I love the internet. Seriously. I would kiss and marry it, but marriage is between a man and a woman. I digress.
Without the internet, we would have never been exposed to gems like these. (Several of these sites are NOT SAFE FOR WORK).
1. Facebook. More like Crackbook.
2. Filipino Prison Thriller.
3. Petrellicest.
4. Two girls, one cup. No hyperlink here.
5. Freerice.com
6. Vexedinthecity
7. Real Dolls
You can't make this stuff up. And we would never have seen it without the internet. Thank you Al Gore .
Friday, September 26, 2008
Sweet, sweet fantasy baby....
Eric loves fantasy sports, especially fantasy football. I used to fight his insane lust for honor and supremacy each Sunday. Now, I have learned to embrace it. Will TJ Houshmandzadeh cut his hair and lose his powers? Will Ocho-Cinco run for the border and have a TV interview about it? Will Aaron Rogers take off his helmet and throw it to the ground exclaiming: "Everything is about Brett! Brett, Brett, Brett!" and then hit Favre in the nose with a football?
Pictured Above: Brett Favre. Oh my nose!
Pictured Above: Brett Favre. Oh my nose!Eric loves fantasy football. But fantasy politics is probably even more exhilarating this year. We have crazy break-out sensations like Sarah Palin, draft controversy with Obama going as the first pick over Hillary, and an old, veteran key player like Favre in McCain. Heh heh, veteran.
Good times, my friends. Enjoy the rest of both seasons. May the best teams win.
Good times, my friends. Enjoy the rest of both seasons. May the best teams win.
Little boxes on the hillside...
| Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes made of ticky-tacky, Little boxes, little boxes, Little boxes, all the same. There's a green one and a pink one And a blue one and a yellow one And they're all made out of ticky-tacky And they all look just the same. And the people in the houses All go to the university, And they all get put in boxes, Little boxes, all the same. And there's doctors and there's lawyers And business executives, And they're all made out of ticky-tacky And they all look just the same. And they all play on the golf-course, And drink their Martini dry, And they all have pretty children, And the children go to school. And the children go to summer camp And then to the university, And they all get put in boxes And they all come out the same. And the boys go into business, And marry, and raise a family, And they all get put in boxes, Little boxes, all the same. There's a green one and a pink one And a blue one and a yellow one And they're all made out of ticky-tacky And they all look just the same. -Malvina Reynolds |
Malvina sums it up for me pretty well. I often joke with my husband "what if 18 year old Courtney could meet 28 year old Courtney"? She would see that her embittered battle against the patriarchy had somehow brought her to a town with two Whole Foods, 6734 playgroups and women who all play a mysterious game called bunco. Next month we are going to pre-school night, which is an open house of all of the area pre-schools where parents can gather literature and make choices about waiting lists. Yes. My baby is 3 months old.
Little Miss Lauren brought me back down to earth today. I was contemplating the homeopathic beauty products at Whole Foods with my muffin tucked into her sling (or as I like to call it, her suburban papoose). After a few moments she started to sneeze and rub her eyes and I immediately rushed away from the aisle. I hadn't noticed at first, but it smelled of nag champa and patchouli. Once we retreated to safety, I swear Lauren looked up at me with big, serious eyes and said in a perfect Eric Cartman voice: "hippies!".
After my last Junior League meeting we all headed out for a drink (or a cocktail as they say here in Connecticut). The group agreed on a restaurant in downtown Hartford, and proceeded to give me directions. I was a little intimidated and confused when I was told turn here, turn there, jump on this ramp, exit here. Then a voice of reason said "the restaurant is basically up the road about 2.5 miles. Why don't you just send her that way, it is a straight shot." The answer was "Well she is new in town, we don't want to send her that way...".
I was silent and genuinely confused for a few seconds, then I said "Oh! I am from Cleveland, I am not afraid of the ghetto". Then there was nervous giggles and they gave me the simple directions after I insisted. All that to avoid a Wednesday night jaunt through the 'to. Don't they ever go to White Castle?
Don't get me wrong. I like playgroups and Whole Foods and the Junior League and I am thankful for our little box on the hillside. I just kid.
Monday, September 22, 2008
I see color
I see things.
I see haters, as evidenced by this t shirt:
I see you, hi Hater!!!
I see rich people. They drive old volvos with high end high school lacrosse team stickers. They have mixed grey-blonde hair in low ponytails, carry well worn italian leather bags and love authentic Indian food and community service.
I see rich people. They don't even know they are rich.
I see color. Of course I do. Lots of people say they do not see color. These people are:
1. Liars
2. College freshmen
3. Under age four
4. Nice not-racist liberals and also;
5. Liars
I see color. It is easy and a survival skill when you grow up the only black kid in the room. Oh you see it friends. You see it when it is black history month and the whole classroom looks at you. You see it when you are barely 18 and you meet the parents of a white boy you are starry eyed in love with and they cannot even look directly at you. You may not have seen color before but in that moment you can cut it with a knife and you can feel it cut you too. It is easy to see color when you look at thousands of refugees in America on the floor of the superdome. It is easy to see color when you look at the senate floor. It is easy to see at the law firm christmas party, and it is particularly easy to hear color after a few too many glasses of Christmas cheer.
