Blah, and More Blah

I don't like blah. Or dreary, or humdrum, or boring. And I like it even less when it is applied to those little things that make life worth living: bunnies, sunsets, your baby's first words...

Ah, yes: DH strikes again. When you live within the narrow realm of "not bad" to "pretty good", almost nothing can cause you to so much as bat an eye. Worse, DH has been surfing baby development websites since Small Fry was nary but a blastocyst, and as such, nothing - nothing at all - about our baby's miraculous progression from tiny limp lump of unhappiness to 30-pound, walking, talking, toddling hurricane surprises him.

"Small Fry started saying 'hat!' today, honey!"

"That's normal. Babies his age should be saying six to eight words by now."

Translation? Blah.

But this has always been the downfall of overexposure - Another bunny nibbling your lawn? Meh. Sunsets? Seen one, seen 'em all. Baby milestones? I've already read about all the usual stuff. When is this kid going to start playing Mozart? Now that's interesting.

So what role do various media play in blah-ing our lives? Video games desensitize us to violence; TV to tragedy; the 'net to... well, probably damn near everything else. Even a generation or two ago I'll bet the first boob a teenage boy got to see completely knocked him on his ass. He probably never forgot that miraculous First Boob. Now, one hundred million boobs magically appear for your viewing convenience with a quick Google search (that's fifty million results x 2, since they generally come in pairs and all). And that's with Moderate Safe Search on.

Entire generations of Blah. Damn internet.

Blueberries Meet Untimely Demise

Suspect Nabbed Blue-Handed

Neighbours expressed shock at the violent end reached by a pint of blueberries at the hands of a local toddler.

"He was a quiet, polite fellow. Kept to himself, mostly. I never would have imagined this sort of destruction, never," said a female neighbour, who wishes to remain anonymous.

"Yap! Yapyapyapyapyapyapyap yap yap!" added the woman's dog.

Cleanup crews say they haven't seen such a mess since the Ketchup and Fries Incident of last week.

The suspect is being held behind bars until his nap is up.

Coppertone Up Seventy Points

Hey, have I mentioned lately that I am really, really white? Like, blue-white - fishbelly white. The woman who did my last pedicure said, in her charming little no-speaka accent, "Oooh, you need little bit more brown!" (Great - now not only can I not show my blindingly white legs in public, people are even criticizing my blindingly white feet?)

While DH has two seasons - Cold and Not Cold, you'll recall - I was recently reminded that I also exhibit some seasonality: White and Pink. That's right, after over thirty years of vicious sunburns, I yet again neglected to apply sunscreen (it's only April, right?) and have a terrible sunburn. And if you are also fair of skin, you will know what I mean when I say, Of course I was wearing something with a decorative neckline! *sigh*

Now what the hell am I going to wear to work all week? I'm going to have to go out again on the next pleasant day and try to get a more practical sunburn so I can wear my office clothes. To think I used to fret about obscuring mere hickeys - just try to camouflage a scalloped sunburn with a lacy openwork design! No artful scarf placement is going to hide that. (Ah, ah, don't give me that turtleneck crap, we've already discussed why we break up the canvas around here, remember?)

Not to mention the fact that the back of my neck is going to hit seventy about thirty years before the rest of me.

And thus begins the cyclic nature of the season Pink: sunscreen, aloe, sunscreen, aloe. Repeat.

Murphy vs. Darwin

Have I ever mentioned that I love the prairies? Some people just don't get it: "There's nothing there, what's there to like about them?" Now, I could wax poetic about the wide open spaces and Lands of Living Skies, but as we all know waxing is painful so I won't bother. And shaving is annoying, so I might not bother with that, either.

But what I will do is tell you about the great solidarity I feel with many prairie critters: the majestic elk; the fleet pronghorn; the sharp-tailed grouse and deer and northern harrier. Heck, even the lowly jackrabbit. Think about it, folks: on the prairies, the large, white rump is sexy. Everyone's got one. I fit right in! In fact, so many of we prairie-dwellers have big white butts that I'd like to propose it might even confer some sort of evolutionary advantage 'round these parts. 

... Frankly, not sure what that might be. I suppose in a pinch, one could signal for help with one's high posterior albedo.

Oh my gawd, maybe that is it! I know I have been busted taking a leak on the prairies an inordinate number of times - I suppose rather than cursing them for sneaking up on me out of nowhere, I should instead apologize to all the surveyors and pasture riders who innocently believed they were answering a distress call. I'm sorry, Midwest Surveys and Altus Geomatics staff members. I'm sorry, fellow on brown horse. And fellow on grey horse. And fellow on Honda ATV. It's just that I thought I was alone in that wetland/beside my truck/behind that sagebrush in the middle of fucking nowhere and I had no idea how you could possibly have picked the precise moment I was having a pee, out of all the hours in the day I spent outside, to materialize and scare the... well, I had no pants on at the time, as you are aware, but seriously - can you blame me for being upset?

So ladies, the next time you plan on doing some field work in the prairies, mix a dab of self-tanning lotion in with the Off! you apply to your butt before you get dressed in the morning. It may just serve to muffle your distress signal enough to sneak in the occasional witness-free bio break.

I'm in a New York (Striploin) State of Mind...

Perhaps you've noticed I like to save this space for whining about DH - I know he certainly has - but there's no time like the present to break the mold. Or mix metaphors. Two stoned birds with one hand in the bush, you know.

