Momnesia

Scott: “My back hurts so bad.”
Me: “I’m sorry. Is it worse or better?”
Scott: “I don’t know.”
(pause)
Me: “Maybe it’s one of those things where it hurts a lot but then gets stronger like Superman. Maybe you’ll get X-ray vision.”
Scott: “You know, I already felt like I could see things with my back.”
Me: “Really? And soon you’ll be able to shoot laser beams from your ass.”

President Bush was on TV last night. I don’t care about his politics. I just can’t stand to hear the man speak. A monkey could do a better job.

So I went to take a bath. I relaxed in the water. I washed, scrubbed, shaved, and moisturized. But I could still hear the president’s yapping.

I added more hot water to the mix. I deep conditioned my hair. Meh, he was still talking. I stayed in.

I talked to myself. I wondered where my new book had gotten off to. I hoped Scrabble didn’t eat it, like he does Scott’s socks. Soon I looked down at the now lukewarm bath water and noticed it was an unattractive grey color. The bottom of the tub had grown gritty with almond shells, or whatever exfoliant I had used. I shivered a little.

But I could still hear the president talking. If he weren’t talking, I would get out of the tub. Suddenly, I realized I was involved in a one-woman protest.

It must be against dirty politics.

o2grok1: What does Pentecostal mean? five something? Five what?
Ptrend: I know what Pentecost was...but not the etymology...sorry
o2grok1: what was it?
Ptrend: Here we'll hear from Merriam Webster

Etymology: Middle English, from Old English pentecosten, from Late Latin pentecoste, from Greek pentEkostE, literally, fiftieth day, from pentEkostos fiftieth, from pentEkonta fifty, from penta- + -konta (akin to Latin viginti twenty) -- more at VIGESIMAL
1 : SHABUOTH
2 : a Christian feast on the seventh Sunday after Easter commemorating the descent of the Holy Spirit on the apostles -- called also Whitsunday

o2grok1: Okay, but that doesn't explain why they call themselves that.
Ptrend: Because they are a group that believes all their meetings require or call down a charismatic possession of the holy spirit just as was experienced by the apostles that first time
o2grok1: oh.
o2grok1: oooOOOOOhhhh..
o2grok1: Thus the speaking in tongues and epileptic fits
Ptrend: exactly
Ptrend: I actually have been to a Pentecostal funeral once and seen the alleged speaking in tongues. Very weird! not my cup of tea
Ptrend: I like writing to you in Times...I think I'll try that for a while.
o2grok1: except I don't recall the apostles doing that in the Bible. Does is say something like "And lo, John was visited by the holy spirit and he did pick up a serpent and drink its venom, and Jesus spake: 'Ye shall ingest venom and it shall not kill you, though nonbelievers will think you nuts,' and Paul said, 'Lord, why hast thou forsaken us,?' and Jesus replied, 'Wherever there is a gathering of two or more, there shall I be, and there shall be fainting and ye shall froth at the mouth.'"
Ptrend: ha...yep I think you missed that Book of Viper Kissers
o2grok1: Your typing is very large. What's up with that?
Ptrend: Sorry....
anyway...the way the rest of us Christians usually interpret Pentecost is pretty simple.... the city was a crossroads of the world, cosmopolitan Romish city state stuff and all that... so God suddenly gave the apostles the ability to speak in the various languages of the people there so that they could hear and understand the gospel and spread it among lots of nations etc...
Ptrend: how about this font
o2grok1: gorgeous
Ptrend: or this one
o2grok1: they look like the same font to me.
o2grok1: was that it? the thing about the various languages? that's the explanation?
o2grok1: how about I write in this one? That's a more daring font choice
Ptrend: got it
o2grok1: so is that it? cause the way you explained it, people could actually understand them. What changed? It's not like they're speaking Aramaic
Ptrend: that's my question too. Now they say they are speaking in "heavenly languages only our spirits know"

Overheard at an education tour for 2nd graders:

Little girl (jumping and shrieking): "Caitlyn took some candy!"
Mother: Heather, no one is interested in your tattling. Caitlyn will make her own choices, good or bad.

That's going in my "things to say" parenting file.

To the person with the nasty commentary today: I wish it had been directed at me. I would like to have bound you, gagged you, and told you this.

