some fabulous cheese and generally had a wonderful time but this post is not about any of that. This post is about G and I being awful people who deserve a painful and embarrassing death by tragic disease or at least to be yelled at really loudly in front of our peers.

Everyone visiting Governer's Island rents bikes. This allows New Yorkers to feel very European (which is also why we love things like socialized healthcare and organic produce -- I expect very short shorts on men and a refusal to shave one's pits to make a splashing debut at the next Fashion Week). There is only one bike provider on GI and the line morphs from a trickle to a torrent whenever the ferry docks but when G and I popped over to rent bikes 15mins before the next ferry docking we waited all of 5 mins (consider this post's one Governer's Island tip). Sadly, the system for returning bikes was far more painful due to some combination of very slow credit card machines, a lack of bike rental employees and the fact that as horrible people we are very impatient and (spoiler alert!) as daemon's from hell we scorn the bright cleansing rays of the sun. The line for bike returns stretched a good 20 minutes down the prestine tree lined block.

We waited and waited and finally day turned to night, the seasons changed, man walked on the surface of Mars, etc and G and I were 3rd from the front of the line and could almost taste the post biking margaritas that we'd promised ourselves. And then a random older lady (55ish? maybe 60?) walked up and emitted a huge huff and with a glance at her watch, another glance at the snaking queue of people as far as the eye could see, and a mean shake of her head muttered to herself, "What time is it? Is this the line!?!?" and then... she got right in front of us and scooted into the edge of the line! G and I exchanged raised eyebrows and waited... Just as the line was about to move G took the initiative and casually joke, "Ma'am I hope you're not planning on staying there." She turned around and again with her trademark huff whined, "oh come on, give me a break, I'm an old lady!" A lady so old that apparently senility had set in and caused her to forget everything she learned in Kindergarten (aka all anyone needs to know!). I can only guess that she has no recollection of the deliciousness of PB&J, the joys of playing kissy girls, or her ABCs but I can testify without a doubt that she totally does not remember the rules associated with butting in line and how it might result in another kid crying to the teacher and/or kicking you in the balls. How sad for all of us (mostly for G and I). I responded to her claims that old ladies don't do lines as nicely as I could, "yes, but it's a really long line and we all waited." At which point she upped the ante -- "I have a disability!" And here is where G earns all of my love and respect even if he's a little embarrassed at the words that crossed his lips, "That's an interesting disability -- riding bikes around an island for 2 hours? Totally fine! Standing in line? No way!" This produced shock and a look of complete scorn which caused G to back down a bit and apologize for pushing things too far (which I maintain he didn't do because she did just bike her not-really-that-old ass around and island! So GOOD POINT G!). As many readers may have realized we were now snowballing out of control down Mount Grumpy Old Lady.

Brianna: No!
MGOL: Just let me go in front of you! I don't feel good.
G: Why don't you ask the nice people behind us if you can cut in line in front of them?

And with another huff -- she transformed into Poor Widdle Old Lady. Over our shoulders we heard the following:

PWOL(voice suddenly quiet and raspy): Excuse me, I have cancer and I'm very ill and I was wondering if I could please go ahead of you in line. I nicely asked these people in front of you but I guess they don't care about senior citizens with cancer. Also, I think that they are deamons brought upon us from hell itself. I wouldn't get too close, occasionally plumes of sulfur shoot out from their eyes.
Good Summaritan/Evil Harpy from Long Island: OF COURSE!!! My mother had cancer last year! Please, go ahead. I can't believe how rude some people/daemons are!

That's us! The rude daemons from hell! Should it be at all shocking that daemons are rude? Has this woman never seen Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Daemons are always crashing parties and biting people and generally pooping all over social decorum.

(Note: the author has taken a few liberties with the actual quotes used above. Changes may include but are not limited to: the addition of all caps, the use of somewhat unkind nicknames and the claim that anyone called the author or her boyfriend a daemon. These changes have all been made to better represent the intention of the speakers whose general attitudes can best be described as super crazy ridiculous. Rest assured that the author is now reigning it in and pretty much everything from here on happened in real life even though it also seems totally insane.)


Silly lady, we're DAEMONS! Not even your regular old demons but the kind with a random a at the beginning! Do you not understand how evil we are? Be glad we didn't rip that woman's cancer wig off and defile it with our throbbing daemon genitalia!

Through this diatribe G and I stood quietly staring straight ahead not talking and generally trying to melt into the asphalt. Not because we were embarrassed and feeling bad about not letting Our Lady of Cancer butt her ass in line (Be serious! We made the total right call on that one! Also, we're evil daemons so feelings of guilt are somewhat beyond our limited emotional abilities.) but because neither of us is very good with people yelling. I contemplated pointing out that everyone could go ahead an claim they had "cancer of standing in line" willy nilly without proof and then where would be be? Or that I totally had a friend who got cancer at 27 (aka way younger then you and therefore TOTALLY MORE TRAGIC) and that I was so helpful that I pretty much received an honorary membership in the cancer survivor brigade. Or that using a disease as an excuse to butt in line is practically asking God to smite your ass with even worse cancer in the future. But I held my tongue least I actually breathed fire at them.

In conclusion I must report after this little fiasco the margaritas were more then just delicious.