Meet Tank. Tank is the older of Pernilla’s two boys. He’s so called because, well, he was quite the sturdy lad in his younger days. And while Pernilla was born in Sweden, schooled in Michigan, and lives in Illinois, she’s really Southern. So I think in a few years some SEC school is going to be thrilled to have Tank on their defensive line. HOWEVER, given the following exchange, we may have a John McEnroe on our hands.
Having a preschooler is a bit like having an English as a second language student with an attitude. They have great command of the language but they still say weird shit:
Me: Tank, no, you can’t blow bubbles inside.
Tank: What?! You are kidding on me right now! Are you kidding me on my head?? Arrghhhhh! Bubbles are so fun. You are not kidding with me right noooooow!!
I should hate my friend Pernilla. She’s talented, smart, funny, gorgeous, and thoughtful. She is also amazingly kind. And Swedish by birth. That last bit is important because there’s a meatball reference later. So, yeah. She shares these little bits of her life that make me laugh until I leak. I told her I wanted to add a feature called Pernilla Ponders… to the blog and she graciously said yes.
In our inaugural post, Pernilla Ponders… Swedish Stereotypes:
You know you aren’t doing much to discourage stereotypes when your admittedly Swedish-looking self drives your very Swedish-looking kids around and the youngest starts chanting “MEATBALLS! MEATBALLS!” at the top of his lungs, and the older one joins in like this is what we normally do – driving around yelling for random meat.
All I need is the Swedish Chef in the lap of Abba in the driver’s seat to really cover my bases.
As I said yesterday, I’m going to be popping in here and there to talk about what the demise of DOMA means for my marriage. I’m a heterosexual woman. My husband is a heterosexual man. Therefore, forthwith, and heretofore, we are not gay married. BUT! As we all know, letting two consenting adults of the same sex get married makes a MOCKERY of marriage. It leads to men marrying dogs. And dancing.
I’ll admit I feel a little less married this morning. Chuck didn’t make coffee and while it could be he was just running late, I think he feels it too. I think he’s questioning the very foundation of our relationship. Coffee ennui is an early sign of a collapsing marriage. I’m sure he thought about all the mornings he woke up and made coffee knowing his loving wife would later stumble into the kitchen and thank the stars she married another caffeine addict. And I’m sure his next thought was now, the way it’s going, it’s not just straight people who will have that bond. Married homosexuals across the land were also waking up and reaping the benefits of a loving, early-rising partner who was equally addicted to caffeine.
I just…I just need a moment.
Are you as bored with my saying I don’t understand what it means to be conservative as I am with not understanding what it means to be conservative? Today SCOTUS tossed out DOMA, a federal law. ONE LESS FEDERAL LAW, PEOPLE! Why are so few of my right wing buddies dancing in the streets? OH! Wait! I remember. With DOMA gone, now I can marry my car, right? And my gay dog can marry my gay goldfish and then adopt a little human Asian baby they can dress in the most fabulous clothes from Baby Boden.
Now that DOMA is gone and California’s Prop 8 is pretty much dunzo, I think I’ll start a log of all the ways teh gay marriage is going to threaten My SuperStrate Marriage™©. So. For the next few days I’ll be chronicling like such. I can tell you this, already I feel a little less feminine. Granted, it might have something to do with the fact I sat out in Standard Shed this morning and forgot to turn on the AC and a raging case of swamp ass began to creep up on me, BUT I JUST KNOW IT’S THE LESBIANS!
I think tomorrow it’s really going to sink in. The gayness. The deterioration of the morality, sanctity, and missionary-style sexiness of My SuperStrate Marriage™©. As it is, I just saw a picture of Ellen Degeneres and thought WOW! Her skin is lovely! I must have this Gay Olay she uses. Will I want to leave the love of my life and move to an all-womyn commune and spend my days rewriting children’s classic books to be gender neutral? Will I become overly fond of the Canadian Tuxedo? Will I listen to nothing but Ani DiFranco? Will Chuck still find me attractive when I wear nothing but flannel? Okay, that’s kind of moot. I’m really fond of seasonally-appropriate flann….OH GAWD! It’s already started!!
