Hi, My Name’s Pussy!

Tags

car salesmen, car shopping, cement truck, coincidence, kid talk, kids say the darndest things, Percy the Train, totaled car

Surprise! It’s me, Zodka. Bet you thought I got swallowed by a sinkhole. Because lord knows eventually we’ll all be a sinkhole’s dinner. It’s been over five months since my last true confession. Well, that’s what happens sometimes. I go where the wind takes me, and often it takes me down roads filled with boulders, tar, and other major obstructions that prohibit me from doing things like turning on the computer and bathing.

During this lengthy absence, E has blossomed into a fluttery little girl whose best stuffed friend is named Mr. Tall From Nepal. She still owns my boobs, which I plan on repossessing sometime during this century. She talks. Like, a lot. You’ve undoubtedly heard of the TV show turned cliché, Kids say the darndest things. Well, golly gee, ain’t it the gosh darn truth.

A case in point is the following transcript of a conversation between E and me in the car:

E: Whoa!

Me: Oh, yeah, that’s a cement truck. [followed by a riveting explanation of how it works]

E: Cement cock. Ooooh, cement cock. Wow!

[We talk about other things for a minute or two]

E: It’s pwetty cool.

Me: What’s pretty cool?

E: Cement cock’s pwetty cool.

Advertisement: Ask your doctor about Cement Cock, because when you need it hard, you need it REAL HARD. *Side effects include cracking, discoloration and eventual deterioration of penis.    

Here is another conversation that transpired in the car:

E: [talking to herself] Hi, what’s your name. My name’s Pussy.

Me: What’s your name?

E: Pussy.

Me: WHAT’S your name?

E: PUSSY!

Me: Hmm. That’s an interesting name.

E: Thomas Train friend’s Pussy.

Me: OH, PERCY! Hi, Percy, my name’s Asshole.

Okay, I didn’t really tell her my name’s asshole. But have you ever heard a toddler say asshole? It. is. the. fucking. best. shit. ever. Especially when they repeat it, like, 20 times in the car with a cute little rise-fall intonation on the hole syllable.

Speaking of assholes, we just went car shopping and had to talk to sleazy salesmen because our car got smashed to pieces. Turns out that some people’s sneezes can cause them to lose control of their vehicles and crash into other people’s vehicles and total them. Our parked Honda Accord was the latest victim of this deleterious bodily function. It was a ’96, an old fart of a car but one that kept us chugging along faithfully without much of a fuss. I feel bad because we never gave it a name and I always cursed the car because the locks didn’t work correctly (from being stolen and broken into countless times) and things were falling apart on the inside. Now I’m feeling really guilty. Like when that bigoted, cantankerous coworker you always badmouth dies and then you feel like shit for thinking and saying all those horrible things because maybe you never really thought or cared about what they went through as a child and never really wondered why they were the way the were.

You wanna hear something really freaky? Last week, Babe was telling me about how our friend’s Honda, also a ’96, got hit and totaled while it was parked outside her house. She received $3,000 for it. We then joked about how great it would be if someone did that to our Honda. Two days later, Mr. Sneezy smashed into our car parked outside of our house, totaled it, and we received $3,000 for it. Um. Yeah. Totally fucking freaky. The moral of this story is: Don’t fuck with us cuz we can make shit happen, yo.

I would like to publicly thank Mr. Sneezy for not hit-n-running and for having insurance. I hope your cold cleared up quickly and I’m glad you didn’t get hurt.

Here’s a picture of Pussy the Train:

Okay, I’m out. I’ll be back soon. Or not.

The Empathy Enforcer: A Dolphin Manifesto [re-post]

Tags

captive dolphins, dolphin shows, dolphin trade, Ric O'Barry, Sea Shepard, Sea World dolphins, Taiji, The Cove

A small tale with a happy ending having nothing to do with dolphins, but a cool and somewhat relevant story nonetheless. Recently on a late night bus ride home, the driver sped off from a stop, leaving a desperate, sprinting teenage boy furiously waving his arms in her wake. “Wait!” I yelled as she closed the door. But she pretended not to hear and quickly put her foot on the gas. As I watched him disappear into the black, I was overtaken with the urge to push the driver out of her seat and tell her that I was now taking over. “What the…?!” she’d scream. “Are you cr…?!” “First thing’s first,” I’d inform her, “we’ll be returning to the stop where you knowingly stranded that poor boy so he can get on this bus, tell you off for being so mean, and get to his destination.” We pulled over at the next stop several blocks down the road and, as I watched a passenger disembark through the back door, I noticed a flash of red fly past my window. There he was. The young running man. The determined, I-will-get-on-that-bus-if-it-fucking-kills-me young running man. As he walked up the bus stairs and passed me on his way to the back, I sank into my seat with a smile, reveling in the fact that all was right with the world, if only for a moment. With a fire in his belly that boy changed his fortune despite being a victim of apathy. He was one of the lucky ones. Those who don’t have the freedom or ability to protect themselves from human callousness are not so lucky.

The “people of the sea” deserve to be free. As a young girl, when anyone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I proudly replied, “A dolphin trainer!” This childhood dream was in part inspired by a trip to Sea World when I was an adolescent. I watched in awe as the trainer and dolphin seemed to be one. We all left the show smiling from ear to ear, much like the dolphins themselves, muttering to our family members in wonderment and joy. I longed to be a dolphin’s best friend and was convinced it was my destiny to frolic joyfully in the water and teach dolphins how to do amazing, applause-generating tricks at Sea World. The dolphins needed someone like me. Someone who would stroke their smooth bodies and tell them they are beautiful and talented.

Ric O’Barry, too, was attracted to the dolphin-training profession in his younger years. He worked with the dolphins that starred on the television show, “Flipper,” during which time he witnessed disturbing and consistent behaviors of captive dolphins. From these observations, O’Barry determined that they were suffering from what he now refers to as “dolphin depression syndrome.” In various interviews, O’Barry has repeatedly expressed that the captive dolphin’s body language is extremely revealing. In an August 2009 interview, O’Barry stated, “The real show begins when the show is over and everybody’s asked to leave. You see the dolphins go over to the side of the tank and they put their head up against the wall and just lie there like a log.”

