Fresh, Hot Wastes of Time

There was a boy (in San Antonio) named Charles whom I had an off-again, on-again crush on from second grade through middle school. I had it so bad at one point that when I answered a question in class and the teacher misunderstood me, and Charles clarified what I said referring to me as “she”, I obsessed about it for weeks. Good lord, I thought, he realizes I’m female. We are obviously destined for each other.

We took the same computer science class in sixth grade. I was one of maybe 2 or 3 girls in the class, and a little dumbstruck to be around all those boys. One day we had a homework assignment that required a calculator. Charles told the teacher that he didn’t have one. I had an extra one at home, so fighting off terminal shyness I told him to borrow mine – a credit card sized brass calculator that came in its own little brass carrying case. I think it might have even done square roots. Fancy.

Knowing that one of my belongings had gone home with him, had probably spent the night in his room, almost made me swoon. The next day just before class started he came over to me and gave me back my calculator. I was so disappointed – we had no tie, now; there was no material thing to behold him to me. As he handed me the calculator, he leaned over and whispered in my ear, his warm boy-breath making goosebumps crawl down my arms and back.

“Ghadsufbish.”

“What?”

“Smurdmofrig.”

“Oh, ok.”

To this day I have no idea what he said. It has been 22 years now, and not a month goes by that I don’t wonder. Did he ask me to a dance? Tell me that the calculator broke? Ask to copy my homework? Tell me I was beautiful? Say thanks?

My only hope is that he will do a vanity search on his name one day and see this post and answer me. He’ll know who I am – I’m the one whom Mrs. Wilson threatened to tie together with him and dangle out the window in second grade.

About that breastfeeding thing. Go ahread and skip this post if the issue of lactation bores you.

I had originally posted the link as a study on what was wrong with law enforcement, not the mother. Although I do know women who still occasionally breastfeed their kids at older ages (7 years old, in one case), it’s probably not what I would choose to do myself. However, I would like to point out this article by Kathy Dettwyler, an anthropoligist at Texas A&M, which looks at studies done on other mammalian species in regards to natural weaning. If (most of) the world weren’t so hung up on boobs as sexual objects, and if mothers breastfed rather than bottlefed, it looks like the average age for weaning would be 4 years or more. My almost-3-year-old still needs a pacifier to sleep. If she didn’t have an ingrained need to suck (not to be crass), she wouldn’t need one. It’s the same need that makes kids suck their thumbs, a sight that’s common in first graders and beyond.

I understand that breastfeeding, and most especially extended breastfeeding, is flame fodder. I’m a card-carrying member of La Leche League and strongly believe in breastfeeding for both physical and emotional benefits to both baby and mother. I also realize that the only evolutionary reason that women have breasts is to feed children. Over the centuries, breasts have become sexualized to the degree that even admitting that you breastfeed past 6 weeks is looked down upon by some. I find the whole issue depressing, as it’s yet another example of arrogant Man imposing his own moral system on something that is perfectly innocent and beneficial. Breastfed kids have been shown to have higher IQs than their formula fed counterparts (if I had been breastfed, you wouldn’t be able to stand me, I’d be so damned smart), and it’s been calculated that for every year a woman breast-feeds, it cuts her risk of breast cancer by 4.3%. That’s absolutely amazing, isn’t it?

Why do people like this get charged with felonies? Sure, she was stupid, but if we make stupidity a felony there won’t be enough room in the U.S. for the jails we’d need.

And why in the hell is it the gummint’s business how long you nurse your kid? Note the cute double entendre headline. I guess it’s ok for the new head of DCF in Florida to advocate spanking hard enough to raise welts, but the woman in Illinois who breastfeeds her 8 year old 3 times a month is endangering him to the point that he needs to be in foster care.

The government needs to stay out of our homes. They have no right telling me how to raise my kids, that I need to drug my kids, how I have to feed (or not feed) my kids, what I can and can’t teach my kids, what color my kids’ hair is, and how I am allowed to make babies. Next stop: everything but the missionary position is outlawed.

What Karyn from SaveKaryn.com looks like. This is the face of the beggar of the 00’s.
I’m sorry, but eating a chocolate Jesus is just too disconcerting.
Interestingly, 3 of the Fort Bragg soldiers who killed their wives this summer were taking the same anti-malarial drug.
More proof that Donahue’s an assshole.
Are you a diamond in the rough? These people seem to think so.

Who the hell says that your monthly troubles get better after childbirth? because they don’t, they get worse, and I’m pissed off that I was lied to about it. Hell I’m just pissed off in general and I feel like hammered dogcrap and I think I’m just going to curl up in the corner in a fetal position and eat Valium.