Hot dog, that just sounds dirty. Now I know it's a good night for blogging.

Today I'd like to complain about vegetarians. No no no, don't get me wrong: I like vegetarianism, it's a great plan, and even more kudos to you if you can choke down Tofurky, but I tend to consider myself more of an omnivore. Heavy on the omni.

What pisses me off are people who claim to be vegetarians, but really aren't. Say, a grown woman forcing her octegenarian grandmother to go prepare her a different meal at a family barbeque because, "I'm a vegetarian! I can't eat this stuff!" (Try again, I don't think you read that loudly enough - a fifty-foot radius of relatives needs to hear so they can fuss over you.) On further questioning, however, it turns out said gal eats fish, poultry and game... just not beef.

Vegetarian, eh? I think what you meant to say was, "I'm a finicky princess who needs attention."

I recently heard of a term for the 'casual' vegetarian: they like to call themselves flexitarians. Well, hot damn! That makes it sound far less annoying. But, uh... I'm still confused here: why bother calling yourself a vegetarian at all if you're, like, you know, NOT? So let's get out our pencils and add a special Post-It in our dictionaries so we can remember this new and groovy term if it ever comes up in conversation:

flexitarian [flex uh TAR ee yun] n. I'm not really a vegetarian at all.

And in fact, let's work on witty retorts for the next time you're having a dinner party and someone tries to put that flexitarian bullshit over on you. Some ideas:

mexitarian - I'm a vegetarian except for those little crispy-fried meat rolls you get at Taco Time.
Texitarian - I only eat really large portions of meat.
vexitarian - I only eat meat whem I'm stressed out.
sexitarian - The only meat I eat is... (actually, my dad reads this, I'm so not going there.)
hexitarian - Got nothing for this one, sorry.
existentialitarian - Those cows were gonna die anyways, why wouldn't I eat them?

There you go. Now you're armed and dangerous. But you would have won the fight, anyways - they were probably too anemic to offer much resistance.

How Things Go Terribly Wrong In Relationships

I have approximately three levels of dress-uppitude. I'm sure they used to be higher, and even more exciting, but I am old, and have two children and a couple decades of gravitational pull under my belt, so to speak, and that tends to bring them down.

Oh, wait, that's breasts I was just talking about there. Sorry. I'm easily sidetracked. Old, remember. There's actually no excuse at all for my declining standards regarding my appearance. So let's get back on topic here:

Level One, I like to refer to as "I think I brushed my teeth today." Level Two we shall call, "I should at least dress as if they provide me with a paycheque." (I use that one a lot at work.) And Level Three is... "Mascara."

Oh, yes, my friends, when I put on mascara I am feeling right hot-damn saucy. Rrrowr.

Today was a Mascara day. Say it with me now:

Rrrowr.

The scene: My place; kids either asleep or out playing in the back yard. With the doors locked. (It's not really that cold out today, they'll be fine for a while.) I slide a pan of cabbage rolls in the oven, remove my lime-green cat-print apron, and set my sights on my prey: DH, here I come!

Frecklepelt - Enter Stage Left. Wait, no - Sashay Stage Left! Strikes a provocative pose in front of DH, who is slobbed out on the couch surfing the internet, yet even in his grubby sweats has exceptionally nice eyebrows, why waste them on a man, really?, but regardless has no idea what the mascara-ed temptress has in store for him. "Hi there, handsome."

DH - Click, click. Click, click. "Ungh."

Frecklepelt - Undeterred, snuggles up beside DH, wafting the warm, delicate scent of par-boiled cabbage, and bats her lush, Light Black, waterproof eyelashes. "Looks like we've got some time to ourselves, honey."

DH - Not yet entirely clued in. "Oh, yeah? Hey, is it really hot in here?"

Frecklepelt - In a slightly desperate, yet also gracefully-executed fashion, drapes herself sort of over the goddamn laptop. "I think it's just me."

DH - Lightbulb! In deep, provocative tone: "Oh yeah?"

Frecklepelt - "Yeah."

DH - "Well, you're certainly not making it any cooler."

Alright, end scene. I'm not making it any cooler? Not making it cooler? I'm in his lap and the best pick up line he can muster is an oblique pot-shot at my dorkiness? Well that's just swell. Never mind then.

But whatever, would have been tough to concentrate on being frisky with the kids pounding on the screen door trying to get in anyways.

Peer Pressure

Due to overwhelming public outcry at the announcement in my last post, I am returning to my blogging endeavour.

Well, OK. There was actually no outcry, sortof a mild grievance on the part of one person, but the really exciting news that I just couldn't resist sharing is that, through careful observation, I have unearthed a stunning insight into the male psyche. Ladies, take your Couple's Lexicon down from the fridge and procure yourself a writing implement, 'cause here it comes:

When he says, "I started the laundry yesterday," before he heads out the door to work in the morning, he means, "I am out of clean underwear, so have placed two (of the household's four) full laundry baskets in front of the washing machine where they are now waiting for you to simply sortwashdryfoldandputaway! One easy step! Now, kindly display your endless gratitude by way of Hero Cookies and/or sexual favours in return for all my efforts."

(Well, OK. That's actually not that stunning an insight, but c'mon now, how complex can their psyches really be?)

Whew, it's good to be back, folks. To paraphrase Descartes, kvetch ergo sum. I bitch, therefore I am.