Explanations

In an attempt to forestall the nightly whining about bedtime, last night I launched into a lengthy explanation about the importance of a good night's sleep--well, as lengthy as you can be while pontificating to a toddler who just wants you to lie on his bed and make his Curious George talk to him, anyway.

"Son," I said, "you need to go to sleep so you can get enough rest so you won't wake up all whiny and grumpy and so you'll be able to enjoy our weekly trek to the hash browns lady."

The Boy looked at me, wide-eyed.

I continued, "Now I'm going to let Curious George give you a good night kiss, and then mommy's going to go do her exercises."

"You no exercise, mommy," said The Boy, trying to forestall the departure of Curious George.

"I have to, sweetie, otherwise I'll be too fat to lay here on your bed and make Curious George talk to you."

The Boy pondered this for a moment.

"O-tay, mommy."

"O-tay," I said, and rose to leave.

"Mommy, call Daddy. He can do Curious George."

So I did. It might have been Father's Day, but I was sure that Hublet didn't want to miss even one day of making a stuffed monkey writhe in agony as The Boy crushed it with Puh-Dog. Heh. I exercised, The Boy dozed off, and I felt pretty good about my little explanantion of the importance of sleep.

This morning, I went to get The Boy out of bed and onto the potty. He came, stumbling and bleary-eyed, and sat down on the toilet.

"Haveta go potty, mommy," he said.

"I know, sweetie."

"I get grumpy and fat if I don't go potty. Don' wanna be grumpy and fat."

I decided to leave well enough alone. God only knows what bizarre ideas my attempts at untangling that little cause and effect explanation might put in The Boy's head.

I'll Make This Brief

There was never a halcyon period of total intellectual enlightenment in America, wherein the average person was an amazingly well-informed, free thinking individual ready to assume his or her rightful place in world affairs. Sorry about that. Similarly, there is not now and has never been a systemized campaign to delude the masses and numb them until either a (pick your poison) vast right or left wing conspiracy could lead them by the nose down the path of all ignorance and evil.

I'm telling you this because it's becoming beyond tiresome reading folks who, when trying to back up some assertion or other in the comments section (or even, God forbid, in the main body of their own blogs) decide that the best way to make their point is to decry and demonstrate the ignorance of the masses. This doesn't help your point, because it shifts whatever point you may have had into "Because I'm smart and I said so!" land, and it has the bonus effect of making you look like a total prick. I mean, is this the reaction you're expecting: "OMIGOD! Everyone else is soooo totally ignorant and I never realized it until YOU POINTED IT OUT! OMG SHEEPLE! What an amazingly salient, creative, and original point! You ROxxxorZ! The Other Side has been totally pWn3D!!!!!111111 Eleven!!!!" Sorry to disappoint you there, Captain Intellect. Never. Gonna. Happen.

Instead, everyone who is moderately well-informed and who can think will write you off as a blowhard with an inflated sense of self-worth. Way to win friends and influence people, buddy. Now run along and peddle the results of your mental masturbation elsewhere. Thanks so much.

Love,
Big Arm Woman

How To Enjoy Troy

1. Have absolutely no knowledge of The Iliad, Homer, or Greek Mythology beyond reruns of Xena: Warrior Princess.
2. Yell "Hector SMASH!" at the screen every time Eric Bana comes on.
3. Mentally calculate the gallons of body oil used on the male actors for all the scenes of half-naked manly-chested men washing, or fighting, or boinking, or some combination thereof.
4. Hum Madonna's Vogue every time Achilles strikes a pose with his sword, which would be approximately once per scene he's in.
5. Every time Orlando Bloom appears, yell the condom slogan "Trojan MAAAAN!"
6. Mentally calculate the number of tubes of waterproof mascara that they used on the women in the film, who do nothing but cry, cry, cry, boink, and cry (sometimes while boinking, or after, which might explain Paris' lack of self-esteem.)
7. Daydream about how much better the film would be if it were called The Odyssey and dealt exclusively with Sean Bean, who can actually act.
8. Try not to picture how much better the film would be if ANYONE ELSE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD HAD BEEN CAST AS ACHILLES.
9. Studiously ignore the fact that Achilles, a Greek warrior, seems to be very familiar with Nietzsche and suffering from post-modern ennui.
10. Pray to Apollo, the Sun God, and ask for that 2 hours and 45 minutes of your life back.

That Magic Age

I need your help. I need you to tell me when exactly I will reach The Magic Age of No Longer Giving a Rat's Ass What I Look Like in Swimwear. And don't tell me that no such age exists--I've been to the beaches, and I've seen what's out there, and I know that if any of those people cared about what they looked like, they would not be regaling me with their banana slings, spandex trusses, and not-a-thong-when-she-bought-it ensembles. Seriously.

I'm asking because it seems to me that The Magic Age (or TMAoNLGaRAWILLiS) must be a remarkably freeing experience. I could just let it all hang out, literally. Never purchase another new swimsuit regardless of changes in fashion or my girth. Hold my head high even as the string bikini top I got when I was 22 fails to do the same for my post-breastfeeding boobs. Tan myself into beef jerky and laugh when people mistake me for a mobile naugahyde sofa. Walk hand in hand with a hublet covered in back hair and sporting what might be a speedo under that copious gut. Ah, glorious freedom!

The interesting thing that I've noticed lately about The Magic Age is that it seems to be getting younger. It used to be that only septugenarians wandered around with the ease that comes from knowing that no one's looking at you anyway, so what the hell! Put on pasties and a big straw hat! But this year I see lots of high school and college-aged folk with a disregard for the retinas of their fellow beachcombers. Perhaps it's just the payoff from all those years of self-esteem boosting in school--you're fabulous even if you can't do anything useful and have the personality of roadkill--or perhaps the concept of a personal fashion sense has just escaped them utterly. Either way, in addition to the usual "don't care, don't have to" suspects, we have a parade of folks with no concept of what a bathing suit that actually fits looks like.

I blame Abercrombie and Fitch, which first proposed that the best way to sell clothing was through naked models. See, if you have no idea what the clothes are supposed to look like when they're ON YOUR BODY and everyone else is naked, then it's no stretch to assume that more is better in terms of skin-baring. And I need to tell you right now that no, that's not necessarily the case, particularly if you're not of the naked model body type. Here's a free tip: Ladies, if the back of your swimsuit is wider than one inch across, it is not meant to be a thong. I promise you that. And gentlemen, I don't care if you're Adonis himself, don't buy any swimwear that isn't baggy trunks. You're not going for the gold at Myrtle Beach, and cool ocean water tends to make things appear much, much smaller than you'd probably be comfortable with. Did I mention SMALLER? Yeah.

Sigh. Perhaps I'm just put out that I spend time trying to find flattering swimwear that fits and that won't traumatize small children, when obviously it no longer matters. Bring on the pasties and the big straw hat! I'm goin' for the gold this year!