Before hearing about the documentary The Cove, I, along with millions of others, was unaware of the covert operation, in Taiji, Japan, of the capturing, selling, and slaughtering of thousands of dolphins a year. As many who have seen the film know, The Cove is named after the inlet in which terrified and confused dolphins are forced into and trapped, and where they await their horrible fate. Employees from various aquaria and marine parks from around the world come and observe the dolphins, on the hunt for the “perfect” trainee. The one who seems the most intelligent, teachable, and well-behaved. The one who will be able to wow scads of spectators with her fluid and graceful moves. The one who will be able to generate millions of dollars to line the pockets of marine park higher-ups.

In Taiji, the dolphins and whales that get picked for marine parks are ripped away from their families and home to spend the rest of their now-shortened lives in small concrete pools. Most of the unsellable dolphins and whales are killed in unbelievably brutal ways. Their bodies are then sold for meat, most of which is unfit for human consumption because of high levels of mercury. For any dolphin or whale forced into the Cove, unimaginable suffering is a guarantee.

–The Cove

Researchers have observed that dolphins can swim up to 60 miles a day. Dolphins and whales need to roam. It is their nature. It is a necessity. Cetaceans (whales, dolphins, & porpoises) are migratory mammals and they travel through the vast underworld in search of warmer waters, ample food sources, and suitable breeding grounds. There is endless proof that captive cetaceans (even those bred in captivity) do not respond well to confinement. Virtually nothing about the confines of a small cement pool resembles that of the ocean. They’re fed dead fish, at times having to be tube-fed because eating dead fish is as backwards to them as eating live fish is to us. Ultimately, these animals are denied any semblance of their natural habitat, resulting in alarmingly high rates of depression and early mortality.

—Sea Shepherd Conservation Society is an organization whose mission is to end the destruction of habitat and slaughter of wildlife in the world’s oceans in order to conserve and protect ecosystems and species. When I dream of being The Empathy Enforcer, this logo often appears in my mind.

I’ve lost hours of sleep from relentless mental pictures of dolphins dying from spears and sadness. I often lie awake fantasizing that a superpower benefactor offers to grant me a single superpower. Without hesitation I request to be incarnated with the ability to transfer feelings of pain and distress from captured to captor, from jailed to jailer, from sufferer to agent. I would free the perpetrators from their detachment, indifference, and greed, thereby granting them the conviction with which to free their victims and never capture or murder another being again. I would be the enforcer of empathy because, alas, some cannot attain it on their own.

Many have been deceived by the dolphin’s so-called smile. I know I once was. We think of dolphins as benevolent creatures, eager to swim with us and perform tricks for our amusement. This “smile” is revered around the globe. But, please, do not let this illusory perma-grin fool you. There is often tremendous sorrow behind it.

If you’d like to stay updated on the Cove and other cetacean rights-related info, “Like” the following Facebook pages: The Cove, Sea Shepard Conservation Society, Save the Blood Dolphins and/or follow on Twitter: @SeaShepard, @thecovenews. If you’re on neither, go to savejapandolphins.org, dolphinproject.org and seashepard.org.

Please don’t go to dolphin shows or participate in swim with captive dolphin programs. And please spread the word!

And Everywhere Like Such As The Iraq and the Asian Countries

Tags

Miss Teen South Carolina, like such as, beauty queen, U.S. Americans, Miss Teen USA, the Iraq, Caitlin Upton, beauty pageant

Several nights ago we had a real bad night at the Zeebler residence. It was one of those nights that made me seriously question if/how I was going to survive the rest of parenthood with my heart still intact. E got really sick and developed a super-high fever in the middle of the night. Needless to say, I was up all night alternating between comforting her when she woke and bawling my eyes out when she slept.

E came down with this horrible illness on August 24th, and apparently bad things happen to other people on August 24th, too! Imagine that. Caitlin Upton had a pretty bad night on August 24th…

An uncomfortable look back: Miss Teen South Africa Carolina, 2007

August 24th of this year was the fifth insanniversary of mega-rich, mega-moron, mega-asshole Donald Trump’s Miss Teen USA pageant, where South Carolina’s Caitlin Upton reminded us of the plight of “U.S. Americans” and “The Iraq.”

During the question/answer segment of the competition, the confused Miss Teen South Carolina attempted to answer the oh-so pressing question on all of our minds: Why can’t a large percentage of Americans find their own country on a world map? Who the hell needs to know how to read a map these days anyway? What with GPS and Siri and microchips and Big Brother and hound dogs, we don’t need maps. They’re essentially useless, which is why Ms. Upton probably had such a hard time answering the question.

Many of you have already seen said video, but if you haven’t and don’t wish to see it, or if you have and don’t want to see it ever again, then you can just read the transcript here. The following is Upton’s response to the question: “Recent polls have shown a fifth of Americans can’t locate the United States on a world map. Why do you think this is?”

I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because, uh, some…people in our nation out there don’t have maps, and, uh, I believe that our education like such as South Africa and, uh, The Iraq and everywhere like, such as and…I believe that they should, our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S., er, uh, should help South Africa and should help The Iraq and the Asian countries, so we will be able to build up our future for children.

Here is living proof that this actually happened:

And here’s a totally tubular map of Caitlin’s answer, courtesy of morningtoast.com:If you need help reading this map (because I know that the majority of you out there are map-challenged), please contact me and I will send you a detailed instructional video for only $19.95. I’ll even throw in a free tiara!

Most people don’t know this but there were some follow-up questions that were posed to Caitlin after the initial map question. These were never aired. Please read them here as you will learn lots of things like such as the things you never learned before, like such as about maps, which are strongly linked to the impending downfall of humanity.

1. Question: One percent of Americans are homeless. Why do you think this is? Answer: I personally believe that some people in our nation out there are homeless because they got lost on their way to finding their homes. Like such as in The Hawaii and Canada. I believe if these people had maps with the ocean and roads, they could find their way back home like Dolores and Tutu in The Wiz. We need to help the homeless U.S. Americans to build up our children, er, our country, for our children so that they can watch TV shows like Celebrity Apprentice for their education. There’s no place like home. Except like such as the homeland. Security. And Donald Trump’s home where I get to drink bubbly drinks that make me feel funny and jumpy.  

