Pregnant Women Are Smug and Single People Are the Smuggest of All

It's time I tackled the huge chasms between those who are single, married, pregnant, or with kids already.

I know. It's a monumental task, but I need to do it.

See, I just stumbled across this gem:




And it's funny. Quite. I laughed. I said, "Holy shiz, I said all that crap when I was pregnant." And I felt a little sheepish about that.

But let's just start right away. I was pregnant. I almost don't even care to go into it because it's so obvious, I mean it was _ _ _ _ ing hard. That's right. The only thing harder than BEING WITH CHILD for nine months was actually HAVING the child.

Have I told you yet? I had a birth-plan. I was going all natural and that went quite well until the moment I got to the hospital and everything went south. Not to say I hold a grudge (against the hospital or Murphy [who sabotaged my plan the minute I made the plan] or the midwives who suggested after hours and hours of not progressing and double-contractions, that I have a C-section). I don't. Everything worked out in the end.

Let me just say that the reason I said any of the cliche things was merely because I felt like a moron the majority of the time. For me, anyway, when it became apparent that I was pregnant, I felt foolish and silly. And even though it may seem smug to say, "I don't care, as long as it's healthy," well hell. That's really what you're thinking. The other option, saying something like, "A boy, dammit, and if it's not, I will seriously be pissed," you'd just sound like a spoiled child, especially in light of all the people you most likely know who are going through fertility treatments.

You're pregnant. You're grateful to be pregnant. But you're also scared to death that you're going to mess something up, either nutritionally or genetically, that will cause permanent damage to the baby. Smug or not. That's how it was, for me. 

So the song, it's funny. I laughed. And I agree with them when they say, "Like I don't even care, I was just asking to be nice," or whatever about the smug reply that they've picked a name, but they're not telling. Hilarious.

I did that. Partly because the name I wanted to use was so universally reviled by my mom and siblings that after they successfully browbeat me into not using it, I was simply tired of having to tell people and experience the odd insecurity and vulnerability of sharing the hopeful name of my future child. Weird, eh?

But after I experienced some people NOT telling me (people related to me, not mere strangers) the name of their future kid (while I was also picking a name out and sharing with said people), even though they'd picked it, I stopped holding back the information. I realized, holy crap, the ONLY reason anyone asks you what name you've picked out is to be kind and try to show them that you care. You don't do that because you're interested in crushing them with a snide comment about how "nice" the name is. Well, most people don't ask for that reason.

So, really, NOT telling someone the name you've picked out for your kid when they ask is kind of similar to slamming the door in a person's face when you've invited them over for dinner. Of course, there are probably people you'd like to shut out and slam the door in their face, and that's OK. I say do it. Also, don't tell the bastards the name you have picked out.

Right then. The little song. I like it. I'm just dissecting the issues presented in it because that's what I do. I over-analyze. And then my blood pressure sky-rockets. And then I feel better because I've internalized everything.
 
And is it possible to have a favorite commercial star? Because I love the chick with dark hair. I've seen her in some commercials and she's great. I also like the girl from the Toyota Venza commercial who says, "Whaaaaat? That's not a puppy. That's too small to be a puppy." And I love this classic line from the same commercial: "I read an article online–well, I read the majority of an article online." She's great.

ANYway. The song is fun. I have nothing against it.

But I decided to write about this subject before I saw it, when I'd just seen the title and it reminded me of Bridget Jones' Diary, the book, and how Bridget hates going to dinner with her married friends because they're all smug and she's just a singleton and Cosmo (Kosmo?) is so damn smug and says hurtful things to Bridget.

I love that book and the movie. And I was a singleton too, once. And then I got married. And then I had a kid. So I've pretty much been in all the situations where there's smugness.

Let me just say, as a person with a kid, people without kids seem smug to me now. And when I was married, almost ALL my single friends seemed smug.

What gives?

Alright, I'll tell you. I have this all figured out.

I think smugness is just a product of not being where someone else is in this crazy thing called life*. So, you're not married and you have friends who are? They'll seem smug to you, especially if you long to be married. You have five kids and have a married friend with no kids? The child-less friend will seem smug to you.

Maybe not. I don't know for sure. I do know that I have quite a few single friends who've drifted away from me, like almost immediately after I got married (and these were the only friends I invited to my wedding–we kept it small), and they all seem kind of smug to me now.

Like I'm the idiot who got married and left. And now I have a kid. Why even talk to me? I'm, like, lame, now. I don't care about going to shows and being right in the music scene and I don't dress cool any more. I can't hang out and chill and therefore, as a friend, I'm useless. Because, like, you can only have friends who are in the exact same situation as you are, otherwise, you can't even relate to them. Right?