There is room on this planet for all faiths. There is no proof of the existence of any God, much less the single one in which you believe. I respect your beliefs. I admire anyone who is able to commit to something intangible. Myself, I need a spreadsheet of progress, a balance of cost vs. income, some hard proof of efficiency. Basically, I want a religious system of gold stars for good behavior. The night sky just isn't enough for me.

Kudos to those who have found a faith that fulfills. But let's be clear that it is what it is. It is faith. A system of belief not founded in fact. If a god is what the word implies, he or she defies facts. I can dig that, and that is why I remain open to religion, despite my skepticism.

However, when you spout off Bible verses to nonbelievers in an attempt to prove to them that they have chosen either the wrong course of action or (and I wouldn't be surprised if you picked an argument with your VCR user's manual) picking the right course of action for the wrong reason, you come from the point of belief that the Bible is a sacred work written by man, directed by God. Note that I said the point of belief, not the point of proof. Not everyone believes this is true. To many, it is much like saying: "My Aunt Edna says..." You give a certain amount of credence to the statement out of respect, but with the knowledge that everything Aunt Edna says doesn't always make sense.

There is nothing inherently wrong with religiosity, and I am not one of those people who buys into the subjectivity of morality. I think there is a certain value in evaluating others' conduct and finding it lacking - respectfully, of course. Like you, I believe in a universal code of conduct, and not just to avoid a "Lord of the Flies" kind of society. It is because I believe in (though I cannot prove) the existence of the concepts of "right" and "wrong."

But I know that my belief in the rightness or wrongness of an action is still rather nebulous for me to define. There are qualifiers. Murder - usually wrong - can be justified (just try to get near my daughter to hurt her). Charity - usually right - can encourage laziness in someone unable to find their own independence. But I take on faith that my personal code (which, admittedly, I have violated with poor judgment from time-to-time) is adequate, and in fact, right.

It is a leap of faith, and that faith is tested when people who act in a manner I find abhorrent seem to prosper and succeed. We use the phrase "leap of faith" so easily, in such a casual way. But Kierkegaard (ack! My kingdom for a spellchecker with that name in it) coined the phrase in talking about something much more profound. He was talking about the spiritual, intellectual, and emotional leap from the edge of the cliff of factual analysis into the pure, clean air of the faithful. He was talking about taking a real risk with your soul, with your emotional stability, and with your sanity.

Does that mean that I truly believe in my tiny simple little list of rights and wrongs when I am so upset by others' non-adherence to my system? And that is what you, Mr. and Mrs. Traffic Cop in the Highway of Life, must ask yourself. How much faith do you have that it makes you nuts when someone else chooses another set of beliefs?

I doubt that you have the propensity for that kind of questioning, although I suspect that at one point in your life you did. It is primarily the "born-again" who react with such vitriol, studies have shown. I don't know that the studies have answered why that is. Perhaps embarrassment at what you see as years ill-spent. Maybe fear that those years have doomed you... although why you would then choose Christianity is beyond me, given its system of forgiveness... unless you don't truly believe in it, and then don't get me started on hypocrisy. Anyway, this anger and venom you show - is it really directed at others, or are you talking to the parts of you that still crave sinful behavior? Regardless, here is my final inquiry: Do you, Fishers of Men, honestly think anyone is attracted to Christianity after watching you, red-faced and sneering, intentionally try to insult, intimidate, and frighten another person? Do you really believe you are bringing more lambs to the fold?

I call bullshit on you. You represent everything I find repulsive about church. Nothing has ever been less attractive to me than your invitation to join you at your church. I hope that if I ever find what you call "truth" that I am a happier person for it. Knowledge of the nature of god and insight into the order of the universe should bring joy, serenity, and peace.

Now I will untie you, and let you be on your less-than-merry way. I hope one day that you find faith that makes your life worth living, and subtracts the impulse you heed to make others' lives less enjoyable.

I work at a tourist attraction, and we often have people in from out of town asking what to do, where to stay, where to eat, etc...