2. Question: 49% of homeless Americans are African-American. Why do you think this is? Answer: I personally believe that U.S. Africans are homeless a lot because some of the U.S. Africans can’t get back to The Africa. The Africa and Asia and everywhere like such as should help the U.S. Africans to find their homes by, uh, teaching them how to read maps of The Iraq and the East. If more U.S. Africans could read maps, they would be able to get back to their homes and everywhere like such as Dora the Explora in the Wiz with the little barky dog, Tootie. Oh, and like such as the wicked witch because she rides a broom and can see the roads from up in the sky.

3. Question: 35.7% of American adults are overweight or obese. Why do you think this is? Answer: I personally believe that some people in our nation out there are obese because all of their maps lead them to McDonald’s and not to Subway and everywhere like such as. The maps they are using are made in The China and Indiastan and we must teach their children how to make better maps that will help the obese go to Subway where they can order a sandwich from Jared because he’s really nice and he’ll give you extra ham. And cheese. And packets of mayonnaise and other types of condoms. 

P.S. Caitlin won 3rd runner-up in the competition.

P.P.S. Baby E’s fever broke on August 25th but continues to have a very snotty schnoz and an extremely irritable disposition.

P.P.P.S. I’d like to personally thank Ms. Utpon for giving me like such as the best. Halloween costume. ever. for our children.

P.P.P.P.S. I apologize for wasting your valuable time with this ridiculously pointless post. I hope you still like me because all I want to do is make you happy. Don’t stop believing.

It’s a Bird…It’s a Plane…It’s a Flying Wee-Wee!

Tags

Boohbah farting noises, Boohbahs, Boohbahs creepy, children's entertainment, Patrick Stewart, PBS kids' show, Teletubbies

Rarely do I feel compelled to write about something totally meaningless (Zodka kids herself once again) but I can’t not write about my recent discovery of Boohbahs.

Last week Babe received a very generous gift of some children’s books from a coworker. Baby E is a very enthusiastic bookworm and it’s always exciting to add to the collection. One of these donated books was a small board book, the cover of which caught my eye immediately because of the five bloated, brightly colored, uncircumcised flying penises with arms outstretched ready to touch your child in all the wrong places. It’s called Boohbah: SCRUNCH UP! STRETCH OUT! The first page reads, “Scrunch up,  s t r e t c h   o u t, Boohbahs shaking all about!” showing the purple, blue, and yellow Boohbahs retracting their penis heads into their foreskin necks.

I had to know more about Boohbahs, specifically, who came up with these giant, fuzzy dingalings and what kind of drug(s) inspired this odd creation?

Turns out this was a TV show that aired on British channels GMTV and CITV, and here in the U.S. on our beloved PBS from 2003-2005. Anne Wood is the “brains” behind Boohbahs and incidentally happens to be the creator of the Teletubbies. Neither Boohbahs nor Teletubbies speak; Boohbahs squeak and make farting noises and Teletubbies speak in a gurgling baby language. I’m pretty sure Anne Wood wants to lower the IQ’s of children, which means she’s secretly plotting to take over the world and, when she does, everything will be rainbows and glitter and bubbles and sparkle trails so, really, it could be a lot worse.

Boohbah means doll in Hebrew, which is why I find it super-strange that the Boohbah’s names, Humbah, Zumbah, Zing Zing Zingbah, Jumbah, and Jingbah, are very Asian and African-sounding. I think their names should be Taavibah, Herschelbah, Liat Liat Liatbah, Davibah, and Orenbah. I also find it strange that, given their Jewish namesake, Boohbahs are uncircumcised penises. Quite an oversight, Anne, shame, shame.

It’s clear to me that Anne Wood is/was an LSD freak. I understand that drugs can spawn some interesting ideas but my god, lady, you should have had the smarts to realize that, after you came down, your hallucination of joyful, dancing male genitalia was one that should have been locked up in the deep, dark caverns of your brain along with all your other weird-ass ideas. Look, I had lots of great ideas when I was on acid. I thought it would be a great idea to invite the townspeople over to look at the intricate images on my bathroom wall that move and dance when you stare at them because it would surely change their lives as it had mine. Until the next day when I realized the wall was just old and full of imperfections and looked like shit. Once I thought I was a genius because I made up a new language. Turns out I was just saying “Zzz” in a cartoon-like high pitch tone over and over and sounded like a 9 month old baby. Only geniuses like Steve Jobs or Jerry Garcia are capable of turning an acid trip into something magnificent.

Anne Wood is clearly not a genius, but you be the judge of that. Warning: This video is 15 f-ing minutes long. Viewing longer than 1 1/2 minutes could result in temporary delirium. Do not drive a vehicle or operate heavy machinery for at least three hours after viewing.

Apparently even Dubya had concerns about Boohbahs.

Boohbah starts with B, kids, and this rant has been brought to you by the letter—you guessed it—B! 

Personally, I’ll take the ever-so-sexy Patrick Stewart delivering a parodic Shakespearean soliloquy about the letter B over flying, overweight, squeaky penises any day, but I needed to know if E would concur. To this day, she’s watched a few videos of herself on the computer and the Mister Rogers Garden of Your Mind Remix. That’s it. So, I first let her watch a couple minutes of the Boohbahs. She was absolutely transfixed. Then I let her watch the Patrick Stewart soliloquy. She was absolutely transfixed. Conclusion: Of course E’s gonna be captivated by cutesy noises and bright colors and furry creatures with giant eyes, but at least some bald dude in a frilly costume with a funny accent talking about a giant letter made of cheese held her attention even after watching bulging penises fall down and then get back up while making farting noises over and over. I think my girl’s got a promising future ahead of her…

Dolphin Manifesto, Part 1.5

Tags

captive dolphins, dolphin intelligence, Dolphin Project, dolphin trade, dolphinariums, Japan, Ric O'Barry, save Japan dolphins, Sea World dolphins, The Cove

Hi everyone. Today I’m sad. And yesterday I was sad. Actually, I’ve been feeling down for a few weeks now for several reasons. But one thing I’m pretty much always super-sad about and extra-super sad about today trumps all the other things I’m sad about and makes them seem trivial and laughable.

