Moose in the Kitchen

You really don’t want to read the first draft of this post, the one entitled Why I Love Blogs, a Dissertation of Prodigious Length and Dullness So Perhaps You Should Go Watch Lost Instead. For today’s purposes, let’s just note that I love to yell, “Yes! That’s precisely it!” at my understandably confused computer. I like that moment of recognition, that “why, the very same thing has happened to me, and we are all one on this planet, sharing these human experiences, you just happen to share yours in a very erudite, intelligent and amusing sort of way.” A way that I might want to copy if I could manage it. I hate to perpetuate the sterotype of the blonde who likes shoes and is bad at math but I was SO that person who frantically copied her neighbor’s paper in algebra because algebra and I, we did not mix. But I’m no longer blonde, so there you have it.

When I find these good writers, the ones who provide massive amounts of fresh text for my personal enjoyment, I want to ferret out their secret. How did a cab ride become so heart-wrenching under your fingers? How can a block of cheese be so funny? How did you get that little box onto your sidebar? Because, dude. Sidebars will be the death of me.

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I like it when something unexpected and kind of funny happens on the train and people break the silent iPod trance to acknowledge that life is happening around them and we’re not just a bunch of corporate cyborgs being transported home to plug ourselves into the wall and recharge for tomorrow.

As a private in the army of suspected cyborgs, I loved this. (Not to be confused with the army of the undead. I’m far too enamored of long naps to be dragging my sorry carcass around after I’ve kicked it.) I’m the one toward the back on the left, the one who clings to her pink ipod like it’s a last hold on sanity. Which it is. Leaving me alone with my thoughts results in long, long to-do lists. This means my chances of meeting death while crossing the street and listening to Boston are higher than average, but it’s worth it so long as I die amused.

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Graham is weaning. This is not a mutual decision — this morning he filed formal papers with the State Attorney General’s office requesting that he be awarded full legal custody of my boobs “…and their endless, magical contents” on the grounds that I am no longer of sound mind and therefore cannot be considered mentally fit to govern their usage.

As my children are still little unfertilized eggs, I can claim no kinship on the whole weaning thing. But I almost wish I could, this was so damn funny. And given my inability to let go of chocolate cake before it has vanished in a poof of crumbs, crumbs which I will then lick up, or dab at with a genteel forefinger should I be amongst company, I suspect similar efforts of mine will be duly thwarted. With fewer attorney generals and more screaming, if the genes hold. But as someone who’s contemplating the raising of miniature people at some point in the future (that far, far off future, the one in which I have emotional maturity, income, and endless stores of patience…oh, right! never!), I love reading blogs by parents. Reading a blog can’t prepare you for children any more than jumping down the last two steps can prepare you for diving off an 80-story building, but I like the reminders that pictures lie. Kodak is in league with the forces of biology (also, darkness) because babies don’t just sit there and look cute. Babies like to wail. If I have learned nothing else from blogs, I have learned that the babies, they do a lot of wailing.

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Don’t you have somewhere to be right now? Can’t you just leave her alone so she can get some effing peace? Also, could you stop helpfully solving every problem she complains about? YOUR PATIENT RATIONALITY IS NOT WANTED HERE. Oh, she had a tone just then, didn’t she? She’s so sorry. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with her, and you deserve better. Or at least you would deserve better if YOU WOULD STOP CLICKING YOUR GODDAMN PEN LIKE THAT.

Oh, the unjustified yet gripping rage. How well I know thee. I especially adore the attempted ousting of patient rationality. I envision the waving of burning sage in the face of He Who Dares Attempt Reason. When friends (unwisely) come to me with this stuff, I can’t help but let them down. “See, I probably would give in to the overwhelming desire to hurl a casserole dish or at least whack my head on the floor a few times. You seem to be restriaing the urge so, you know, go with that. In fact, why don’t you just coach me? Coach me through your pain? Yes, that’s a solid plan. You’re cheaper than my therapist.” This tends to coincide with a hasty change of subject.

I like to see how people react to things, how they handle a certain situation better or more thoughtfully than I might. And then how they write about it. Though I do tend to gravitate toward blogs of people with my precise weaknesses (see: Tempted Hurling, Casserole Dish). So maybe I can’t claim this is an exercise in self-growth. It’s really more an exercise in “entertain me, and do it now”. Not unlike the ipod.

With any luck though, blogs won’t kill me.*

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*Yes, I did notice the proliferation of death in this post, up to and including an army of zombies. No, I don’t know what that’s about.

[Edit: In a stunning demonstration of neuroses number 937, I spent a reasonable amount of time since posting this wondering if I should have credited the bloggers. "But they can click through if they want to know. But what if they don't want to click through? What if they don't have time to click through? What if they're on the way to an Anti-Click Through Convention because of a past traumatic click through experience, but still really want to know what fabulous blogs those little blue quotes belong to?" Sigh. It's interesting being me. So here we have it. Quote number one: Cover Your Mouth When You Blog. Quote number two: Electric Boogaloo. Quote number three: Schnozzfest.]

Related posts:

1. Wisdom from Joy of Cooking
2. Heartwarming Conclusion to Previous Cynical Thought