Me: So my favorite place downtown is The Bees Knees, and -
Man: The what?
Me: The Bees Knees. Anyway, it -
Man: The Bees Knees?
Me: Yes, sir. It's -
Man: Do you know what that means?
(stop. interruping. me.)
Me: I'm sorry, what?
Man: Do you know what that means?
Me: What what means?
Man: I'll take that as a no.
(why don't you take this up your...)
Me: Sorry?
Man: You're too young to know what the bees knees means.
Me: I thought it meant "the best." Like, that cheesecake was "the Bee's Knees!"
Man: Ohh, you DO know!
Me: Yeah, I've watched a few movies.
Man: The ones from my day, well, they don't make it like them anymore.
(You mean silent?)
Me: Right. So, anyway, the restaurant is a tapas bar -
Man: A what?!
Me: A tapas bar, and -
Man: No, it's not.
Me (confused): Yes, it is. Have you been there?
Man: NO! We just got into town!
Me: Okay...
Man: Is it really a tapas bar?
Me: Yes, sir.
Man: Well, how do you get to it?
(we walk outside so that I can show them which street to turn down. His wife comes out of the bathroom and follows us as I recommend the goat cheese bruschetta and the calamari)
Wife: What kind of restaurant is this?
Me: A tapas bar with a kind of world fusion cuisine served in the Spanish style.
Man (looking at me suspiciously: Are you serious?
(I'm getting really frustrated with this man.)
Me: Yes, sir.
(I hand the wife a coupon for 1/2 off a tapas with the purchase of any tapas)
Wife: WHAT kind of restaurant is it?
Me: A tapas bar.
Man: Are you messing with us?
Me: Why would you think that?
Man: This is a topless bar?!
(I stare for a moment and then start laughing)
Me: Tapas! Tah-pahs!
(The couple looks at the coupon in confusion, and then both burst into laughter)
Wife: We thought you were saying "topless!"

Um, no. We don't generally consider them to be one of the city's finest tourist attrations.

We found out Friday that Scott's best friend, Duane, and his girlfriend, Lori Beth, are 6 weeks pregnant. We went over to congratulate and bring them a copy of "What to Expect When You're Expecting," and we were sitting around chatting about pregnancy, etc. They mentioned post-partum depression, and Scott asked, "Stacey, did you have any of that?"
I stared at him: "Honey, I'm in the middle of it."

I'm cheered that he had to ask. It means I'm not the horrible, overbearing, bitchy, nasty, man-eating ogre I'd viewed myself as. (Can someone put that sentence in a grammatically correct form? I can't move the preposition.) But, to be honest, there have been a few times I've been tempted to throw myself into traffic. Mostly, the experience of being a new mother is overwhelming. I mean, they REPEATEDLY TELL YOU it's a 24-7 job, and you think, "Okay, already. I get it. But it can't be worse than being pregnant." Then you have the baby, and you realize that they lied to you. It's a 48-hour a day job, 8 days a week. Although I am filled with love, pride, and amazement at our little girl 10 times a day, I am also overwhelmed with how much she needs.

Would I change it, had I the chance to do it all over again?
No. Emerson is the one thing in my life that I know I haven't screwed up (yet).

But the hormone rollercoaster is a rough ride and I don't know how to get off. I try to grin and bear it, maintain a sense of humor about things (like the spit-up on my sweater that I didn't notice before my meeting with a bride this morning), and keep myself in check when I want to scream. I also try to remind myself that Scott has probably had a harder time because he's home with her all day long. And it seems to be fooling people, at least. But I don't know if it's working for me.

We're talking about how the baby responds to the world around her now that she's almost 6 weeks old.

Scott: "She's absolutely fascinated with Scrabble."
Me: "Well, she can see him. He's so high contrast."
The dog is a black and white rat terrier with crazy-big banana leaf ears.

Scott: "Yeah. She loves it when he licks her."
Me: "Plus he's all soft and cuddly. He's like a walking stuffed animal."
Scott: "He is."
(pause)
Me: "Wait. That didn't even make sense. Of course he's like a fucking stuffed animal. He is an animal."

Scott and I are both suffering from severe sleep deprivation. Emerson doesn’t want to sleep at night, but the daytime is just dandy. We’ve both been struggling to function - I poured Scott a glass of lemonade, put it in the fridge, and brought him the pitcher instead, for example - but Scott wins (so far).

“I was changing her diaper on the bed, right? So I take off the diaper, clean her up, put the diaper back on her.... and then I thought, ‘Shit!’ And had to do it all over again.”

I haven’t put a dirty diaper back on the child yet, but I did wash her bottle, make her bottle, and then pour it out and clean it again before I realized what I had done.