I've no idea if they think this. It's what I think they might be thinking because it's how I feel.

So, am I the smug one? I don't feel smug. I feel like an idiot who decided to grow up because that's what I'm supposed to do (incidentally, I prefer it. I'm not saying I hate my life. Love it. LOVE). And now I'm a square. And the single friends are cool and they're always having a good time, with loads of friends surrounding them at all times, coming and going, with no one permanent to care about (spouse) or take care of (kid) but themselves and so they can drop everything at a moment's notice and fly to France or where-the-hell-ever.

If I want to go to France, I have to plan months in advance, save up, buy tickets for me and my husband, and either take my son with or try to coordinate with in-laws and siblings over who will watch him for us while we're gone. And my trip to France will cost three times as much because I can't just stay in a youth hostel, especially if I take my son.

Or couch surf or what-the-crap-ever they call it.

Does that sound smug? Crap no.

Anyway. My point is (one of them), is that it's dang funny to call married people and pregnant women smug because they're easy targets. They have something. You can always make people who have something the butt of your jokes because they're lucky and they possess something to protect them or hold onto when the crap hits the fan. You can't make fun of single people. They're single. It's just them against the world.

They're basically nude.

I was single once. It was hard. I felt nude. And vulnerable. And I wanted to be married, like badly. Because I'm a lover (even though I appear to be a fighter. It's a ruse). But I never really thought that married people were smug. Although I did get sick of hearing stuff about "when are you going to get married?" as though I was chasing suitors off right and left.

I was. Actually.

But.

My advice to everyone who thinks other people are smug is: don't think that. It's crippling. I miss my single friends pretty badly. Short of stalking them, I don't really know how to reignite the friendship. Can you do that?

I'm sure they don't miss me. The majority of them don't slow down long enough to notice. It's been hard to forge new friendships and foster them and all that because I have a husband and now a kid. So I rely on my old friends and I'm thankful for the ones who are single who still make time for me and haven't let the fact that I'm married stop them from asking me to carve out some time for them.

Hell yes, I'll carve out some time for them. I did when I was single and I will now. I love their freaking guts. And you know what else I love? Over-analyzing. At 11:20 at night. And cursing. Like a sailor. I love that too.





*Favorite stupid line of all time. I use it whenever I can.

Everyone, My New Book Is Out. It's Called Feed. Go Buy It.

My most recent book is up in the Kindle store. I put a link in the side-bar. It's damn good. Damn. Good. I'm telling you. I had a blast writing it, which is, as far as I'm concerned, the sole indicator of a book's worthiness. It's true.

Yes, it's called Feed. I loved the short story–"Life Feeds"–so much that I expanded it into a novel. And then I shortened the title. And then I designed the cover. Both of which may or may not be mistakes. See, I was in the bookstore today–always a grueling experience, but lovely at the same time because books are beautiful and I love them–however, today I stumbled across this book:

Notice the title? Yes, precisely. It was published in 2002. Similar premise, although the intended audience of this book is teens (also, similar cover, as mine has a head on it as well). Anyway, I got the book so I can read it rather than resorting to suicide.

My book cover:

The other is a National Book Award finalist. And Nick Hornby read Anderson's Feed and apparently liked it enough to write about it in the Believer (which I used to read, and if I've never mentioned it, let me just add that Nick Hornby is one of my author-heroes).

So, my triumphant moment has sadly been reduced to ash. And dirt. And the back of an ugly bald head with the word feed emblazoned across it.

Not that my triumphant moment is that grand. Really. If I think about it. I know what I should do is pretend that I'm a freaking brilliant author. With loads of talent. And feign awesomeness and joy and exude the air that I've arrived when I put a book up in the Kindle store. Because that's success, right?

It's like I'm having a tea-party with imaginary friends, while others are at actual tea in a book shop in London with their agent, a publisher, and a movie studio executive who's trying to option the book for a major huge screenplay that will outdo the Hunger Games and Twilight combined.

"Now who wants to take their top off?" George Bluth, Sr.

I'm not an actress and I'm not very good at faking it. I have the worst poker-face, as I'm sure I've mentioned before and the one time when I had a damn royal flush–yes, no lie ROYAL FLUSH–everyone saw it on my face and on my cousin's face because I leaned over and asked him which I should go with, the straight or the flush (I was very bad at poker), and they all folded. So that amazing moment was deflated by my bad poker face. Once again.

Yep. Bad actress. Right here. Everyone. Look at the bad actress having tea with imaginary friends.

