Jul
18
July 18, 2007
A few weeks ago my coworker T and I were talking about Top Gun. T put forth the oft-repeated theory that Top Gun is in fact a thinly disguised celebration of male homosexual love, and this being one of my favorite subjects—Top Gun and its homage to hot man-on-man action, that is—I immediately launched into a frothy-mouthed monologue about how of COURSE it is, how about that VOLLEYBALL scene, or the carefully arranged naked legs in the LOCKER ROOM OMG, and how about all those lines of dialogue like “He’s on my tail coming hard!” and oh, Top Gun is just the gayest movie that ever gayed, it’s just SO INCREDIBLY PORNISHLY GAY, and really, it’s sort of a work of art in its gayitude, and I think I may have used the term “sausage fest” more than once, and then? Then, later that afternoon? I was talking with my office-mate A, who had been present for the entire Top Gun conversation, and while I was in mid-sentence about something or other, probably about how Tom Cruise huffs so much dong, I glanced down at his shirt and saw the white on black lettering that read, wait for it, TOP GUN.
That’s right, my coworker had on a freaking Top Gun T-SHIRT (it read “Wingman” on the back). Which I had somehow managed not to notice during my entire sermon about the cornholing gayness of Top Gun.
Lesson learned: if one of your coworkers slinks away snickering while you are busy pointing out the various reasons why a well-known macho movie is more gay than a truck full of parrots, you should probably look around to see if any other coworkers are wearing a shirt advertising said movie. Then shut your big dirty trap before you find yourself saying “snowballing” in reference to Iceman.
Jul
17
July 17, 2007
A very nice woman asked if I wanted to write for Work It, Mom!—for cash money, even—and I had to decline because what little free time I had seems to be rapidly disappearing. Riley’s bedtime keeps getting later and later, and although you wouldn’t think an hour or two (or god help us, three) would make that big of a difference, it makes a WORLD of difference. It’s the difference between getting in a workout or not, it’s the difference between a leisurely meal and something gulped on the run while chasing a toddler, and it’s the difference between recharging at the end of the day with some personal time and staggering into bed feeling as though you’ve been hit by a bus.
Life has felt so screechy and tiresome lately, and I know pregnancy hormones are probably partially to blame, but on the other hand: my job is going through a spectacularly boring and dissatisfying lull (which as some of you may know first hand does not actually provide for a relaxing day, it means hours of thumb-twiddling and clock-watching and the sense that you’re experiencing a mental root canal), my house is in complete disarray—the kitchen is torn wide open at this point, allowing us the opportunity to eat breakfast a few feet from the workers each morning—and the dirt and chaos and clutter make our home atmosphere jangley and headachy, and Riley . . . well, Riley is in perhaps the most charming, interesting, and cutest stage of toddlerdom to date, but jesus is it ever exhausting to deal with his curious, emotional, jabbery, full-tilt little self.
Honestly, I would be far less whiny if Riley were going to bed at 7 like he used to. And I know, you’re probably wondering if I’ve realized just how upended life will be when the Secondtopus arrives and we have to give up even more luxuries, such as sleeping—the answer is YES, and I’m frankly a little terrified, because if I’m feeling overwhelmed and crabby NOW, oh my god I am in for a world of hurt in six or seven months.
Not that I’m, ha ha, feeling less than confident about my abilities to handle a newborn and a toddler. Or sort of freaking out about the entire concept of having two children. No, I’m good, just . . . hang on, I just need to sit down for a minute with my head between my legs, breathing into this paper bag. Just a sec.
Now that I’ve summoned the Wahmbulance, let me also say that this is all temporary, because my job will pick up again (it always does), the remodel will have to finish at some point ( . . . right?), and if I’ve learned one truth about kids, it’s that whatever their habits are at the moment will change. Maybe we can even reclaim that lovely, lovely 7 PM bedtime. With Thorazine, if necessary.
Following up on yesterday’s topic involving a blow to the nads and whether or not that can trigger intestinal upset, JB would like to clarify that he didn’t mean it would make someone instantly shit their pants, it’s more of a lingering aftereffect. As for the majority’s opinion that his claim is bogus, his reasoning now involves references to his exceedingly large package of family jewels, and how such an elephantine anatomical gift surely has more sensitivity than the average package.
Heh.
Well, menfolk, I hear your ball-slapping stories and raise you one toddler infatuated with Mama’s “bee bees”, whose greatest joy lately involves treating my sore hormonal hooters like a Whack-a-Mole game. My sympathy is both sincere . . . and fleeting.
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