 | |
| ::: ::: journal entries: ::: ::: :::
check out: The "Lazy (Insert Variable)" trend is never going to stop, is it.
artifact:
De plane, de plane.
photos:
| Wednesday, February 22, 2006 I'm not really paying much attention to the Olympics, but I sure feel sorry as hell for Lindsay Jacobellis. Maybe it was a dumb shit move, but did she really deserve to have the media orgasming all over themselves for days on end afterwards, declaring her fall as "the greatest gaff in sports history"? Jesus christ. And the national news segment about Jacobellis before the competition, that started out with montage footage of her just sort of hanging around her house with the following voiceover narration: "What's this Goldilocks cutie doing...." *dramatic pause, then cut to scenes of her snowboarding* "....out HERE?" What the fuck? The announcer had this incredulous tone apparently meant to convey the extreme craziness of some little blonde GIRL doing an actual SPORT, and while I am not given to fits of righteous indignation I found myself shouting at the television: "COULD YOU BE MORE OFFENSIVE, NBC NEWS?" because nothing gets across your heartfelt political sentiment like mimicking Chandler Bing, you know? Also, I do not care about figure skating. At all. Am I alone here? ::: I have made the Most Awesome CD Mix Ever. It includes the following: • "The Laws Have Changed", The New Pornographers I like to think I am extremely hip and cool when I listen to this fantastic mix and drive down 520 bobbing my head, kind of like this guy. ::: When you live in the Northwest you learn to appreciate the sunshine; when the skies clear and the mountains pop and the water sparkles, the natural beauty of this part of the country will stagger you sideways, partially because it's such a welcome change from clouds and windshield wipers and annoying goddamn Labradors whose Tic Tac-sized brains compel them to splash around in mud puddles on rainy days and then sit outside the back door mournfully staring with giant moist Bambi eyes wondering why you won't let them in. I think caring for a baby is sort of similar, that part of the reason why people bore the shit out of you talking about the magical miraculous spiritual amazing amazingness of their baby is because they're on a Good Times high, where their child has spent several minutes all in a row serving up retina-searingly cute smiles and happily playing with their toes and making a noise that sounds just like this: ah-goo. And the adorableness infects the parent's brain and ricochets around in there until they are reduced to a simpering wad of mush, because oh my fucking god the baby isn't crying, oh thank you jesus, right now this baby is the physical embodiment of all that is good in this world because compared to the crying this is heavenly, this is out-fucking-standing, is it me or is the child bathed in an angelic light beamed down from the heavens, because shit on a stick, this sure beats crying. I guess I should only speak for my own situation, and that is this: Riley is a never-ending roller coaster of dizzying highs, fearsome lows, with virtually no creamy middles. When he's good, he's very very good, and when he descends into the territory that Longfellow optimistically described as "horrid", well, that's when I start pondering his worth to the Department of Defense, because surely the going rate for a bona fide biological weapon would buy me that silver Mini Cooper I've been lusting after. Oh, like giving up your own child to the government for the purpose of warfare related experimentation is wrong or something. Firestarter was just a book, people. The term punch-drunk love describes JB and I perfectly, we're constantly reeling in the face of this tiny force that can power a trillion windmills with one pink-gummed smile, or collapse the entire universe with mighty waves of anger should you dare to wipe the banana puree off his face. Life with Riley is every cliche, every superlative, every sappy phrase that's been said countless times over by people marveling over the experience of parenthood. It really is. The sound of his laugh, the smell of his skin, what it feels like to see him growing and flourishing before my very eyes...I can't even describe these things, what they mean to me. I don't even have the words. But! It is also true that there are times when it's physically and mentally exhausting, when all of my learned abilities and burgeoning pride are blown out the window, when the weight I carry in my arms is more of a burden than a joy. I wonder sometimes if it all balances out in some cosmic way, if the good moments are made all the more sweet by the bad. If babies teach us to savor everything as though we're seeing experiencing it for the first time, because we should live in the moment, in the fullest way we know how - because dude, you never know when it's all going to straight into the shitter.
The boy denies it all.
Is this the face of a child who is anything other than perfection itself?
I mean, please.
Wait, she had a camera when I was doing this? Fuck.
|
