These Are a Few of My Least Favorite Things

This dumb Nebraska law restricting abortion due to "fetal pain." ZOMG. Seriously? Seriously? How did you find out about this fetal pain? Have your fetus call my fetus to discuss. Wait. What? Our fetuses don't have cell phones? They can't even TALK? Then who the fuck told you about this? Oh right. You made it up to further rule women's bodies with an iron fist, because you're the patriarchy. Thanks, we needed that reminder that our vaginas and other lady equipment are really YOUR vaginas and lady equipment.

Do you guys have Crazy Bread?

People who have cell phone conversations -- especially MULTIPLE cell phone conversations -- in inappropriate places, including but certainly not limited to dressing rooms, airport bathrooms, and any other large communal space in which my jeans are likely around my ankles. For an example, I will just copy and paste my Facebook status for today: Things I learned in the dressing room from a woman who had at least three cell phone conversations while I tried on jeans: 1) She tested positive for hepatitis and plans to re-test tomorrow 2) She is no longer a size 16; she is now a size 14 and a Large on top 3) She coddles her boyfriend, who sounds like a total asswipe. He will be dumping her, either if she gets fat, or if she has hepatitis. Unsure about that one.

iPhone commercials. "Oh, looky, my iPhone told me that song was She and Him, and when they are coming to town, because I'm an idiot yupster tech junkie who is too dumb/2010 to remember lyrics/carry paper to write them on and then google them when I get home like poor folk, such as Amanda. Also I have soooo much disposable income and/or I'm a total poseur/dilettante, so I just buy tickets for bands from whom I've heard one song. Teehee!" Also -- you do NOT need the ability to use the internet while talking on the phone. This is a lie.

Reggae. It's possible that reggae is too closely associated with sun and sand and surf, all of which turn me off. It's more likely that old commercials for Jamaica and jukeboxes in bars have made me hate Bob Marley's music with a passion. Since all reggae seems to have essentially the same beat, it's all ruined for me. Plus, the whole stoner association feels so junior year of high school. It's the musical equivalent of the dead horse, in my mind.

People who do not use turn signals. What the fuck? It isn't hard, it's not even a real flick of the wrist. And I am not a mind reader, so when you are slowing down in front of me to turn or park but have not turned on your turn signal, I might assume you are running out of gas, having an epileptic fit, fucking with me, or a million other random things. They need to start giving tickets for this again, it's so anger-inducing and dumb.

I feel like this will probably become an ongoing blog feature. Exciting, isn't it?

The Exception Proves the Rule

Hello, I have decided to blog again! My friend Samantha has an amazing blog, Bitches Gotta Eat, which my crap entries won't come near, but which inspires me. And two of my college friends are beginning or re-starting their blogging efforts. Plus I've been writing a lot lately for the Sunday Night Sex Show, but would like to occasionally write about something other than sex. So I'm gonna try blogging yet again.

Currently, I'm nannying. My friends have an adorable almost-19-month-old son and I hang out with him all day. We have a pretty good time, and jobs that involve trips to the park and occasional naps are hard to come by.

One of the best things about being a nanny, though, is that you can constantly indulge your inner moron. You know how sometimes you are walking down the street and you see a cute dog and get really excited and have to stop yourself from idiotically pointing at it and yelling "DOGGIE!" Well guess what? When you have a toddler with you, pointing and saying, "Look at the doggie!" is totally normal behavior, provided you at least appear as though you are saying it to the kid.

In private, it's even better. Kids love ridiculous songs and silly dances, so if you feel like singing "Hey Jude," belt it out. I've sung that one a few times and he usually likes it. And any time the mood strikes -- which it does, because children's programming contains a lot of really cute, catchy little songs -- you can just start flailing around, or "dancing," and you've started a dance party. Amazing.

A fair number of people I know or have known (aka, have dated) hate children, because they're assholes and can't even fathom taking care of a dog, opting for cats instead. I now hate these people. Sure, the kid I watch is a very happy child, luckily. But I spend a fair amount of time at baby music class, baby gym, the playground, etc. And kids are, generally, really pretty likable in addition to being cute. There's the boy who is twice as old as J. (my charge, as Babysitter's Club would have called him) and sweetly offered to share his snack when we met him. There's the incredibly excited little girl in music class who is always asking, with wide eyes, "MAYBE THE DRUM?" There are children all over the playground who, when they don't immediately see their parents, look up at you in a completely trusting way, sure that as an adult you will help them.

The adult world is composed of such a large variety of assholes, and then those assholes have the audacity to "hate kids" based on what? Some screaming fit they witnessed once? Kids' bad behavior is by and large instinctual, when adults fuck with you all the time despite knowing better. Basically, I hate that dude I dated 2 summers ago, who hated children. Ha.

Anyway. Today is the first TRULY beautiful day of spring. It's like 70 degrees, sunny, breezy, all that good shit. And so we took a walk to the park, where everyone and their mother/nanny was gathered to run around without jackets, finally! On my way there, I passed several men -- most of them sexy sweating running men -- and again noticed what I notice every time I have the kid with me: they might smile at him, but they don't give me a glance. It's likely that they think the kid is mine. I mean, there's a hot dad in toddler music class and I don't even know that he's a "hot dad" at all, I just assume so and totally discard the notion that he might be a nanny. Plus J. and I are both white and blue-eyed. And unlike the hot, lithe 24-year-old Polish nannies, I'm 29 and have a body that could certainly be post-baby.

So on the way home from the park, I'm pushing the stroller and considering how the hot guy at CVS gave me a kindly "lovely child, mother lady" smile rather than an "are you wearing panties" smile, and how I'm going to restart writing here and I'm going to make it a post about using a child to deflect unwanted male attention, when some middle-aged guy drives by in an SUV, leans out the window, leers at me and shouts, "HOW ARE YOU DOING?!?"

See the title of this post, please.