If you’re familiar with this blog, you know that 98% of it consists of my kvetching about things like motherhood and defective gadgets made in China and uvulas and erratic fliers. I tend to stay away from the more intense stuff but, every once in a while, I just can’t help myself because there are some issues that I can’t not write about. My very first post on this blog was about the plight of exploited dolphins in “The Cove” of Taiji, Japan. You can read that here. I suppose this is a continuation of that post, although you don’t need to read it first to understand this one. I thank you, in advance, for not just sticking with me through the funny and ridiculous, but through the despairing and disturbing as well.

This is Ric O’Barry. If it’s not obvious from looking at his face in this photo and the one below, he’s sad too. Sad about the same thing I am. It’s almost impossible to find a picture of him smiling. If you knew what he knew and if you’d seen what he’s seen, you wouldn’t smile much either.

I feel that Ric O’Barry’s cause is something we need to pay attention to. He believes the international dolphin trade should be put to an end immediately and permanently, and that all dolphins and whales in captivity should be rehabilitated and released back in to the wild. In cases of permanent injury or other situations where release would pose a danger to the animals, Ric advocates that the dolphins be transferred to sea pens as opposed to living out the rest of their days in tiny enclosures and performing tricks for the public.

The market for captive dolphin entertainment is a billion dollar one. People may wonder why the dolphin trade is so incredibly lucrative. Many of us are intrigued by these intelligent sea mammals. Places like Sea World have capitalized on our curiosity by having dolphins and killer whales (which are technically dolphins and the largest species in the dolphin family) live at their facilities where they can be trained to perform amusing tricks for live audiences. But what people see at Sea World is not reality. These animals are torn violently from their ocean homes to spend their often shortened lives in concrete boxes, doing tricks and swimming in endless mind-numbing circles.

The Oscar-winning documentary The Cove exposed the entrapment and mass killings of thousands of dolphins that take place annually for six months in Taiji, Japan. Some dolphins are sold to dolphinariums or other captive environments, while others meet their fate sooner in the cove with a harpoon. The meat, which contains toxic level of mercury, is sold in Japan and other parts of Asia and is often labeled as whale meat. Although Taiji’s dolphin cove has received much attention since the movie’s debut and subsequent Academy Award, and despite O’Barry’s countless trips to Japan, The Cove’s owners have continued to dig their heels in.

The plight of these and other exploited dolphins weighs on me heavily in my daily life. While it’s true I have E to keep me distracted a lot of the time, there are times when all I can see is red. There are times when I feel totally helpless and hopeless. And there are times when I feel compelled to do something, anything, however seemingly small it may be. I periodically donate to Ric’s cause and, while this is a good thing, I know it’s not enough, especially with the small amounts I can afford. That is why I’m writing this today. Not to depress you. Not to upset you. But to motivate you. If not to give money, then just to vow to never buy a ticket to a dolphin show or partake in a swim-with-dolphins program with captive dolphins. Please spread the word if you feel so inclined. Post the link to this post and/or Ric O’Barry’s websites (find links below) to Facebook. You can even contact the Japanese ambassador to the U.S. to let him know your feelings about the situation in Taiji.

Ric’s websites are dolphinproject.org and savejapandolphins.org where you can find out more about The Dolphin Project, read informative blog posts, and donate to the cause. Besides Japan, they need assistance for campaigns in Indonesia, the Solomon Islands, Singapore, the Faroes, China, and many other places where dolphins are in need.

I’ll end with some super-cool facts related to dolphin intelligence:

• Recently it was discovered that dolphins’ and baleen whales’ brains contain spindle cells. Spindle cells, named after their long, spindle-shaped bodies, are the cells that are credited with allowing humans to feel love, suffer emotionally, recognize, remember, reason, communicate, perceive, adapt to change, problem solve and understand. Their recent discovery in these marine mammals has stimulated debate both on the level of intelligence and on the ethics of hunting them. The concentration of spindle cells has been measured to be three times higher in cetaceans in comparison to humans, even accounting for the fact that cetacean brains are larger than ours.
• Dolphins have been shown to recognize themselves in a mirror, which implies they are self-aware.
• Dolphins, like humans, are capable of behavioral mimicry.
• The dolphin’s cerebrum contains a complex of tissue folded to a similar degree as that of the human brain. Also, its brain-to-body mass ratio is quite similar to that of the human, another potential indicator of intelligence.
• Dolphins show the ability to learn rapidly and to learn about many things. They can remember events and learn concepts, changing their behavior as a result of previous experience. They can understand symbolic (sign) language.

Thank you so much for reading this. I wish all of you well.

Airports, Airplanes, and Airheads

Tags

airport security, airports, fear of flying, flight attendants, flying, flying with baby, travel tale, U.S. presidential election 2012

Note: Parts of this story has been obfuscated for your protection.

Well, I’d just like to say that I can check get interrogated by a TSA agent off my bucket list.

A couple of weeks ago, Babe, Baby E, my sis, and I flew to Vermont so that E could meet the one and only “Diz,” her 97-year-old great-grandmother.

But this story isn’t about the actual visit, which was in fact fantastically lovely and if I tell you about it I’ll get all weepy and I’ve already reached my tear quota for this month and it’s only the 19th. Typical.

This is a travel story. The proverbial harrowing travel tale.

On the day of our departure, we awoke at 3:30a.m. and sluggishly made our way to the airport a half hour later. When we arrived at the airport, we made our way straight to the security line since we had printed out our boarding passes the night before. While we were in line the three of us had a conversation about something related to me being a moron. We exited the line. One of us was crying and on the verge of vomiting. We talked to a ticketing agent. We ran back to the line. It had doubled. I asked a nice-looking couple if we could cut in front of them because we were going to miss our flight and they kindly obliged. One of us was still crying about to hurl.

We finally got to the front of the line where I told the security man I that I’m an idiot. Because I am. And as we all know idiots do idiotic things, especially when they have to rely on things like their idiotic pea-sized brains. Before I knew it, my unbrainy brain and I were following a tall and intimidating TSA agent to a corner of the security area. He looked at me like he. meant. business. After lecturing me for several minutes about what a serious offense it would be if I lied to him, he informed me he would be calling somebody who would ask him some questions about me, which he would relay to me, and I would then answer each with the TRUTH. Yes, truthiness, got it. He informed me these questions would be of an “unorthodox” nature.

