Alright, Mommies ... I'm Calling On You

Firstly, this is not a sarcastic post. I am being completely serious here.

You probably know my back story, but here it is in brief:

I am an only child.
I have zero experience with children, except for the few times I babysat my younger cousins.
I am not planning on having children, main reason being that I was born without a maternal instinct (though I do love caring for my 2 lovely cats).

Taking all of this into account, I need a little advice. Over the years, many of my co-workers have brought their children into work. There are few situations that utterly paralyze me, but this is one of them. Shamefully, if I hear a child enter our reception area, I actually go all the way around our office to the 2nd entrance to use the restroom, in an effort to avoid the situation altogether. It has nothing to do with the mom and her offspring. It's really all about me and not wanting to look like a freak. Normally, I am a very capable and problem-solving type person. But, you bring a child into the picture (particularly a newborn) I become a total deer in headlights. I smile a lot like a dummy, but I have no idea what the expected response is. I must look like a complete fool to the poor mom. All the other moms seem to know exactly what to say, what sorts of questions to ask and, most importantly, they have no fear of the situation at all, which completely blows me away! I get cold sweats just thinking about an encounter like this. So, maybe if I am armed with the types of questions and responses that are appropriate, my fears might be squelched and I wouldn't look like a total weirdo.

Here is my list, so far:

1. Smile a lot.
2. Say something kind, like, "He/she is so beautiful!" (I really emphasize the word beautiful. I think it makes the mom happy and it's usually the last thing I say, so I really stretch it out.)
3. More smiling and blinking. It's at this point that I start wondering if I've spent enough time with this. I begin crafting an excuse to bolt.
4. Quietly shuffle to the side, stating that I don't want to hog all the room upfront.
5. Wait for a really new and excited person to come along and seize the chance to leave the scene unnoticed.

This is not a very good list. I want to improve in this area. Should I ask how much the baby weighed? Is that a good question or would the mom be offended? I hear a lot of conversation about how much/little the mom and dad are sleeping. Should I ask about that, too? Would this be a desired question? Maybe I should just keep finding alternate ways to the bathroom.

Nullipara

Is it me or is this a really ugly sounding word? Do you know what it means? "A woman who has never given birth." Nice, huh?

It's not my fault that I don't want kids. I am not fighting an instinct or anything. I have never in my entire life felt the *pang* of motherhood or whatever it is that people describe. In fact, the older I get, the more motherhood scares me. I have tried to locate these pangy feelings. I have closed my eyes and concentrated reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally hard. Nothing. Am I defective? Maybe they can come up with some kind of medication that addresses this "problem" of mine.

The idea of adopting a child from an orphanage is a lot more appealing to me, truth be told. I'd like to pick up where the Republicans leave off and actually give a kid a fighting chance in this world. I guess if I did this, I'd still be a nullipara, though, huh?

I should say for the record that none of my friends have EVER made me feel lousy for not having reproduced. Very few of my friends actually have children, so I am not the odd person out, by any means. And I do like kids - I think they are cute and quirky and silly and funny. I just don't really have a desire to have them myself.

I just wish my parents would have had another child to take this pressure off of me. My mother obviously wants a grandchild and I oscillate between wanting to please her and getting really pissed that this burden of "only child responsibility" is seemingly never-ending. I think I've been a good kid to her, made her proud. I hope that just because I don't plan on checking this one little box, she isn't going to hold it against me. Besides, she can always adopt one if she misses children that much!

True Gibberish

I am going to make a horrible mother someday because I will actually take my child out of a quiet public area if he or she is screaming their head off. Or I will at least apologize to those around me. Over the weekend, I went to the laundromat. There, a lovely woman and her 3 children were waiting for their clothes to dry. The eldest girl was nicely behaved. The middle child was borderline and the little boy was a maniac. Now, let me first say that I understand that being in a laundromat is not fun for a child. It's not fun for an adult, either. I remember going with my mother when I was about 5 or 6 when we were renting an apartment, and then again when I was about 10 or 11 when our washer and dryer crapped out. As a tot, I passed the time by studying the coffee vending machine and making spiders out of plastic cups by ripping the sides into strips. When I was 11, I just read Circus magazine and fantasized about having Def Leppard over our house for dinner. I was occupied and I stayed out of people's hair.

