Last night I went to my sister’s apartment for dinner and had a very nauseating cab ride over. My stomach was feeling so queasy by the time I got there that I couldn’t even handle having jeans on. My sister generously offered me a pair of her pants to change into.
“Oh my god!” I exclaimed. “These are the most comfortable pants I’ve ever put on. And they fit perfectly! Where are they from?!”
The Gap. Maternity.
Guys– I’m worried. I think there might be something wrong with my month-old nephew. Now hear me out.
Last night, I offered to babysit so my sister and brother-in-law could go to dinner. They’d only be gone a couple hours– all I had to do was feed the kid and put him to bed. Child’s play. (Or baby’s play, if you will).
So everything was going fine. I told him it was time to eat, and he ate. I burped him, he burped. Right on cue. No problem. But THEN, guys, things got weird.
I told him it was bedtime, and he stared at me with wide eyes. Wide, alert, play-with-me eyes. “No, no,” I reminded him, “Bedtime is when we SHUT our eyes.” But he continued to stare at me, making the most awake-looking face one could possibly muster. “Oh god,” I thought to myself. “He thinks ‘bedtime’ means ‘be awake.’ How is he THIS confused? This is literally the least confusing concept to understand.”
“Ok, don’t panic,” I told myself, taking a deep breath. “Maybe he’s just a visual learner. No big deal. I’ll just model it for him.” So I put him down in his chair, facing me, and then I closed my eyes and mimicked a light snore. “Now do you remember what bedtime means?” I asked him. He cocked his head a bit so I took that as a yes. Turns out he was just pissing himself. No shame at all, this kid. None.
So I took him back into the nursery and urged him to try again. “Ok, so, now that I gave you that very clear reminder about what bedtime means, it’s time for you to show me what you’ve learned.” But did the kid shut his eyes? No. He opened them even WIDER. I didn’t even think it was possible for such small eyes to open that wide. Nor did I know it was possible to be THIS BAD at following directions. I’m a teacher, I’ve seen kids screw up plenty a direction, but rarely do they do the EXACT opposite of what I ask. This is bad.
For the next 70 minutes, he continued to lay there, not understanding what bedtime means. At one point he even started cooing and making what I can only assume were meant to be jazz hands. Is this kid fucking serious?
So what do we think is going on here? Does he not speak English? Does he have some rare processing disorder where information goes in, and then his brain turns it around to mean the EXACT opposite? Do you think my sister knows something’s up, or does she have her rose-colored mom glasses on? Should I tell her?
GUYS– HE DOESN’T UNDERSTAND WHAT BEDTIME MEANS. I just hope they have specialists for this.
Barista: “You want that coffee ICED?”
Me: “Yes, please.”
Barista: “You sure? It’s cold out there!”
Me: “I know. But it’s about a thousand degrees in the building where I work.”
Barista: “Do you work in a sweatshop?”
Me: “A public school.”
So…yes.
Don’t leave your weather.com default setting on the last place you vacationed. This is a horribly depressing way to start your winter day.
Also, don’t scream at your computer once you realize it’s messing with you. This is not actually the computer’s fault.
Be rational, and recognize whose fault this really is.
God’s.
I’ll admit it, sometimes I order Chinese food just for the fortune. I won’t even be in the mood for Chinese food, or in the mood for food at all, but every once in a while I’ll have the sudden urge to be told my future by a legitimate source. Sometimes I just need someone to tell me something good, and it’s fine if that someone is a cookie.
So you can imagine my dissapointement when I pay the $20-25 for a whole meal (because yeah, even if I’m not hungry, I’m going to get a soup, oversized meat dish, and a side of pork lo mien, as there is literally no other way to eat Chinese food) and the “fortune” is this:
WTF, China?! This is NOT a fortune. A fortune tells the future. This is just a statement. And an unhelpful one– one that is going to make me even more critical of my too-critical self. If you’re going to just be lazy and make a statement, I prefer it be something that will make me feel good. For example:
“Your hair looks pretty today.”
“You’re a decent dancer for a Jew.”
“It’s good that you never vacuum– dust mites have feelings.”
“No one notices your lisp.”
So please add those to your print rotation, or I’m getting out of the fortune cookie ring for good.
Oh wait, what’s this? A second fortune cookie? Because you assumed this monstrous order was for two people? Interesting. Let’s see what unhelpful babble is written on this one:
Oh my god– yay! I fucking love you, China.