My mind raced while he made the phone call. Unorthodox questions, I thought. Hmm. A scenario quickly played out in my head…

TSAMAN: Ma’am, when was the, uh, last time you engaged in coitus with your husband?

fuckingmoron: Um, probably 8 or 10 or 15 days ago, christ, we’re parents, lay off, *ahem* Sir.

TSAMAN: How many diapers did your daughter soil yesterday and, if she defecated, what was the consistency of the stool?

fuckingidiot: I don’t know, like, 6? She produced one pretty good-sized, hard-as-a-rock shit containing several flax seeds among other unidentifiable objects around 3:30pm.

TSAMAN: Who will win the upcoming U.S. presidential election?

fuckingtwit: Well, that’s easy: If some of the peeps who rallied and voted for Obama in 2008 don’t get off their lazy asses and vote this time because they think Obama’s a shoe-in or they just don’t give a flying shit anymore or they blindingly blame Obama for the sluggish economy, and if enough voting Repubs wish to revert back to the same, disastrous policies that got us into this steaming, stinking shitpile in the first place like budget-busting tax cuts for the wealthy and free rein for Wall Street to write its own rules, then Shit, I mean Mitt Romney will be the next president of the United States. 

“Okay, ma’am, are you ready for your questions?” I took a deep breath. “I swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me Gaia.” Okay, I didn’t really say that but let’s just pretend I did.

“What is your current address and how long have you lived there?” I answered with 100% truthiness and he relayed my answer to the man on other the end of the line. “What was your previous address and how long did you reside there and with whom?” I answered with 100% truthiness and he relayed the answer. “Where did you live before your last address?” Shite, I thought. “Um, I can’t remember the house number because I lived there for only five months and it was a disgusting shithole that I’ve been trying to block out of my mind since, but I know the street name,” which I stated. He relayed the information. “Ma’am, did anybody else live at your previous address with you besides your husband and baby? “No,” I answered. He told the mystery man on the phone my answer. He paused and then asked me the same question again sternly while looking at me straight in the eye like he was expecting me to break down and admit I’d been harboring a terrorist. “Um, no, I swear,” I answered with as much confidence I could muster. *long pause* *heart racing* *tears welling* “Okay, ma’am, you’re good to go.”

Unorthodox questions?! Now, with all due respect, sir, as Inigo explained to Vizzini, I do not think that word means what you think it means. Here I am ready to tell you my deepest, darkest secrets and you ask me where I’ve lived for the last five years?! Totes boring, dude, totes boring.

We raced through security and ran to our gate where the airline agents were on their way to locking the door, which, thereby, would have locked us out of the plane, which, consequently, would have fucked things up for us big time, which, hence, would have caused me to collapse into a heavy heap of heartbreak and hopelessness on the gross airport carpet.

We boarded the plane panting and sweating while everybody stared because we were those people. We vigorously stuffed our bags into seemingly non-existent spaces in the crowded overhead bins because as we all know the airlines make you pay for checked baggage so everyone brings their over-stuffed suitcases on as carry-ons, and plunked down in our seats.

You may not know this, but I hate flying. I know, I know, everybody hates flying. But I really hate flying and every time I do, it gets a bit worse. The only person who hates being in an over-crowded winged tube (flying way too high up in the sky where we wanna cry cuz we could die) even more than me is my sister. But she’s lucky b/c her “doc” prescribed her special feel-good pills and Mrs. T’s bloody mary mix and itty-bitty bottles of mediocre vodka, and she doesn’t have an over-tired elfin who wants milkies from her boobies every five f-ing minutes.

About an hour into the flight E’s diaper had to be changed, so I went back to the bathroom area and, of course, none of the fucking tiny little, itty-bitty pee closets bathrooms have a changing table. Wtf?! This was a newer plane. All newer planes should have changing tables. For the love of god, somebody think of the children!

A flight attendant who was in the little kitchenette in the back of the plane heard me telling Babe there were no changing tables in any of the restrooms. She said, “Oh don’t worry, honey, you can change her on my lap.” I thought she was kidding so I chuckled uncomfortably. “No, I’m serious, come here.” She went into a restroom, sat on the toilet lid and motioned me to follow. She told me her name was Caroline, and that she’s got tons of grandchildren so this wasn’t the first time she’d acted as a changing table. I hesitatingly placed E on her lap while silently chanting, Please don’t pee on Caroline, please don’t pee on Caroline. She talked to E in a sweet, grandmotherly tone while I quickly changed her.

Caroline, if you’re out there, you rock. I’m sure some people treat you like shit because they’re miserable little a-holes and think flight attendants are sitting targets just waiting to be shat on, but you were a shiny little gem, and I’d gladly punch anyone who’s mean to you right in the neck. And if you ever feel the urge to inflate the emergency slide after a passenger stands up before the plane’s completed its taxi to the gate, and gives you lip when you kindly ask him to sit back down, I say: Do it and don’t ever look back, Caroline.

The way home was pretty uneventful but it truly was the l o n g e s t  d a y     o f  o u r  l i v e s because we sat on the runway for over an hour before the 5 1/2 hour flight. Poor little booboo has never known such exhaustion. She fussed and she cried and she writhed and she thrashed and she literally sucked me dry. Luckily for her and my nipples, she found some solace in an itty-bitty Finnish friend…

This Week’s Vapid Headlines

Tags

baby constipation, crow attack, fractals, Glass-Steagall Act, global recession, insomnia, parental anxiety, Robert Reich

Zodka suffers from middle-of-the-night insomnia. Lying in bed causes me to suffer from what I refer to as Racing Mind Syndrome. I get up to go pee and the next thing I know it’s two hours later and I’m bawling my eyes out because I’ve now thought of all the different ways E could get hurt or die and why couldn’t I save her because I’m a terrible mother and how she’ll never forgive me if she manages to live through this horrible ordeal. Last night at 2:30am, I convinced myself that…

• I’m going to get cancer and die and, therefore, won’t be able to see E grow up, and her view of me will be formed based on what she reads in this blog,
• E inherited most or all of my personality traits,
• E’s first word is gonna be crapbag,
• E’s second word is gonna be asshat,
• Tomorrow, during a bike ride with E, I’ll point out a pretty flower and then lose control of the bike and we’ll fall over onto the hard concrete and E’s little arm or hand will get crushed because she was pointing at the pretty flower,
• E’s contracted a previously unknown disease for which there is no vaccination,
• It is a good idea to put E in a bubble,
• I need meds and/or shock therapy.