This little boy was obviously looking for something to do. Heck, it was a sunny day and here he was with his mom and sisters, stuck in a big building filled with smells of hot fabric and detergent. Can you blame the child for running around, jumping in front of people, screaming at the highest decibels known to man and slapping all the chairs in the laundromat many times over? And can you blame the child's poor mother for somehow drowning out the noise and acting completely unaffected by the display? If you answered no to both questions, then you certainly can't blame me for whipping out my iPod, adjusting the volume to "eleven" and filling my ears with Megadeath, Metallica, and The Cult while perusing my Real Simple magazine.

Society. Ugh.

The Celtics shined last night at the Garden. And Ray Allen actually made one of free throws! The clear plastic face masks that some players wear really freaks me out.

So, I am wondering - what's your ultimate symbol or icon from the 1970s? There are so many to choose from, I know. Banana seated bikes with metallic handle bars are my latest fave, along with Love's Baby Soft and "pull off" soda can tabs. I also liked Ginger's sparkly dress on Gilligan's Island. I always wanted an occasion to wear a dress like that.

In real estate news: We are pre-approved! It's official! I really can't wait to start looking at places on Sunday. This is so exciting!

Bullies

For some reason, I've been thinking about the bullies I dealt with in junior high school today. I was actually pretty lucky, as I was left alone most of the time. I think the prettier, wealthier types got it the worst. I was too skinny, very awkward and far from rich. I really didn't "come into my own," as they say, until I was in college. Anyway, I managed to avoid most of these mean attackers except for two. I will change their names for the sake of this blog post.

Lucy
The harassment began in the 8th grade and continued, off and on, most of the school year. Nothing major - mainly remarks about my clothes or whatever. She saved her knuckles for other girls. I later learned that Lucy had been living in a car with her mother during both 7th and 8th grade years. So, although I wasn't wealthy, at least I had a bedroom to sleep in every night and two parents who loved me a great deal and gave a damn about my grades.

Sherry
Ok, I'm not changing this bitch's name. She was a horrible person. I know that mature as they get older, but I am willing to bet all the cool Red Sox merch I own that Sherry is still horrible, where ever she is. I became her target as soon as I rushed to the defense of one of my friends she was bullying. My friend was tall, but vulnerable and Sherry had a good time ridiculing her in front of her pack of rejects. The moment I told her to back off my friend, I was subjected to a seemingly never-ending spewing of hate and verbal abuse. Once, Sherry sped after me screaming obscenities when I was walking with my mother. She had zero class, bad hair, freckles and icy blue eyes. She was pure evil. Unlike Lucy, I have no pity for Sherry. I wouldn't be surprised if she was completely miserable, broke, in and out of rehab, and haggard. In fact, I'd be willing to bet that she looks twice her age. That's what the hatred-misery combo does to people.

How does one become like Sherry? What are the series' of events that lead to this? And why do adults and people in positions of authority do nothing about it?

One last note about Sherry. I eventually got my revenge, or at least something close to it. My dad was a school teacher at the Vocational school and Sherry's boyfriend was a student there. He was also our paperboy for a while. He was a pretty creepy kid who I suspect smoked a lot of weed. Anyway, when my dad caught wind of the whole Sherry situation, he stopped her boyfriend in the halls whenever he could. My dad was on that kid's case. Normally, my father really could have cared less about that stuff (this is a man who would use rock and roll trivia as bonus questions on his exams), but he did it for me. It still makes me smile.