Honestly, I can't pretend that this is what I aspired to. But it's what I want, otherwise I wouldn't put the book up and sell it on my own. I'd be writing query letters and plying my goods at agents, trying to get noticed by them, the keepers of the red carpet and the velvet rope and all that jazz. I don't love them. That's why I'm not doing that. Their rejection letters or even less than that these days, they're lack of response, also has the power to crush writers, especially the ones with bad poker-faces who can't hide their disappointment.

And so I'm going it on my own. And if you enjoy my blog, you'll surely go spend .99 cents on my little book. And if you like it, you'll go back to Amazon and rate it. That's what I need. And here, on my blog which IS awesome, I'm not afraid to ask for it.

Honestly, I expect M.T. Anderson's book to be good. I don't begrudge him/her the name. Great minds think alike, right?

But my own Feed isn't a young adult novel. So please don't expect that. The hero is an awkward engineer and I love him. I hope you will too.

Dork

So here's my big question of the week. Is it that hard to not be a dork?

Something set me off on this philosophical musing but I can't remember what. I have some serious concerns, however.

Here are some ways that people surprise me with behavior I can only label dorky. Also, dorky is a really ridiculous word if you use it more than twice in a blog. It suddenly looks absurd. Is it even English?

A) I can't remember what happened, but don't hold an eternal grudge against me. Like, say I said or did or DIDN'T do something that bothered you. I no longer remember, plus, remember, for a while there I was pregnant and if you've never been around a pregnant woman OR equally, if you've never BEEN a pregnant woman, well then you wouldn't know, would you. I will tell you. Everything is a bit more insane when you're pregnant. You can't rely on the normal course of things, like the sun rising, the sun setting, etc., because pregnancy throws all that to crap.

So say we had an appointment and I forgot, WAY back when I was pregnant. Might have been because I was pregnant. And you might not have known, because, if it was in the beginning, well, how could you have known? I wasn't tell everyone. Or, say I, in an attempt to be polite, returned a book to you before I finished reading it because I didn't want to forget. Well, might have been because I was pregnant and I was trying to sell my house and you had no way of knowing that because I was keeping that shit a secret. So, really, let's bury the hatchet. I didn't know it would destroy the mutually decent feeling between us and I couldn't really explain at the moment.

Yes, so there is that. Pregnancy. Wow. Really rough. Not that I think a person should just be able to use that excuse carte blanche, because that's annoying. But I'm using it here. Because. It's true.

B) There was something else. Some things. Hard to remember. Not enough sleep. Baby keeping me up all night. Memory shot to hell.

Oh yes. Please. For the love. THE LOVE. Don't let your dog crap in my yard. That's right. Yes, for sure we share the same teensy plot of land in front of our houses, but maybe you can either pick up the poop like responsible people do (with the inside-out bag) or you can monitor your dog and restrain him from pooping on my side of the lawn. See, I have a kid, and when summer comes, I'd love to let him play in the grass, but with your dog crapping all over it, I don't see that happening.

So. Please. Don't a crappy crap neighbor. Don't be a total dork and make me loath you.

I should probably go talk to this neighbor. I just hate confrontation. Is there a passive-aggressive way to deal with this? I mean, besides writing about it here?

C) Don't be a dork and ignore me like this is high school. I know. I was just talking about being passive-aggressive, so how I can make this type of request? I'm not sure how it works, but I'm doing it.

So yeah, maybe I always liked you way more than you liked me. How am I to know? Let's just not play games and accept stupid FB friend-requests and then proceed to ignore any other communication. For the love. That's just stupid. Unfriend me, because I don't care THAT much about it, and so I'm not under the illusion that the lines of communication are open and we are friends, or, um, I don't know, write back?

I mean. Really. Facebook. I get it, I understand that it's easy to forget to do something (see A, for example). I'm just saying, why even HAVE Facebook if you're never going to use it (and that leads to me getting paranoid because you haven't acknowledged me and I want to write a little rant like this).

Wait. I actually know the answer to that because I'm constantly threatening to delete my account and then never do—I don't use it enough and I'm always putting my foot in my mouth and offending someone. But still, I don't delete it. Because I might miss out on something awesome. Like, I don't know, suddenly Facebook gives everyone a free Mac or Ipad or something. Or the great Millennium is first announced on Facebook. That could totally happen.

And that is why I want to delete my Facebook account (but haven't). 



Hmm. That's it. For today. I guess. Wow. I usually have so many more complaints. Welp. Now I feel mysteriously satisfied and empty. Like, I could just go through the rest of the day totally mellow, despite that had to wake up every two or three hours last night and am therefore very tired and head-achey.