Fractals are, like, so cool. I never really appreciated fractals until recently. They’re not just some trippy designs that hippies post on the walls of their dorm rooms above their lava lamps. Did you know that one of my and possibly your favorite vegetables, broccoli, is a fractal? You probably did know this. This very much excites me and I love eating fractals because I think it makes me smarter. Some ferns are also fractals like the awesomeness seen here. Now go get your bong, load it up, take a big hit, and stare at this picture, preferably under the light of a lava lamp. It will blow your fucking mind, bro.

Babe was attacked by a crow while getting into a county car today. Crows are considered by some to be the smartest birds in the entire world, which makes me think: This crow must have had a damn good reason to want to peck Babe’s

Just pretend this poor unsuspecting chap is The Babe

noggin. Did he want to drill holes in Babe’s skull and brain to gain access to his vast array of knowledge of plastic discs and their various flight patterns so he could teach all his crownies which discs are the deadliest? Was he trying to warn Babe not to drive that particular car because maybe there was a rogue cockroach or squirrel living inside it? Or was he just reminding Babe to appreciate the beauty, intelligence, and mystery of these feathered brainiacs that most urbanites consider to be no more than winged black rats with loud mouths? I guess we’ll never know…

E doesn’t give a shit. Literally. There is a freakishly strong force living inside E’s intestines that plays tug of war with gravity and wins most of the time. When it finally tires and lets go, E gets this look on her face like the world is going to end. I’ll spare you the details but let’s just say it reminds me of birth. Poor little E and her sphincter. Why is nature so cruel to our fragile little fledglings?

The vitriolic fires in Zodka’s belly continue to burn. Surprise, surprise, I’m pissed off about something and need to bitch. How anyone today, right now, during this very second, can still be opposed to financial regulation is completely beyond me. The recent JP Morgan debacle is just the latest in a string of greedy, careless, selfish acts that are responsible for the global recession. Robert Reich states,

Wall Street’s biggest banks were too big to fail before the bailout. Now, led by JP Morgan Chase, they’re even bigger. Twenty years ago, the 10 largest banks on the Street held 10 percent of America’s total bank assets. Now they hold over 70 percent.

If you don’t know who Robert Reich is, get yourself acquainted with this brilliant man.

Word on the Street is that J.P. Morgan’s exposure is so large that it can’t dump these bad bets without affecting the market and losing even more money. And given its mammoth size and interlinked connections with every other financial institution, anything that shakes J.P. Morgan is likely to rock the rest of the Street.

The Glass-Steagall Act, which essentially separated commercial from investment banking, was repealed by the Clinton administration in 1999.

[This] allowed investment banks, the casino of Wall Street, to invade commercial banks and commercial deposits, and it allowed investment bankers to utilize commercial deposits for, essentially, gambling.

I think most of us can wholeheartedly agree that was a COLOSSAL mistake. And, yet, JP Morgan CEO, Jamie Dimon, had the unmitigated gall to vehemently argue against the Volcker Rule (a watered-down version of the Glass-Steagall Act), claiming that Wall Street was trustworthy and, therefore, did not need to be regulated. How much longer are we going to give these corporate thugs the freedom to engage in their greedy schemes and bring down what is left of the already severely damaged world economy with absolute impunity?! I agree with Reich—it’s high time to resurrect the Glass-Steagall Act and it should never have been repealed in the first place.

Zodka’s soul slips into recession+depression=repression. No further information available at this time.

A Certain Someone’s Uvula is Making Me Crazy and, No, This is Not a Dirty Post Because Uvulas are *NOT* Sexy

Tags

can't sleep because of snoring, loud snoring, sleeplessness, snoring, snoring cures, snoring partner, uvula, vulva

Seriously. Uvulas are weird-looking and possibly evil. 

And although they are almost anagrams of each other, uvulas are not to be confused with vulvas. Here is a brief tutorial on some important differences between the uvula and the vulva:

Uvulas are, as I previously mentioned, weird-looking and possibly evil. They dangle. Anything that dangles should be approached with caution and considered possibly dangerous. Vulvas look like smiles and flowers and well-oiled doohickies, and are definitely not evil. Vulvas are totally awesome girl parts that don’t dangle. The evila uvula plays two major roles: 1, to allow people to say words like qʼakʷ (which contains a uvular consonant and means screech owl in Tlinglet) and, 2, to make my life a living hell.

Did you know that some people pierce their uvulas?! That is fucking weird. Look, I’ve pierced some parts that probably shouldn’t be pierced, okay, but what the hell are these people thinking and how do they not throw up all over their piercers?

Anyway, there’s a certain someone’s uvula that rattles and roars all night and has, countless times, nearly driven me to smash, bash, and thrash all things in the house that are dear to him. Like his Cuisinart. And his Johnson. Maybe some of you can relate…

If you’re one of the millions of light sleepers stuck “sleeping” next to a snorer, it’s likely that just the mere mention of snoring makes your blood pressure rise. Trying to sleep next to a snorer is like trying to relax on a secluded Hawaiian beach during your first vacation in seven years while a random snotty little six year old boy keeps tugging on your arm with his sandy little hands asking, “Why is the ocean blue? Why is the ocean blue? Why is the ocean blue?” And if only snorers were that consistent! “Why are you taking a nap on the beach? Did you see that man with the dog?…Whoa! That wave was huge! Did you see that?!” And sometimes the snoring will go on hiatus for a while, giving the miserably awake person a false sense of relief. (The boy chases his rolling ball down towards the water and you are relieved at his disappearance because now you can finally and truly enjoy the tranquility of the—) “WHOA! That was a close one! My ball just almost floated away in the sea but it’s okay because I saved it just in time. Do you know what kissing is? Have you ever farted and then pooped by accident in your pants?”

