Misheru

On a more serious note, I recently had to find a book on Native American folktales for a library patron, and my search took me to the American Indian Library Association website. I found some interesting bibliographies there, and finally found the book I was looking for there too — in the “Books to Avoid” list. (more…)

You know, the amazing thing about babies is that they are so elemental. For example, I always thought babies smelled like baby powder and lotion…you know, that powdery, soft smell. They don’t. They smell like poop and vomit. I remember thinking, when Ben was born, Oh my god, everyone else’s babies smell nice and mine smells like poop and vomit — aka, rancid milk. However, I soon learned that what I thought were real babies were actually showcase babies. Meaning that most parents were smart enough to only hand over their tiny one when it actually smelled decent, such as right after a bath, and that the other 99% of the time, those babies smelled like poop and vomit too. It’s life. We don’t come out smelling like roses, and anyone who has seen a baby suck up a booger like it was candy, or delicately put a finger in a big, orange milk poop and swish it around and then try to either smear it on every available surface or put it in its mouth, or both, is fully aware of the down-to-earth elemental nature of babies.

This begins in the womb.

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Alright, fine, I’ll tell you about Randy the Astronaut of Color.

I have been eating a lot of chocolate. One, I am pregnant, and two, it’s the holidays. Chocolate is everywhere — on my desk at work, on other people’s desk at work, inside stockings and gifts — you can’t escape it. I eat it to make it go away, and more surfaces. So, the other day, after consuming a large amount of chocolate, I turn to my husband and say, “You know, I think this baby’s going to come out half chocolate.” My husband tries to keep a straight face as long as he can, then he cracks up. You see, my husband is Hispanic with dark hair and my hair is kind of medium brown, and our first child came out blond-haired and blue-eyed (his eyes turned brown later), which started a lot of jokes about “Ben’s daddy.” Some people get really horrified that we joke about it, which I also find kind of funny.

Anyway, so Marti says to me, “Half chocolate, eh? Anything you’d like to share with me?” And I give him a puzzled look. I mean, I am talking about food here, and I’m pregnant, so non-food-related conversations always puzzle me. So Marti says, “Met any handsome black men lately?” and I still look puzzled. “Half-chocolate?” he says again. Suddenly I get it. I give him a stern look and he cracks up again. “Who would think such a thing!” I say. “Everyone,” Marti replies.
So I ask my dad, and he basically says the same thing — not that my dad (bless him) is the most racially sensitive guy in the world. Anyway, so Marti continues to torment me about it.

So another day I (ahem!) comment on Marti being “Randy,” (Note: everyone thinks Marti is so innocent and sweet, which is all a lie) a word that I love to use because it just sounds so foul to me. And so funny. I mean, it’s right up there with Peter…the name of an angel, or… You know, I love these idiosyncrasies in the English language. But Marti, being himself, says, “Who’s Randy?” and of course I roll my eyes. So then my retort comes to me, plain as day, and I say, “He’s the handsome black man.” Which cracks Marti up.

I will never understand men.

And now, to explain the astronaut part:
Ben has a hard time keeping presents a secret, so Marti has been coaching him on replies to give me when I ask (pry, manipulate, extort) what Ben and Daddy got for Mommy. So Ben has a variety of “set” replies, including a small thing, a secret thing, a house thing…and an astronaut. I guess he came up with the astronaut thing himself. So I ask Marti, “Is the astronaut’s name, by any chance, Randy?”

Which, of course, cracked him up again.

And now you know the whole boring story. Feel better?

You know, since I started this blog I have felt some restraint about what I write here. I mean, my students, coworkers, in-laws, family and friends all read this blog (or at least they say they do) and so I try to be funny without being as off-color as I might be otherwise.

Then I read the “Dooce” weblog. I was inspired.

Honestly, last night I read about this bloggers toddler, how she pooped a monstrous, explosive poop on the floor and how their dog found it and…you guessed it…started eating it. It was so foul, but so funny, I actually alternated between the gag reflex and laughing until I cried. I then proceeded to read the rest of her posts that were labeled under the heading “poop.” It was awesome.

On the other hand, she got fired for blog, making her extremely famous as the first blogger to get fired for what she had said on her blog.

I, on the other hand, am chicken. Look at me! I can’t even say “chicken-shit.” I grew up in a small town. My words have haunted me before.
It’s just as bad with my writing. Honestly, I’ve been working on a novel for two years and I am terrified to send it to a publisher for fear that it will actually get published. Why? It a suspense novel about sexual predators, statuatory rape and other such savory subjects, and I just know my family is going to be sending me e-mails and letters saying, in essence, “What the hell?” I understand why people publish under pen names.
Ironically, I love both foul, macabre subjects and…Louisa May Alcott. L.M. Montgomery. I secretly liked “Pollyanna.” It’s a weird twist that I have that occasionally comes out. I mean, I was sitting at the desk in the Children’s area reading Edward Gorey and laughing myself silly, much to the consternation of my co-workers. It’s hard to explain. I do love kids. They’re delicious with a little lemon and salt.

Honestly, I think one reason I haven’t posted in so long has been my fear of saying something about work that someone might read, misinterpret, and fire me for. I mean, when I look at revenue from my ads, I think, “Nobody reads this website. And I mean nobody.” And then someone (always someone young and impressionable or supervisory and scary) will say, “I read in your blog the other day….” and I quake with fear.

Anyway, I feel inspired by Dooce.com, and some day, when I am unemployed and anonymous, I will write something as funny and witty and horrible as Heather B. Armstrong.

I know I haven’t posted a lot on my blog lately, but this picture from Dave Barry’s Gift Guide was too much to pass up.