Momnesia

For everyone concerned about my sanity, let me just say that it would ever so much more stable if I could rid myself of the nascent news-siphon that is Brangelina’s baby, henceforth nicknamed “The Christ Child.” I am starved, I tell you, starved for real news, in-depth reporting on Things That Matter but which are not the War in Iraq by which I am embarrassingly bored god save the troops and all that.

I think it is a sign – because my life and thoughts are important enough to be considered omens but not like that Damian horror movie kid who really freaked me out shut up you are giving me nightmares – of a larger American, nay, perhaps global problem of viewing everyone but me as entertainment.

There is a certain disconnectedness that haunts our global connectedness, like maybe we’re so aware of our fellow men and women and their hands across the globe lalala that we’re also conscious of just how dispensable we are. I mean, how sacred can each life be when there are 5 billion of them and counting? And do they really not know it’s Christmas time, ‘cause I think it’s no big secret. Humans are not rare. Oh, sure, in comparison to, say, plankton, we’re losing the procreative race by a couple hundred trillion. But we don’t fit so neatly in whales’ mouths, if you please and thank you very much. So forge ahead, Mr. and Mrs. Plankton, for there is much room at the inn for you.

Which brings me neatly back to the Christ Child because that was a transition.

It goes without saying that this child will lead a life of ridiculous wealth and health, and I hear s/he has already been cast in his/her very first role as “Fetus on Monitor” in Kate Hudson’s next film. But aside from the fact that s/he will inherit the genetic perfection of both her parents, what other talents will s/he have? Will she glow like the suitcase in “Pulp Fiction?” Maybe the child will emerge from the World’s Most Visited Vagina (over 1 million serviced!) and rise, shimmering, into the sky where she will mate with Brahma and bring religious unity, peace and prosperity to the planet. Maybe her power will be to absorb light, thereby rendering paparazzi flashbulbs useless and making her prime breeding stock for other Hollywood offspring who will then create a master race (TomKat? You’re what Willis is talkin’ about).

Whatever. The point is that I think we can all agree that this child will be born an uber. An child who is “other”. Some creature more highly evolved than the rest of the Hollywood mere mortals, and clearly an aeon or two further advanced than the troglodyte mouth-breathers drooling on the tabloids in the supermarket checkout aisle. Newsflash: that’s you, me and anyone else not IN the tabloids. I understand that the child will be more of everything than anyone can ever imagine. But must I be forced to watch the child gestate? Can’t the global domination of the Hollywood elite wait a few more months until we’re sure there will actually be a baby and not some preternatural porn star?

So, resolved:

• Since the child has a few more months to go before blinding us with its glory;
• Since the parents aren’t likely to get to boinking right in front of anyone’s camera;
• Since there is enough cheatin’ and lyin’ in Hollywood to fuel TWO industries (those being tabloids and country music);
• Since the parents of the Christ Child really don’t do anything special besides have him/her;
• And since the second coming of the Christ Child commences the Rapture;

We, residents of Earth, hereby swear off all news of celebrities and their breeding habits. We got some prayin’ to do.

Dear Penny -

I am writing to apologize to you. I feel like I have wronged you horribly. I know that on several occasions, I have made shameless fun of you for your enjoyment of George Michael.

Now I must confess: I love George Michael, too. I have long been too cool to admit it.

But I am here now! I am set free! And I say to the world: I love George Michael! Yes, I paid $40 to see him from very far away at the old Atlanta Stadium. I bought a t-shirt! I watched his ass with great concern in his torn jeans and leather jacket with the pearls hanging off the shoulder. And the stubble! I was ALL ABOUT the stubble! (Well, except for this guy in high school who actually bought one of those electric razors that let you “choose your own stubble” and also styled his hair with the puffy pseudo-wings. I mean, the look was great, and all, but not to the extent of idolization and expensive razor-buying.)

But worse than the transformation of a 15-year-old with unnaturally heavy facial hair into a physical clone of an aging gay pop star is that my favorite Christmas carol is “Last Christmas.” Oh, yeah: I said it. (FYI, my second-favorite Christmas carol is “Christmas Wrapping” by The Waitresses... Which is worse, I know not.)

In the end, I am most disturbed by the fact that I was so turned on by both the song and the video for “Father Figure.” A part of me still is. But I gotta have “Faith” and work through my issues now that I’m "Older." I’m going to give it “One More Try” to prevent any “Careless Whispers.” Perhaps if I had a “Teacher”...

Love,
Stacey

Scott and I have another ongoing argument that goes something like this:
“Where’s the phone?”
“I dunno. You had it last.”
“No, I didn’t. You did. Where did you leave it?”

The phone is in the bedroom and we freaking never hear it ring. So every time we do hear it ring, given that we never know where it is, it unleashes a frantic search for the stupid thing. Tonight, I was playing with the baby and Scott went looking for it by pushing the page button and wandering around triangulating the position. He returned, palms up, in a gesture of bewilderment.

“I can’t find it.”
“Where did you leave it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you check the back porch?”
“I just looked there.”
“The kitchen.”
“Nope.”

He rifles through the couch cushions as I go into the bedroom to see who left a message. The phone is sitting on the base.

“Scott!”
“What?”
“What the fuck is this?”
He stares at it.
“Seriously, Scott, what the fuck is this? Right here? Right here on the base? What is it?”
“I am an idiot.”
“No, really, this rectangular phone-shaped item here: what is it?”
“Come on.”
“I’m just wondering.”
“Oh, shut up.”