Many of my friends have told me that their parents love reading my blog, and I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. It has recently come to my attention, however, that not all of them are thrilled with the amount of cursing in some of my posts. I’ve heard this from several people. Just this week my friend told me her mother read one of my posts and then declared, “Emily said the f-word. I really didn’t like that.”
I know, Rhonda. I totally hear you, and I 100% get why you didn’t like it.
Because for most of my life, I didn’t like it either. Once I became aware that cursing was no longer socially “appropriate” for someone of my gender, age, and background, my foul mouth became my least favorite thing about me. In fact, every single New Years, I would vow to curse less. This was a great way to start off my year– by disappointing myself. FUCK. Why is this so hard? (Side note: To be clear, I never curse at work. In front of the kids, that is. Give me some credit, people. Or don’t. I get why you wouldn’t.)
I grew up cursing as a form of self-expression. This was not a result of bad parenting– my parents are amazing role models, and none of my siblings curse as much as I do. But there were no strict rules about it in our house, and for whatever reason, I’m the one who decided to take advantage of this and adopt “fuck” as an emotive tool. I had (and still have, as any one of my scarred ex-boyfriends can attest to) a LOT of feelings– feelings that need to come out or they’ll eat me alive. Cursing helps me express those feelings. And not just the bad ones– “fuck” works great for excitement (I’m so fucking excited!), anticipation (I can’t fucking wait!), amazement (Are you fucking kidding me?!), joy (I’m so fucking…ok you get it…I have a tendency to over-explain. It’s the teacher in me)— basically any feeling that you’re REALLY feeling. I am someone who feels feelings HARD, and for me, cursing more accurately captures the strength of the feeling.
Also, it’s fun.
But as I emerged from childhood and became more aware of my surroundings and critical of myself, I began to feel self-conscious about it:
“Smart, educated girls shouldn’t curse.”
“Guys don’t like girls who curse.”
“You sound immature.”
“It makes you seem abrasive.”
Unfortunately, cursing had been my reliable and trusty form of self-expression for so long, it was hard to stop. But I kept trying. And failing. And when I failed, I beat myself up about it. So you see, it was an extremely healthy, productive, and air-tight cycle of self-loathing I created for myself. We’re talking George Costanza levels of self-defeat.
Years of therapy and a huge nervous breakdown later, I have come to see that my struggle with cursing is a just a small side-battle in the larger full-scale war of my young adult life— my war with “The Shoulds.” Since my teenage years, I’ve been trying desperately to do and achieve all the things someone of my background SHOULD do and achieve. I have spent so much time measuring my thoughts and actions against the long mental list of “Shoulds” that I (with the help of society) have created for myself. And when I wasn’t living up, I berated myself and felt terrible. It wasn’t until I learned to start letting go of “The Shoulds” that I began to feel more comfortable in my skin, more content with myself, and better able to accept who I am, (copious) flaws and all. (This, by the way, is and always will be a huge work in progress, lest you think I am an example of a truly evolved being. Oh, you weren’t even remotely thinking that? Ok, cool. Good.)
So, that’s me. Or part of me, at least. I curse.
And you know what? I feel pretty fucking great about it.
New Years is the perfect time to resolve to be healthier as you chase your anti-depressants with Champagne.
What I failed to remember while getting all glammed up to take my passport photo is that I look like absolute dogshit when I travel. So yeah, I get it, disgruntled customs worker– you’re skeptical.
I’m so excited that I have blog followers in Iraq, I don’t even care that it’s definitely ISIS keyword searching the word “Jew” and adding me to their kill list.
ISIS READS MY BLOG, GUYS!!!!
Here are some things I think to myself every single time I walk by this door, which is often, as it is adjacent to my room:
“Go fuck yourself.”
“One of you secretly hates/will end up murdering the other.”
“This is an amazing hotel for a singles vacation but totally stupid for a honeymoon, you stupid stupidheads.”
“You should both try the tap water. It’s delicious.”
“I bet your sex got boring the second you said ‘I do.’ I haven’t heard ONE scream come out of that room.”
“STOP BRAGGING, ASSHOLES!”
“Honeymoons are for losers.”
“Awww, I’m happy for them!”**
**this quote actually came from topless-at-the-pool-lady, as she walked by said door. SHE will probably get married some day.
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