Stay tuned, friend(s). I’ll be charting the demise of My SuperStrate Marriage™© right before your very eyes!
I told you I’d be gone and then back. The “back” part has given me a little trouble. I just spent a long weekend with my honey. I don’t remember the last time we went out of town just the two of us. And this trip was to a magical place with no cellphone reception or internet. It was incredible. And I mean that in the true sense of the word. I actually didn’t believe we were there. It was so amazing, I only complained about bugs like ten times.
We did quite a bit of fishing. By that I mean we sacrificed many yummy worms to tiny baby fish. We only hauled up about three, only one of which was worth heating up the grease for. It was a 22 inch catfish. Yes, I know. I’m supposed to tell you its weight, not its length. We didn’t have anything to weigh it it and I am notoriously bad at estimating anything that requires a number value. “Oh, it’s about a hundred yards from here.” That means nothing to me. A yard, a mile, a hectare? All the same. Oh, and don’t get me started on stones. One stone equals fourteen pounds? You know what else equals fourteen pounds? Fourteen pounds.
But that’s not the point. The point is that I’ve been in a self-imposed news exile for several months. Lookit, I know. I KNOW. You don’t need to give me all the crap about caring what goes on in the world and how we’re all connected and being a clueless American. Suck it. I’ve got enough drama here in the Greater Metropolitan Standard Shed Area. I don’t need yours too. So I’m just going to get it out all in one fell swoop.
Let’s begin, shall we? In no particular order…
- SCOTUS knocks down a key piece of Voting Rights Act saying that because it’s worked, we no longer need it. Okay, I see where they’re going with this. Following this logic, The Supremes will ban birth control by ruling, “Hey, you didn’t get knocked up last year, did you? No. It worked. You don’t need it anymore. NEXT!”
- Paula Deen’s sons say she’s not a racist! She let us watch Hank Aaron! Y’all, stick some butter in your pie holes and be quiet. But even more? Gentle readers, stop assuming that because she’s a Southern woman of a certain age she doesn’t know any better or doesn’t mean anything by it.
- In Texas, according to State Representative Jodie Laubenberg, if you’re raped and report it, you get a complimentary abortion! Apparently, “in the emergency room they have what’s called rape kits, where a woman can get cleaned out.” To quote my extremely profound husband, “Wow.”
Twenty-three Seven years ago, I was denied admission to Bennington College. Why they chose not to accept my application is beyond me. Who WOULDN’T want me at their school? Who could possibly deny themselves the pleasure of my company? I shall now sue. Some kid gets denied admission to University of Texas and, I can only imagine, is then hounded by some lawyer wanting to make a (literal) federal case that she was denied admission because she was white. So, all I want to say about this is that she WAS admitted to Texas, just not the Austin campus. She then chose to go to LSU. I don’t know the ins and outs of all this, but I do know this: If she’d really wanted to end up on that Austin campus, she could have worked at it. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps and whatnot.
- This really isn’t bad news, but I thought I’d include it anyway. Rick Santorum is going to head a “faith-based” movie studio in Dallas. First, moving away from politics is an excellent decision. But. I’m always skeptical of companies who make a big deal that they’re “faith-based” or “Christian”. To me if you’re walking the walk, you don’t need to advertise your talk. I find it in poor taste to use faith and religion in marketing. And by “in poor taste” I mean “desperate”.
When did we stop giving and start gifting? Were we gifting before 2009? Was it before or after we turned “friend” into a verb? I can’t remember. I just know it drives me nuts, this gifting.