But not all hope is lost. There are tactical skills I’ve honed over the last several years and I will share them with you here. I must make clear that these strategies may mitigate your snoring woes, but will probably not rid you of them completely. If you are serious about totally putting an end to your late-night misery, you may want to consider more drastic measures such as room separation, divorce, or a voodoo doll curse.

Tactic #1: I’ve found that screaming at the snorer or yelling his name very loudly accompanied by a rough shove provides temporary satisfaction at best. If you’re like me, your partner is not only a snorer, but is also a deep sleeper. These deep sleepers have some f-ing nerve. They fall asleep the second their thick head hits the pillow, begin snoring immediately, and could sleep through a heavy glass-breaking tantrum. Despite your strong desire to break things near or on his head, wake the snorer up by saying his name softly or gently nudging him, and ask him to kindly move onto his side. When he mumbles, “But the elephant lost her sandwich in the river and I need to go get it…,” assure him there’s no elephant, just a comfortable part of the bed waiting to cradle the weight of his tired body. I often find that the worst snoring position for Babe is on his back. This position causes his mouth to open wide, with the uvula constantly vibrating against his throat, thereby creating the perfect environment for the mouth snore. When the snorer turns over, the snoring often gets softer or even completely disappears. For a while. Until it returns. Right as you’re finally falling asleep. This leads to the next tactic…

Tactic #2: When someone is snoring on his side, check his head placement. People who sleep on their sides often revert to the fetal position. While there is something very sweet about the fact that a grown man subconsciously yearns to be back in the safe and protected space of his mother’s uterus, it can also make the snore roar and his partner wish he actually was back in his mother’s womb so she could get some goddamn sleep. When in this position, the chin is tucked towards the chest, which creates a restriction on the throat and uvula. I don’t know if that’s really true but I really just like using the word uvula and like to pretend I know everything about uvulas. Did you know they can remove your uvula? This surgical procedure is called uvulopalatopharyngoplasty. Shazzam. I’m currently reading up on how to perform this procedure and plan on slipping something in Babe’s drink one night in the near future.

Tactic #3: Despite your violent feelings towards your loved one when they’re standing in the way between you and your other lover, Sleep, gently place your hands on their chest or arm or head and just keep it there until the snoring dissipates. You’d be surprised how well this works sometimes. If it does not work, on the other hand, try increasing the pressure a little. And a little more. And little more. Then, in the morning when your partner shows you these strange bruises on his body that weren’t there the night before, play dumb and offer to go make him some coffee.

Tactic #4: Go lie down on the couch where you won’t get any sleep because it’s cold and there’s a cat who wants to stick his head in your mouth. Lie there for an hour or so, seething at the fact that you’re freezing your ass off, with an overly-loving-because-he-was-probably-weaned-way-too-early, mega-fat cat on top of your chest restricting your breathing, and your evil partner is sleeping soundly in your warm bed. Go back to bed and cry yourself to sleep.

Clearly, my tactics are totally working. NOT. I’m calling on my readers (all three of you) to help me finish this post. Please leave your brilliant snore-related (and/or nagging-kid-on-the-beach-related) solutions in the comment section. Snarkiriffic comments always welcome, of course.

P.S. Earplugs don’t work for me and I hate them.

P.P.S. I can’t drink heavily or do drugs as I am still breastfeeding.

A Whorlypool of Licking Cows

Tags

baby double cowlick, cowlicks, double cowlick, double cowlick autism, double hair whorl, double hair whorl autism, multiple cowlicks

A while back I published a post entitled War of the Whorls in which I discussed the serious dangers that people with more than one cowlick pose to society (click here for that post). My daughter, Baby E, is one of these people.

Multiple cowlicks/whorls are a sign of extreme afflictions that include cheekiness, moodiness, autisticness, badhairdayness, geniusness, naughtiness, and upallnightworryingbecauseofshitireadonlineness.

Some of you may be asking why I’m bringing this up again. I feel it is my duty to revisit this topic because at least once a day someone ends up on my blog because they searched for something like “baby double cowlick” or “double cowlick autism.” In fact, THE itty-bitty BLOGHORN comes up on the first page of those searches out of 129,000 and 24,300 google results respectively. This horrifies me. This leads me to believe that many of you parents have landed here because you think I might have some real answers up in this blizog.

Well, I’d be remiss if I didn’t inform you that I have absolutely none. But stick around because all is not lost…

I understand your concern, I do. You see two or more hurricanes atop your supposedly innocent baby’s head and think, There’s something really not right here. 

Some of you are worried about things you’ve read online. You’re confused. You’re thinking, Why, God, why my child? You want revenge against these invisible giant-tongued cows that greedily licked your child’s downy soft hair two or three or even four times, and secretly transfused autism from their salivary glands into your child’s brain, which means it’s only a matter of time before you start observing the tell-tale signs. To seek vengeance, head to the nearest dairy farm and lick every single cow on the head in a circular motion (number of licks per cow should equal number of whorls on your child’s head, and lick directions must be alternated to achieve maximum level of retribution). Then scarf down 10 Saltines with peanut butter as fast as you can. I tried it and, trust me, the results were astounding.

Seriously, I’m really glad you ended up on my itty-bitty blog because, from one anxious parent to another, I strongly recommend you don’t research multiple cowlicks online, as all this will do is concern and confuse you further. Talk to your pediatrician. Talk to your cat. Make it a rule that every time you search for youknowwhat, you have to go lick a cow, or give up chocolate or, hell, send me $5.00. Actually, make it $10.00.

By the way, the day after I published my first post about Baby E’s double cowlick, my mom emailed me and said, “You know she got that from me, right?” My mother is not autistic. Several people I know have more than one cowlick. None of them are autistic. Besides, people have crazy beliefs about hair. For example, if you cut your hair while the moon is waning, it will likely fall out. If a girl/woman washes her hair while menstruating, she’ll get ill. And my personal favorite: If you let yourself believe that your child’s cowlicks are a sign of anything other than genetic misfortune, and signals anything other than a future filled with a shit-ton of bad hair days, all of your hair will fall out and weave itself into an evil monster ninja hairball in the shape of an evil monster ninja hairball, which will tickle your nosey until you’ve sneeze a thousand times.