Huh. Who would have thought. I only had three complaints today. 


Amazing. Huh. Well then. I guess I'll just go over here, in this corner. And sit. For a while. Huh.....

*Silence*  

Ding Dong to the Rescue

I can't even tell you how happy I am that Hostess went back to wrapping Ding Dongs in foil. I don't know when they did it, but I remember how upsetting it was when they switched from foil to plastic wrap. I curse plastic wrap. Everything delicious should be wrapped in foil. Gum. Cadbury Creme Eggs. The aforementioned Ding Dongs. And that's everything I can think of right now.

So, after I heard that Hostess was doing the bankruptcy thing two months ago or so (my word, I've been eating Ding Dongs for TWO MONTHS?), I thought I'd do them a favor and buy some Ding Dongs.

I curse that delicious mistake.

Yesterday was hard. Corbet yelled a lot. His naps were too short. I didn't get much sleep the previous night. Turns out he has a cold. But anyway, here's how I coped: 

Beautiful hockey-puck, foil-wrapped dessert.

 Empty foil means full belly.

p.s. No. I know. These photos are A-MAZ-ING. I'm not a professional.

Eleven at Night. Exhausted. Bitter. Lame Post. Do NOT Read.

Tonight Stoker and I had a chat about dreams and crap. The thing is that dreams are stupid. Well, that's sort of the conclusion I came to. And by dreams I mean aspirations or desires, not the kind that you have when you're asleep, although those are stupid crap too, nonsense and whatnot, though sometimes I sincerely believe I have the foretelling in my dreams. No kidding. And by foretelling, I mean "the foretelling," as a peasant might say back during the feudal days of yore.

So, the problem with dreams is that, if you're me, then you get hung up on them and they make you do lame things, like have fears that your life will pass you by and they'll go unfulfilled. And you'll be this selfish beast who looks back on her life and manages to have regret, though she's only in her early thirties, and despite all the accomplishments she's racked up, gets blinded by the things that she didn't do.

Ok, so enough of the cryptic talk. I'm talking about writing and all that shizz. And by shizz I mean shit, a word that I haven't used on my blog for a long time because I'm trying to have class and be a cut above all the clever, ironic, and crass shizz that permeates the web, but tonight I don't care to be all that. I'm feeling down. Beat up. Tired. Exhausted. And I'm listening to that repetitive song "The Greatest" by Cat Power, which somehow seems fitting. I didn't even do it on purpose, I kid you not. I was just perusing my iTunes library, looking for something that I felt like listening to, and I didn't feel like listening to anything, and then bam, there's Cat Power, and I was like, click. Ok. Fine. "The Greatest." Yes, once I wanted to be all that. And now. Nothing.

I remember once, when I was like seventeen or something (wait, isn't there a song with lyrics about "when we were seventeen" or something? Janis Ian? Someone else?), I asked my mom what happened to her dreams. Did she achieve them? Or maybe I asked her about something else, like how come her sense of humor wasn't as awesome as mine? (No, I swear that IS not what I asked my mom, but I have no proper recollection of what it was) I just remember the answer to whatever obscure, naive, and probably rude question I asked her (that's half my problem, I ask people questions even when they're rude questions, only to realize once the words have left my mouth that WHOA, that was rude. Idiot).

So anyway, her answer was, "Because Nikki, life beats you down, you know? It's hard. It squeezes those things out of you."*

You may ask, "Those things?"

No answer for that. Probably fun. Wonder. Awe. Or something altogether different. It fit into whatever context the conversation was in, but the point is, I get it now, Mom. Beat down. Yes. That's how I feel.

In any case, Stoker and I were having this conversation. I was trying to justify why I even give a shit to keep writing (not to him, to myself, he's supportive), because it's rough right now. I have no time, somehow.

I laugh to remember now, how naive I was before Corbet was born. Oh man it's hilarious. Just after he was born, I recall telling my mom before I lost my voice (for three months, that was a bitch), that I was going to go to Starbucks with him and write as he sat, peacefully (didn't say peacefully, but that was the image in my naive little mind), in his car seat and slept or stared at the ceiling, and every now and then, I'd stop and feed him or something. But mostly I'd just be able to write. And all would be cool and perfect in my little Utopia.

Ha. Hahahahaha.

Oh Cat. How you so understand me right this minute, singing about being dumb and young and naive and stuff and thinking the world was your oyster.

I'm feeling bitter right now.