Me: “Okay, I’m going to Sam’s Club.”
Scott: “Okay.”
Me: “Are you sure you don’t want to go?”
Scott: “No. My back really hurts, and my head hurts.”
Me: “Poor baby. If it makes you feel any better, I got baby poo under my fingernail this morning when I was changing Emerson.”
Scott: “You know, I do feel a little better.”
Me: “Great! If I can ease your suffering...”

My friends Gage and Jamie had their baby in early December, so Kerrigan is a little further along than Emerson. Jamie emailed me this description of their little sweetie’s development:

She’s getting interested in her hands, but hasn’t totally figured out that they’re her’s yet. The other day she was laying on the bed with her right hand up in the air, looking at it. Well, her hand slowly started to fall towards her belly, and she’s watching it as it gets closer. But as it gets closer, she starts giving it this suspicious look as if to say, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?!” Then she picks her hand back up and looks at it like, “Good! You stay where you belong!” But then her hand starts falling back down and she starts looking at it all suspicious again. She just kept repeating that for about 5 minutes. And she’ll hold a rattle, but she inevitably smacks herself in the head with it and then promptly drops it. Or she’ll look at it a bit, then kinda forget about it. Then she’ll pick her hand up and see it and look all surprised as if to say, “Whoa! Where did that come from?!”

Scott hates rap. He sees no redeeming value in it. Well, except Outkast. But I’m always trying to point out that there is a redeeming quality to rap, if you understand the socio-cultural and historical placement. He insists it isn’t music.

Anyway, I continue my efforts while flipping through iTunes. I try the “Knight Rider Remix” from Punjabi DJ. The bassline makes him laugh.

“Here, you might like this one.” I put on Rage Against the Machine’s cover of “Fuck the Police.”
“I’ve never considered Rage Against the Machine to be rap.”
I look at him, incredulous. “What?!“
“Well, first of all, I can understand what the guy’s saying. It’s not misogynistic. It’s not hate-filled.”
“Um, have you ever listened to them?”
“They’re a protest band.”
“A hate-filled one. I mean, honey, they’re called Rage Against the Machine, not Happy Tea Party Against the Machine.”

Scott decided to go to the store with both the dog and the baby. He must have had a head injury to do that. After he dropped Scrabble at Petsmart for a nail trim and flea bath, he went to Wal-Mart. Emerson helped him look for shoes by screaming the entire time.

"I finally went over to the baby section, tore open a package of pacifiers, and shoved on in her mouth. This pregnant lady was looking at me like I was desperate."

I wish I could follow him around with a video camera. It must be hysterical to watch.

Our normally complacent infant has been screaming her head off all day. After 5 straight hours of nap-free fussiness, during which I cannot manage to take a shower or walk the dog due to the ravings of my little hellmonkey, Scott comes home and offers to take her off my hands.

“Please!” I sigh, relieved that she’ll be bursting someone else’s eardrums for a while. Instead, she immediately settles down in his arms and goes to making great big goo-goo eyes at him.

Just when I’m about to threaten him with divorce if he ever pulls a trick like that again, Emerson erupts like Vesuvius, spewing formula all over the front of Scott’s jacket.

Ha!

We’re Emerson on simple baby sign language like “mama” (a hand brushing her cheek) and “dada” (tapping your hand to your temple). Normally in sign language the sign for an individual is the first letter of their first name, which you make the sign for and tap against your chin.

We’ve decided not to do that. Instead, we’re going to teach her more appropriate, individualized signs. Such as the following suggestions we’re kicking around:

Granny (my mother): devil horns
Aunt Kelli: rotating index finger at your temple (the sign for “crazy”)
Uncle JD: holding your nose like you smell something bad
Nona (Scott’s mother): picking your nose

Feel free to make suggestions!

Mom: “So Target next?”
Me: “No, I forgot the gift card. We’re going to use it for some Baby Einstein toys for Emerson.”
Mom: “Some what?”
Me: “Baby Einstein toys.”
Mom: “Oh! Well, as long as they’re not Baby Frankenstein toys...”

Me: She spits up a lot.
Scott: I changed into my Queen shirt because she knows not to spit up on it.
Me: Really? What’s that on your shoulder?
Scott (checking out the whitish stain on the black shirt):“Uh... Spit up. Dammit.