Money, Money, Money, Money .... MONEY

Not long ago, I was listening to this Christian talk show on the AM dial. Why? Because, over time, it seems that I have become terrifically bored with FM stations that aren't NPR. The Emerson College station is pretty hip and enjoyable, but I've developed a complete and utter lack of patience for popular music. Don't ask me how or when this happened! I can't tell you the answer. All I can say is that I would rather sit in the car and rage at some right-winged smoke blower on talk radio than tap my foot along to an overplayed classic rock song or a tired, old "alternative" hit. I love the Ramones, but I'd rather be sedated than listen to "I Wanna Be Sedated" for the 12 millionth time. Right, so, I was listening to this pre-recorded program of this minister talking to a group of people about marriage and finances. Oh, did this guy frost my behind! He first went on about how when you get married, the money becomes "our money" not "my money." Forget about your past relationship with money, he preaches, you are one with another person now. Metaphorically, I guess this is what you are supposed to believe with marriage, but I have more problems with this idea that I can shake a stick at. While marriage unites two people in many regards, your souls don't meld into one all of a sudden. You don't instantaneously lose your identity. That's ridiculous! Decisions become joint and there's a lot more compromise in your life, but I think it's dangerous to think of "former" self as something of a ghost.

The money thing. Having learned the hard way that pooling money together is futile, I can honestly say that I strongly suggest keeping your money separate. In theory, putting it together seems like the perfect thing to do, right? You put yours in, I'll put mine in, great! Wrong. You will never stop fighting about it. This is exactly why money is a problem for so many couples. Remember when you had roommates and everyone paid a certain amount for the rent and other expenses? You divide things up in about 5 minutes. You pay the phone bill, I'll pay the gas and electric, whatever. No fights. You just go about your life. Why does this need to change when you get married? I guess if a woman wants to take time off to raise children, then this model doesn't apply, but more and more households require 2 incomes. I say, like that overplayed alternative hit from 1994, keep 'em separated! If your spouse doesn't hold up their end of the financial burden, then you married the wrong person and chances are, they'll disappoint you in a million other ways.

Blowing Through the Jasmine of My Mind

Yipes, David's getting sued due to the fact that he had not signed enough autographs. God forbid the man should prioritize this over, oh, I don't know, playing baseball.

So, while I wait for the 1 pic that was snapped at the show last night, I thought I'd share with you a couple of random thoughts I had during my commute to work this morning.

1. Someone should open a billiard joint and call it: Nice Balls
2. Am i the only one who thinks that the Plymouth Breeze is akin to those lady style cigarettes that some people smoke? The capris or whatever they are called? Clearly, the manufacturer of this vehicle was targeting the long, skinny cigarette smoker. Speaking of cigarettes, you really ought to check out some of the old cigarette commercials on YouTube. I am particularly fond of this one.

That's Hot!

A bold judge FINALLY stood up to a celebrity and made them do what everyone else would have to do according to the law. Paris Hilton was told to go right back to jail after her little tummy ache or whatever medical condition she had was resolved. She'll probably still get celebrity-caliber treatment, but this image gives me great satisfaction:



Suck. It. Up. I hope someone puts gum in her hair or something.

Are You Into Chatting or Not?

I don't know why, but when it comes to getting my hair done (or nails, or whatever), I am not big on conversation. My current stylist understands this. She's not huge on it, either, so we keep it friendly, but pretty business-like. I've had stylists in the past who weren't as well matched with me on this front. Once, I had some woman telling me her entire life story, including bits about an abusive ex-husband who was attempting to molest her children. Do I want to hear about this? Another time, I got an earful about my stylist's waning sex life. She owned the place and eventually, her husband "popped in" to drop off their son. Awkward.

I always had this idea that when you go in for a cut (or manicure or massage), you fill out a little card and on that card there are 2 boxes. One box says, "I love to talk!" next to it. The other one says, "Not today. I've got a headache." That way, the stylist isn't sitting there feeling you out the whole time or dumping his or her problems on you. Does this idea make me a bad person?