The problem is that I have no right to be bitter or full of any sort of regret. My word. I'm a spoiled individual. It's true. I have this perfect son. He turned nine months old yesterday. He has these amazing blue-green-brown eyes--that everyone mistakenly calls brown because they don't look closely, because they're not his mother, I guess--and they're so beautiful and sharp. He sees everything. And his smile is personally responsible for global warming because I'm pretty sure it melted the ice caps when he glanced northward one day. One look. That's right.

He laughs and I die. He reaches one tiny milestone and I'm aglow with the most repugnant parental pride the world has ever seen. Yes, I'm that arrogant that I think my parental pride wins out of all the other parental prides out there.

So I have him. And he lived. I thought he was going to die during my labor because I could hear his heartbeat drop to a dangerously slow pace with every contraction. And nothing went right and it was the scariest moment in my life when the midwife told me I needed a C-section, because, well, midwives. They're all au naturale, and suddenly they're recommending a C-section. But I prayed hard and he lived and I lived. And here we are.

And my voice came back. I was sure it wasn't going to. I was afraid it wouldn't. And yeah, it came back.

And I'm in Utah and it's the most beautiful desert flower in the world. And here I am.

So how can I have regrets? How can I be so ungrateful to feel upset that I don't have time to focus on this ONE dream?

I can't. That's part of why I feel so frustrated.

And Stoker said to me, tonight, something that just grounded me. That people who get their dreams just want to get a paycheck, to pay their bills. And that's true, I know. But me writing stupid stories that maybe one person might read is beyond money.

A billion people have said it, since cavemen were first dipping their fat fingers in pomegranate ink** and drawing circles and bull-horns on the cave wall, and I'm going to say it too. I have to write. (In Cavemanese: "Me have to draw bull." Stupid joke. But. Yep. Gonna leave it here.)

It's not about being read, though I would love that to happen. It's about organizing my thoughts. It's about pulling the chaotic world into my head and spitting it out into something that makes sense to me. When I write, I feel I've fended off confusion.

Not only that. I look at the world and see so much that's hideous, but among all that, there's this beauty. And I want to capture it. I have to express it in words. In stories. Stories organize matter for me. I narrow the scope of the enormous, massive, daunting universe into this small lens and focus on a small area that represents everything all at once.

And it gives me peace.

Welp.

Anyway.

I'm not saying my dreams are dead. I've just got to figure out how to have my cake and be able to eat it too. I totally can. I won't give up! Dammit. I won't! 





*Never call me Nikki, unless we're extremely good friends or you've been calling me that all my life. Or our life. Together. The life we've been living together.

**Pomegranate ink. The first ink known to humanoids.

Being Honest With You, My Dear Blog

You wouldn't know it, but I tend to hold a lot back. A LOT. A. LOT. But starting today, I'm turning over a new leaf. I'm going to be more open about things. Is that cool?

Good.

I think I've made this promise before, in other blog posts, but I mean it this time. I really do.

What I usually hold back is, well, the truth about what I'm doing and whatnot. I usually only write about the safe things, things that I'm not afraid for people to know, like me exercising (kicking arse!), running races, music I like, and my random thoughts about current events. Typically those are rants, the ones about current events, and even there, I hold back. I could rant so hard it would burn your brain into a skull-puddle. Skull-puddle. How does that sound? *shiver

Anyway, I hold back the most about my writing. Back when I put links up to some of my stories, you wouldn't know it, but that was huge for me. Enormous. It was quite scary, too. And so far, it's been terrible. No one has even noticed them. I think twenty people have read the stories and they were all in my family.

No big deal. That's what happens when you don't advertise. Plus, who wants to pay for MY stories when you can read my blog for free? My blog is so fascinating. Who needs to get their fix from my stories?

Right now, all that's going on my life is: 1) taking care of Corbet (my son, born eight months ago); 2) maintaining the house (that's hard, if you've never done it before, it involves things like sweeping, folding laundry, dusting blinds, etc. Sucky work, but someone's got to do it); 3) exercising like a banshee; got to get that lithe figure back, you know, ha. Ha ha ha. 4) hiding from the neighbors, who turn out to all be in my ward because I'm back in Utah now ("I saw you out running yesterday." Is a phrase I've heard several times already from ward-members. Still not used to it.); 5) taking care of Corbet; 6) trying to find time to write.

The other day I made a goal. I'd work on my stories DURING THE DAY AT SOME POINT. MAYBE WHEN CORBET IS NAPPING*.

I accomplished that goal once or twice. And then the laundry piled up. And Corbet tried to eat a dust-bunny he found under the linen rack in the master bathroom. That's when I realized I hadn't swept in over a month. So I cleaned. Still haven't swept, but I cleaned the bathroom. Good job, me.