My Facebook feed has become populated with people who were gifted. And I don’t mean like they can do long division in their heads or could play Chopin in kindergarten (these two feats carry equal weight in my world). One person gushed about how she was gifted a beautiful peace lily. Nice. One woman had been gifted some homemade preserves. I like preserves. One woman was gifted a repurposed…you know what? It doesn’t matter a repurposed what. The fact “gifted” and “repurposed” were used in the same sentence by someone not demonstrating cheap summer crafts with bendy straws on the Today show was enough to make me remove her from my cocktail party list. (NOTE: My cocktail party list is totally fictional. Having a cocktail party would involve people. And cleaning the 472 cases of sparkling water and Dr. Pepper out of the dining room.)
When one gifts rather than gives, one makes it all about the giver. The recipient is just an innocent bystander forced to accept a vintage crying clown rendered in porcelain because it was fabulously kitschy. Had the recipient been given the sad clown, she might have thought, “Wow. My friend saw this and thought of me. She must have remembered the conversation we had about my Aunt Mitty-June who collected porcelain clowns and how as a child I was simultaneously fascinated and petrified by them.” When the same friend is gifted, the conversation is more like the giver thinking, “I remember a story of something about clowns scaring the crap out of her. I’ll give her this Pagliacci figurine to show her I’m both cultured and an active listener. Plus no one else will be in on the joke so I’ll get to tell the whole story at the party.” Ninety-five percent of all items bought to be gifted are bought at Anthropologie. True fact.
Gifting is selfish. Gifting is done by people who spend too much time on Pinterest and believe every occasion must be marked by giving out personalized cupcakes and renting a photo booth. If you’re being gifted, I can just about guarantee it’s by someone who doesn’t know how to change a tire. I have a firm policy of not making friends with anyone who can’t change a tire. It’s like trusting someone who has no tools. HOW CAN YOU BE FRIENDS WITH THAT PERSON? Who doesn’t need a screwdriver? Gifting is trendy. Gifting is the friend who wears a seersucker shorts suit and gold platform wedges. Giving is your friend who would smack you upside the head because a grown-ass, 45-year-old woman should know better.
It might be better to give than to receive. It certainly is if you’re on the receiving end of a set of placemats repurposed from your friend’s children’s juice box straws.
Yeah, so didn’t make it back quite in the time frame I imagined. I’m just not going to get into why because it’s really just not that interesting. I mean, I know I’m not generally interesting anyway, but this is like hearing someone else’s dream not interesting. It’s like listening to someone describe a dress not interesting. Have you ever noticed that when someone describes what she’s going to wear, it never looks like you think it will? There’s a lot of that going on in my world.
And yet here I am. IT’S ALL FOR YOU, INTERWEBZ!
I just want to say that I hate spring. I mean, I hate summer more. Especially August. But summer is at least honest. You know you’re going to be miserable in summer. You know you’ll spend three months peeling your thighs off hot car seats. You know you’re going to shower three times a day because walking out to get the mail makes you sweat through your caftan. And your mailbox isn’t even at the road. You know there are bugs as big as toddlers that are just waiting patiently to suck the life out of you by biting your ankles…just like toddlers with wings, in fact.
No, I hate spring because it’s too damned optimistic. Spring is all about promise, but it’s like the promise of that pub with the sign “Free Beer Tomorrow”. And now we’re into June and it’s going to be 95° this week with 876% humidity. You know what that means? There’s nowhere for the sweat to go. So you spend a little time outside and you turn into a Syracuse salt potato but without the creamy interior. Spring is crafty like a ninja. One day you’re sweating your bippy off and the next day you’re digging for wool socks. One day everything’s all green and fluffy and the next day it’s like Colonel Kilgore decided he wanted to smell victory so everything’s charred.
Also in Memphis, as in much of this part of the world, the hotter it gets, the more we all start sounding like Blanche DuBois. The heat turns our brains syrupy and ridiculous memories start oozing out our ears so then we’re like Blanche DuBois at the end of the play. And we start using the term “branch water” too much.
I’m going to be writing more regularly this summer, although I’ll just tell you up front I’ve got some obligations that might make that more difficult in the immediate future. BUT DO NOT CRY, GENTLE READER. For just like bangs and STDs, you’re pretty much stuck with me from here on out.