Not even going to the gun range and unloading a goodly amount of rounds from one of our evil black rifles made me feel better, because it is hot there and my foot hurt and I had cramps from hell and there’s no place to sit. At least I was able to show up hub on his new gun. The sights weren’t off, he was off. But I wasn’t.

I’m floored by the fact that so many readers here dislike guns. Y’all want to post why in the comments? I’m not going to try to convert you or anything (well, probably not) but I’m curious as to why people don’t like throwing hot lead at innocent paper targets. Or shooting furry woodland creatures and feasting on their bloodied carcasses. Mmm, venison.

I went to the gym today to pay pennance for my ooey-gooey brownie and ice cream that I ate last night. Someone had left their keys on the floor next to the treadmill I was using. About 30 minutes into my walk, an exceedingly sweaty lady bent down to get them. Imagine my dismay when I realized that she had left an enormous puddle of sweat all over the right side of my treadmill.

Nastipated. Good thing for her I didn’t slip.

Speaking of penance, I went to church this morning for the first time in forever. It was nice. I think I may do it more often.

There’s child abuse going on in this house. As in, I’m being abused by a child. An 11 month old. She smears up my glasses. When she’s mad she hits me. She gets on my lap and proceeds to wiggle, grab at stuff on my desk, and complain until I put her down, at which point she cries. She headbutts me. She likes to bite my clothes but sometimes she misses and bites me instead. She’s broken the skin twice doing this. When she wants attention she smacks at me and hollers. She pulls my hair.

Enter hub. He picks her up off the floor, where I’ve put her because I’m tired of being beaten up. She then proceeds to sit quietly in his lap, occasionally gently bouncing or quietly waving bye-bye.

And this always happens. Why does she like to kick my ass? I so completely don’t understand.

This morning she woke up around 7 to eat. 7 is much too early to wake up. Only weirdos wake up at that indecent hour. I fed her and crossed my fingers that she’d snuggle up to me and fall asleep. Well, she bopped around the bed for a while, quietly muttering, then crawled on top of my pillow (I have one of those extra firm tall space foam pillows), wrapped herself around my head, and fell asleep. I think she was a cat in a former life. Then she rolled over and fell off the pillow with a loud thud and it didn’t phase her a bit. She just kept quietly snoring those tiny baby snores.

She’s adorable.

It is at this point that I need to discuss my mailman (or as they say on Sesame Street, “Letter Carrier”).

Our postwoman at our old house was really nice. She’d leave us little notes in our box and would come over to chat if she saw us out. She’d sort our mail so the big stuff like catalogs was on bottom and the little stuff was on top, so it was easy to retrieve from the box. I baked her cookies. We miss her.

When we moved here, the mailman came and introduced himself to us and he seemed very nice as well.

Then he got replaced.

The new mailman is deaf and mute (or, as they say on Sesame Street, “Hearing and Speech Impaired”). That’s fine, no big deal. The problem is that he’s rude as well. He left us a curt note telling us not to park in front of our mailbox, which coincidentally is right in front of our house. So we don’t park in front of our own house anymore. Once I had a friend come over and she tried to park there. Just as she was getting out of the car, the mailman came and honked prolongedly at her to make her move. From in front of our house. So she had to pull up away from the sidewalk and wrestle her baby through the grass.

The mailman also doesn’t make eye contact. That’s all very well and good, except he is deaf and doesn’t know what we’re saying if he doesn’t look at us. I made him look at me the other day, because I had learned how to say “thank you” in ASL, so I kept his pen hostage until he saw me.

When he delivers packages, he doesn’t bring the mail, too.

Those were all minor annoyances, really, but added up they really pissed me off. Then today I got a package. Instead of leaving it on top of the mailbox so that it’s easily stealable, he put it in the grass behind the mailbox. And the sprinkler system came on.

Luckily the only thing inside that got wet was the invoice, but I’m still pissed. He just seems like he doesn’t want to do things right. I wonder what USPS policy on packages is? If I call to complain, am I going to get accused of discrimination?

About that package – M.S. bought me stuff off my wishlist. What a cutie. Amazon didn’t put a gift card in with it though, but her name and address were in the invoice. I’m glad I found that part out, because I don’t want my address going out to Blogistan. Wonder how I can circumvent it?

Hey you. Yeah, you over there. The guy who’s lifting a weight so heavy that he’s grunting like a constipated Monica Seles. You’re being loud. Perhaps you should try a smaller weight.

Oh, and you have manboobs.