And now I've only written at home once in the past two weeks. Last night. I threw in a scene that was partially inspired by the song "Cough Syrup" by Young the Giant. I liked that song BEFORE it appeared on Glee.

I hate Glee.

Anyway, great song. Can't stop listening to "Islands" by Young the Giant, either. And you know what? That band is awesome. I'm in love.

Anyway, I threw the "Cough Syrup" scene into the manuscript that I finished a month or so ago. The manuscript only took me two years to write or something. Ha. Ha ha ha. That's partially because I had a baby during that time. Writing was difficult while pregnant. And then I had some health complications. I know! Excuses, excuses. So, I think the scene works. I need to reread it again, and touch it up, but I think it's daring. And right. It fits. It really does.

So, there's some info about my writing, which has proven to be the hardest thing for me to write about on my blog. Weird, I know. But honestly, it's because I'm afraid to be a failure.

You know. I just want to grow. Somehow. To combat that feeling I constantly have of being in a state of permanent regression. Like Mister Kurtz. Day by day. The older I get. Perhaps it's merely the "the more I know, the more I realize I don't know" phenomenon, and I'm suffering the symptoms of it. Who can say for sure?

Fear bugs me, anyway, and when I finally realize I'm being afraid, I try to woman up and confront it.

This is me confronting a fear.

Thanks.



*This kind of planning always results in the plan's ultimate destruction. Son won't cooperate when I plan to do things while he naps.

On the News, Again. Couponing.

I think I must be in some cosmic alignment right now.

I stopped at the grocery store for a couple items I couldn't get last week and bam! Someone from Channel 4 news asked if they could interview me for a piece on couponing. Can you believe it? I just barely started using coupons when we got back here to Utah. Money's tight and all that, so, you know, every bit of savings counts. The main thing about couponing is if you have a budget–when you only have $75 dollars to spend on groceries, finding coupons means you can fit more into that budget.

Crazy, I know. That's how money works, kid.

You know, before Corbet was born and I was working, I didn't have time to care about this stuff. But now I just sit around all day being lazy, watching crap shows like Rachel Ray and Anderson (I like both of those shows and they're not really crap, that was sarcasm), and eating bon-bons.  It's true. So I can get more bon-bons for my money if I clip coupons.

Anyway, so, last November, around Stoker's birthday, while I was at the Gateway mall in SLC, I was asked by a Channel 4 reporter if they could interview me for a piece on Johnson's Baby Wash. Whoever did the piece erroneously called me Nicole Smith. SMITH? Come on! Welp, anyway, my married last name is as common as Smith, so at least they remembered that it was a common one. Nice work.

So, if you look up the interview, Corbet looks adorable. He was riding in the Baby Bjorn and he had on his cute crocheted hat one of his aunt's made him. That was the best part of the interview. Corbet. I'm sure they asked me because he was freaking gorgeous.

I worry (of course there had to be a worrisome element to all this cosmic awesomeness) that these two interviews (if they even actually use the footage of me today) will accumulate to my fifteen minutes of fame and after this, no more. It would be excellent if rather than news interviews about random household concerns, I was being interviewed because of my profound blogging wit, or because someone had made a movie based on my socially critical short story, Life Feeds. Wouldn't that be amazing?

Either way, at this point I'll take the news interviews about couponing and Johnson and Johnson's cancer causing Baby Wash for the sheer excitement of being asked about my intriguing life and stirring opinions.

Had a Dr. Who Dream Last Night, But that's Hardly the Point

Last night I was driving to the cafe to do a bit of writing. It was dark, and now that I'm in Utah again, beautiful. Listening to songs from the official soundtrack to the piece I'm working on as I drive helps me get in the right frame of mind, so of course I was listening to the official soundtrack. The lights from the city make the sky glow and the trees are all skeletal black frames against the bright sky. It was a serene moment, but there was something missing.

Angst. Oh yeah. ANGST! Where has it all gone?

Then I realized, my son was born last June and so now there's always something to live for. He's this brightness in my life that pushes away all that crappy darkness that sometimes closed in on me. And that feeling of desolation was always worse during Utah winters. But now I am home, Utah is my land, and these are my people, here. I have a son and a husband and I don't have to feel that loneliness the harsh winters could always generate for me.  Not anymore. Weird. I never thought, back in the day, that I could feel so much more lightness.

A brooding, black and white shot.

Corbet at 5.5 months. He gets handsomer every day. Handsomer?

