It’s kind of like camping …
I’d like to start this post by saying how much I appreciate people who want to be parents. You see, to me, parenthood is something like being a doctor, police officer, or waste disposal technician (or perhaps a bit of all three). I have a lot of respect for people who choose to be parents. I believe good parents make an invaluable and underrated contribution to our society. I just wouldn’t want to be a parent myself.
And that’s because: Once you have a kid, it’s like going camping every day. Every day! Did we pack the diapers? The two extra changes of clothes? Rain gear? Sun gear? Wipes, lotions, ointment? Bottles, snacks, juice? Toys, blankets, shoes, hat and mittens? Can we even fit the baby in the stroller with all that other stuff?
A Dirty Little Secret …
We have a special appliance in our house. A special appliance that really helps relieve stress. We use it in the mornings as well as the evenings. It really helps us relax. We’ve heard it refered to by a number of different sexy names, including Hotpoint, and Equator. We hear they even come in designer colours! But ours is a very simple model, and we refer to it simply as our “marital aid.”
Out of the Loop …
While driving to brunch this morning, Husband and I notice that we’ve forgotten to restock the music selection in the car. We’re sick of all the CDs we have with us, so I suggest that we try the radio.
Now, we don’t listen to commercial FM radio very much….hardly once a month. So I’m scrolling through the stations; past the easy listening, past the talk radio, past the annoying commercials, and I land on something that sounds like standard pop fare: a dance beat, a fake horn section, and a female vocalist with a bit of edge to her voice. The Husband and I start nodding our heads in time, momentarily distracted from the grinding traffic.
“Hey, this is kind of nice,” I say, surprised to find that I’m getting into a song that sounds like a cross between Brittney Spears and Shania Twain.
“Yeah, I like her voice,” says The Husband. “She reminds me of Shannon McNally.”
We continue to tap along with the beat, enjoying the simple yet catchy tune. Then I notice the lyrics.
Wedding Planning: hut-hut-hike! …
Planning a wedding is complicated, even for a very small (read six guests, no attendants) ceremony. There’s the location, the officiant, the clothes, the season of year. Not to mention taking care of the guests: transportation and lodging, getting them to and from the ceremony and reception sites, family politics, etc, ad nauseum. And tonight, we were tackling a different monster altogether: the text of the ceremony itself.
Working on the vows and blessings got us thinking of the first part of the ceremony. Before anyone says a peep, you ‘ve got to get yourself, your betrothed, the minister, and your guests to the right spot and into some sort of comfortable arrangement so that the ceremony can proceed in an orderly and dignified way. Suddenly, the order of who stands where and how the hell I’m supposed to even get from point A to point B seems like a monumental task. I think: “You mean I’m going to have to walk 10 steps all by myself and remember whether to go right or left!?!”
So to ease the stress that these simple decisions were causing me, he suggested we diagram the whole thing. By the time we had the processional all figured out, we had a piece of paper that looked like a page from Vince Lombardi’s playbook. X’s, O’s, lines, arrows, but damned if we didn’t have it all figured out when we were done. Oh sure, you think I’m exaggerating the complexity of this one aspect of the ceremony planning, but I dare you to sit down and write your own. You’d be amazed at how quickly the simple act of assembling a small group can become a complex maneuver of social engineering.
I only read it for the articles …
I think there is at least a hint of irony in the fact that so many people who read The New Yorker do so predominately, if not exclusively, for the cartoons. Afterall, The New Yorker’s readership is generally considered to be a well-educated liberal—albeit mostly white upper-class—bunch that is often described with words like “sophisticated” and “intellectual.”
However, it’s not like these cartoons are Broom Hilda or Snuffy Smith. They are certainly much more cerebral. But so many people I know open their monthly issue and proceed to flip through the pages hunting for ones with cartoons on them. To their credit, some are also perusing the magazine for articles they may be interested in reading later; but many are simply content to read a dozen or so cartoons each month.
So while I was flipping through a recent copy of the New Yorker—enjoying the cartoons and wishing I had more time to read all the articles—I found this little gem which I found apropriate for those of us who maintain weblogs or journals of some sort.