Now that’s a bad hair day.

Miso, a Bulb, and a Baby, Part 2

Tags

birth, birth plan, contractions, epidural, Fentanyl, labor, midwife, squatting bar

Before I launch into the conclusion of the birth story, I must first say that I am a first class ass. But you knew that already. I wrote and published my previous post while smack dab in the middle of one of E’s crappy sleep periods. And, naturally, when she doesn’t sleep, Mommy doesn’t sleep. Mommy do stupid things. Mommy do brainless things. Mommy give away a detail of Battlestar Galactica in last post that she shouldn’t have. Mommy truly sorry for any spoiling atrocities she has committed. Please don’t send hate mail because Mommy loves you.

And now the super-profane conclusion of the harrowing but not super-interesting birth tale (to read Part 1, click here). I impatiently waited for the nurses to empty the tub and I remember one of them begging me not to jump out. The next thing I recall is lying on the bed screaming, my skin a bright crimson color and burning up. I screamed bloody hell at asked Babe to get some ice-cold washcloths, which he did immediately, and covered me head to toe. Sweet relief, my god, sweet relief. For a minute. At this point my contractions were invading every fiber of my being like they wanted me to die a violent, painful death. This is when the begging began.

“Please, please, I need an epidural. Get me the fucking anesthesiologist right fucking now so she can put a fucking needle in my fucking back and take away this fucking pain!” The midwife brought up my birth plan. How dare she bring up the bullshit birth plan at a time like this?! Yes, it’s true I planned on attempting to labor and deliver without drugs. I never promised, I never swore, I never signed an affidavit saying I will have a 100% natural birth no matter what. I remember wishing so badly that epidurals didn’t exist or that at least I was completely unaware of the drug’s existence. Unfortunately, since I did know about it, I needed this drug. I was in love with this drug. I was already addicted to it and believed I would not make it through this birth without it.

Unfortunately, I was shit outta luck; I was too far dilated to get an epidural. I have never felt so defeated in my entire life. I told the midwife I was done. I don’t care anymore. Wheel me into the O.R., cut me open, and take this baby out.

“Do you want some Fentanyl? It’ll make you feel like you did a couple shots of tequila,” the midwife asked nonchalantly. I heard the faint voice of my pre-labor self yelling, No, no, remember you told yourself that you would absolutely NOT take narcotics during labor! I quickly turned the volume down so I could no longer hear my clueless, dimwitted former self. ”Yes, fuck, yes, gimme tequila.”

“Should I give her 50 [unknown unit of measure] or 100?” the nurse asked the midwife. “100,” she answered without hesitation. I swear I could feel the drug pass through the tube, into my vein, into my bloodstream, and into my brain the moment it was transfused. Yeah, there we go, settle down, settle down…I knew another contraction was coming any second and this time, I’d be ready. But when the contraction hit, it felt like a punch in the face. Like it was saying, You seriously thought a narcotic would help?! Ha! You’re a moron and I want you to die.

I had just done the one thing I felt strongest about not doing. I’m such an assho–Whoa…So sleepy. Feel drunky. Where did that giant bookshelf come from and why is it on top of me? 

Another few contractions violently ripped me out of my plastered state, after which my midwife said it was time for another cervix check. “You’re there. You’re finally there. It’s time to push!” By this time, I had technically been in labor for 37 hours. I hadn’t eaten anything during that time. I was severely loaded. And I had absolutely no desire to do anything besides lie there and be swept away by dainty little Tinkerbells, with their tiny wand ends lighting the way out of this hellhole.

I had no idea how I was supposed to magically muster up energy I didn’t have to push this baby out of her warm and safe environment into a fluorescent-lit, square cage. The midwife put the squatting bar in place and told me to try it out. I heaved my heavy body over and rested my armpits on the bar as I squatted on the bed. It seemed like it should’ve been such an easy task to use the bar as a support. It was not. It was the opposite of easy. My body shook with weakness.

Another contraction began. “Push as hard as you can!” I did as I was told while every muscle in my body seemed to convulse. When the contraction finally ended I slumped off the bar with exhaustion.

I told the midwife I didn’t think I was capable of using the bar and asked if she would please remove it from my sight before I yank it off the bed and throw it clear across the room. She told me there was another way to use the bar which involved tying a bed sheet to it that I could pull on while pushing. This sounded much more doable and, in fact, it was.

The next contraction came and, while I liked this technique much better, I was way too weak to push at even close to 100%. With every contraction, I pushed at half-strength. E’s head kept crowning and then receding. Over and over.

Side note: There’s one major fear many pregnant women share besides general fears of laboring and delivering, and that is shitting the bed while pushing. And I, certainly, was not immune to this fear. If you’ve ever given birth, you know that as you’re pushing, you feel like and/or believe you’re crapping. “I shat the bed, I shat the bed!” I kept screaming. Babe would look down at the bed and say, “No you didn’t, there’s nothing there.” Truth was, half the time he was lying. I did shit the bed. And pissed the bed. Several times. Then I puked. Birth. Not a pretty thing.

Babe kept telling me what a good job I was doing and all I wanted to do was punch his face in. Finally I had to tell him to shut his fucking mouth. And then I told everyone to shut their fucking mouths. I was now the proverbial super-mean birth machine. For the next two hours, nobody said a word. I would pass out, wake up for a contraction, scream my f-ing head off while pushing, crash back in lie-down position after the contraction ended, and pass out again dreaming of Tinkerbells. E’s head continued to be visible and then invisible with each contraction. This was the biggest, most vigorous test my body had ever experienced. And I was failing. Miserably.

After more than two hours of unmitigated hell, I decided I’d had enough. I asked the universe to please, please give me the strength to deliver this child. Thankfully, the universe listened and kindly obliged by giving me a burst of “pushiness.” I huffed and I puffed, and I huffed and I puffed, and I pushed Baby E out of my womb and into the room. I had my eyes closed the whole time and when I opened them, there was my daughter. Gooey, bloody, and beautiful.

Complete culmination of consummate conclusion: Birth sucks ass but the end result is pretty f-ing sweet.

Photo album: Baby E’s First Year