Maybe it's just a result of fewer hormones, or maybe it really is that I have someone who needs me more than anyone has ever needed me before.

Having a baby is difficult, no questions there, but it's also the greatest thing to ever happen to me. Sometimes I feel like the Grinch, and just looking at Corbet makes my heart swell to ten times it's original size (I may have mentioned this before). Honestly, I wonder if it could ever make my chest burst, because it feels that way.

Speaking of this, I met this girl the other day who's about to have a baby. She's married, 24, and somehow, SOMEHOW, she's going to give the baby up for adoption. What?! No idea how this works or how someone makes a decision of this nature. I mean, I can imagine a couple of scenarios, but I can't understand how she could go to full term and, with a father for the baby nearby and everything, simply put him into someone else's hands.

I told her it was cool that she'd have the baby and everything, because that's better than the alternative (my opinion after having had my own), but wow. That's got to be crazy. All that effort. That time. That energy spent growing the baby, and boom, you give it away.

The only thing that made those nine months of hell worth it was to know that I'd have a baby at the end of it. I had no idea how it would feel to have a baby and everyone said, "You can't imagine how much you'll love him till you have him." And they were right. Now that I know better, there's no way I could have just given Corbet away.

In any case, here I am, old and without angst. But not without crazy passionate responses to the insanity of the world. Go figure. I'm exhausted already. I have no idea how I'm going to make it to ninety-four. Wish me luck!

Best Doctor ever. In a snowstorm. Wait. Is that Utah?

p.s. Had an awesome dream last night. Flying. Etc. And I was Rose Tyler for a bit, then the Tenth Doctor. And did I mention there was flying? And it was a new episode of Dr. Who with the Tenth Doctor. If I keep having awesome dreams like this, I might make it to be an old woman.

My Letter to My Senators and Congressional Representative

I'm sending this to Orrin Hatch and Mike Lee as well as whoever my congress person is. The problem is that Hatch has always been a purveyor of these sorts of laws. He's made a few dollars with some albums I guess and feels that his stuff has been ripped off. Maybe. I don't know.

The point is that I'm doing it, not that they'll read it and take it into consideration. Can you just see them sitting there, pencil tapping bottom lip, thinking about what I've said? "Yes, hmmm, this Ms. Grotepas says some very VERY interesting things and makes some astounding points about free speech and the information highway."

Remember when the internet was called the information highway. Or was it a freeway? I can't remember. "Free love, on the free love highway! Hot love on the hot love highway!" Speaking of that awesome moment in The Office (UK) when David Brent sings his terrible songs, you all realize that Youtube would almost become a graveyard should this legislation pass? Yes. No more looking up clips of your favorite moments in any show just to refresh your memory, so you can go around throwing out timely quotes like the one I just did.

So in short, the legislation sucks. Here's my letter (it probably sucks too, but feel free to copy and paste if you don't want to write your own):

I'm writing in regards to the SOPA and PIPA legislation currently being reviewed by the Senate and House. Both of these are detrimental to the exchange of knowledge on a global scale. Passing them would essentially be censorship veiled as an attempt to protect intellectual property. Here's a statement by former senator Chris Dodd (this is what he said about sites like Wikipedia going dark to protest the bills): "Some technology business interests are resorting to stunts that punish their users or turn them into their corporate pawns, rather than coming to the table to find solutions to a problem that all now seem to agree is very real and damaging." The hypocrisy here is thick. What are our representatives who are pushing this legislation if not the pawns of huge corporations with money and power to lobby and push restrictions onto an otherwise free exchange of information? Also, who is this "all" he is talking about? All those with pockets full of cash to throw at lawmakers? Yes, because I think the voice of opposition is otherwise very loud and very clear. We as citizens, small and large business owners, and even creators of artistic content (I'm a writer and I share my writing online) do not want to see the internet restricted by Washington. 

As one of your constituents, I would hate to see my representatives support a bill that I do not support. If I am one of the few who speaks up, please know there are thousands more who share my views but who have not taken the time to write.

Thanks,

Signed: Madame X

The Spectacular Decline of All that Is Holy

So I just saw a piece on the terrible excuse for a talk-show, The View, about how any old average Joe can create porn in their homes and make a killing. I guess the segment is a teaser for another show on some network called Own, by some chick named Lucy Ling or the like. I usually never watch The View, partly because I don't relish morning talk shows, or afternoon talk shows to be fair (unless it's Ellen, but then, I always forget to tune in, don't I), and I especially loathe The View.

Frankly, as far as I've seen, there are never any views expressed on The View save complacency for the decadent ride into hell our country is taking (unless Whoopi's going on some rant wherein she displays her total lack of understanding for any serious issue, and it's never about the most pertinent points, like how the country's on a steady course for moral destruction). Honestly. To borrow a favorite phrase from the motherland across the pond, the country's going to the dogs.

The ONLY way the subject of Ms. Ling's segment is newsworthy is in fact to exhibit the total and utter lack of morals which our society possesses. Generally on this blog, I prefer to be somewhat tame in the expression of my values. You may laugh, because, well, because I'm probably always transparent and obvious. But let me just say, I usually hold back. Unfortunately, I'm a powder keg waiting for a spark and . . . . well, these days it seems there's a spark every day.  

Anyway, is it surprising that a bunch of morally loose idiots are MAKING money by selling their sexuality on a camera in their bedroom? No. This has been going on for centuries. That's why it's not newsworthy. And hello? Does anyone out there have ANY standards these days? And by standards, I don't mean that you like to save the whales, though that is good to do, it's not going to save the humans from self-destruction. Well, it is, possibly, through preserving a salvageable eco-system. But there's more going on that's rotten in the state of Denmark than just animals being targets of poachers and the like.

The problem is selfishness and the reason the moral fabric of my society matters to me is because of, as Reverend Lovejoy's wife would say, "the children."

I love the Simpsons and it's for clever satire such as Reverend Lovejoy's wife obsessing about the children that I profess such admiration. She's always there to cry out at any mob gathering, like when a bear is in Springfield and the town is trying to decide what to do, "Who will think of the children!" It's the trump card. How can you be so heartless as to not care about the children?!? They're helpless!

I know, this all boils down to parents and how involved parents are in their children's lives. Parents should monitor what their kids are doing. Parents should be alert 24/7, they should ask questions, they should do thorough research, and essentially run a police-state in their home so their kids don't bump into porn on the computer, the laptop, the PS3, the Wii, the Xbox, the Kindle Fire, the Ipad, mom or dad's smart phone, the neighbors house, or in the ditch out back*, at school, on the street, in the mall, in the grocery store, at the restaurant, at the Starbucks, or any one of the other apparently millions of places porn prevails in our world.

We definitely need to be better parents.

And we can try our best to overcome or undo any harm that might be inflicted upon our kid by him or her bumping into it at a very innocent, tender age.

But what a world we live in, where the individual always eclipses the group. And by group, I mean family. Because I certainly believe in individual rights, and I believe that censorship shouldn't be enforced by the government or any other form of big brother.

Call it a wish, or a longing, that the individual wasn't such a jerk and that they could see that they are part of a larger fabric that consists of more than just a bunch of separate units acting independently of each other. It is exactly the inability to see that all things are connected that our society has ended up here. For a society to work well and to flourish, individuals must realize that there is a social obligation for each person to behave in a way that benefits society in the long run.

Which brings me to another reason there's so much crap being created and sold online and elsewhere: society is too big. How can one person make a difference in a huge world teeming with scores and scores of people? Exactly. That's why it's so easy to fool ourselves into believing that what we do, these tiny infractions against a moral code (such as the Ten Commandments, because, come on, what other code is out there?), even make a difference to any one but us. We think, "Oh, no one else is being harmed by this decision to video myself doing this and then broadcasting it live to those willing to pay to see it, right?"

When the things you're doing in public or even in secret are not being subjected to the scrutiny of your village or family, then there IS less of a reason to behave in a way often dubbed decent by those around you. And since there are fewer families, and cities are so large, and well, the ways to do things in secret (while somehow simultaneously being public) are abounding, then we have a problem.

So, I think everything I've said can be expressed in the following equation:

No Censorship + Individual With No Concern for Society as a Whole + Internet - Small Villages - Family = A Problem

Let me end with an illustration of how all that once delineated the boundaries of decency has frayed and unraveled to a frightening degree. Part of the segment by Lucy Ling and the fabulous porn-made-at-home story featured a 50-year-old woman who makes interactive videos with her clients. Her husband produces the live-web-cam events and Ms. Ling described how a large portion of this woman's "clientele" is "men" between the ages of 19 and 25. And what is their most common request?

That they can call the 50-year-old woman "mommy."



*Truly. If you're going to dump your porn collection, please don't throw it in a ditch. Or the gutter. You think it just "goes away" when you do that? No. It inevitably falls into the hands of children**. Yes, children. You're not the center of the universe and that ditch is most likely frequented by children pretending they're the Swiss Family Robinson or something like that.

**This is based on anecdotal evidence. While I never stumbled across porn in the ditch myself, as a child, I've heard several accounts from others who did.