Lately I see color a lot. In Cleveland, I was not a minority. There were plenty of people with skin like mine. That is not the case here in West Hartford, so the color is noticeable once again. Not bad mind you, just noticeable. However I think the color politics are different here. I spent most of my last months in Cleveland pregnant. I constantly received both pitied looks and sighs and resentful, hateful looks. Apparently when you see my color it distracts from the very nice diamond rings on my left hand. Here I get treated like any other West Hartford mom with an under-utilized degree and a successful husband. I suppose that when everyone is balling out of control color gets less and less relevent.
So yes, I see color. And if you can words here in black and white, you see it too.
I see haters, as evidenced by this t shirt:
I see you, hi Hater!!!I see rich people. They drive old volvos with high end high school lacrosse team stickers. They have mixed grey-blonde hair in low ponytails, carry well worn italian leather bags and love authentic Indian food and community service.
I see rich people. They don't even know they are rich.I see color. Of course I do. Lots of people say they do not see color. These people are:
1. Liars
2. College freshmen
3. Under age four
4. Nice not-racist liberals and also;
5. Liars
I see color. It is easy and a survival skill when you grow up the only black kid in the room. Oh you see it friends. You see it when it is black history month and the whole classroom looks at you. You see it when you are barely 18 and you meet the parents of a white boy you are starry eyed in love with and they cannot even look directly at you. You may not have seen color before but in that moment you can cut it with a knife and you can feel it cut you too. It is easy to see color when you look at thousands of refugees in America on the floor of the superdome. It is easy to see color when you look at the senate floor. It is easy to see at the law firm christmas party, and it is particularly easy to hear color after a few too many glasses of Christmas cheer.
Lately I see color a lot. In Cleveland, I was not a minority. There were plenty of people with skin like mine. That is not the case here in West Hartford, so the color is noticeable once again. Not bad mind you, just noticeable. However I think the color politics are different here. I spent most of my last months in Cleveland pregnant. I constantly received both pitied looks and sighs and resentful, hateful looks. Apparently when you see my color it distracts from the very nice diamond rings on my left hand. Here I get treated like any other West Hartford mom with an under-utilized degree and a successful husband. I suppose that when everyone is balling out of control color gets less and less relevent.
So yes, I see color. And if you can words here in black and white, you see it too.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Good morning, Good night.
Lauren is three months old and she is still far from sleeping through the night. The first two months of her life I must have been running on post-partum hormonal fuel or life-change adrenaline. I don't know...but I wasn't too tired.
Then month three hit, we are settled into our new home and you would think it would be all better, or at least easier. Well, it is easier, but Lauren's lack of sleep (and thus my lack of sleep) has accumulated and taken its toll on me. It has been hard the last few days, and I have been feeling especially sorry for myself.
A few days ago I was out on the front lawn training my dogs to use their invisible pet fence. An old man started to walk toward me from the house across the street. I could not cross the fence barrier to meet him without buzzing my dog, so I stood and waited for him to slowly reach me. It was awkward. Once he was in earshot he began to talk. He introduced himself and welcomed me to the neighborhood. He told me he had seem me and my family, and had been meaning to say hello, but he had not gotten the chance. He explained that his wife was very ill, and that his days were consumed with caring for her. I nodded to be polite, and in genuine sympathy. We exchanged niceties for a few moments longer, then parted ways. I walked my dog back toward the house and he began his slow stroll toward his home. He had been friendly, polite, but sad.
Today has a gorgeous, sunny, crisp afternoon. I was holding Lauren while watching the dogs out back as they continue to master their fence system. The air was perfect on my skin, but slightly cool for Lauren, so I stood in our mudroom with the door ajar enjoying the sunshine and the pretty neighborhood landscape. I turned toward the front of the house and noticed the old man from across the street. Walking slowly but steadily up the street, with his wife on his arm. She was very slight, her steps ginger and her bony, white fingers clutched a tissue. They walked slowly, his steps measuring hers, and I kissed Lauren's forehead as I watched them move up the driveway and disappear into the house. As I stood there I noticed how new Lauren was, and how old they were. I also noticed what a perfect, sunny September day it is, and I wondered if the old woman would live to see another day like this next year. I shed a tear for a total stranger. I do not even know her name.
As I wiped the tear from my face I kissed Lauren and walked away from the window. Sort of helps you keep things in perspective.
Then month three hit, we are settled into our new home and you would think it would be all better, or at least easier. Well, it is easier, but Lauren's lack of sleep (and thus my lack of sleep) has accumulated and taken its toll on me. It has been hard the last few days, and I have been feeling especially sorry for myself.
A few days ago I was out on the front lawn training my dogs to use their invisible pet fence. An old man started to walk toward me from the house across the street. I could not cross the fence barrier to meet him without buzzing my dog, so I stood and waited for him to slowly reach me. It was awkward. Once he was in earshot he began to talk. He introduced himself and welcomed me to the neighborhood. He told me he had seem me and my family, and had been meaning to say hello, but he had not gotten the chance. He explained that his wife was very ill, and that his days were consumed with caring for her. I nodded to be polite, and in genuine sympathy. We exchanged niceties for a few moments longer, then parted ways. I walked my dog back toward the house and he began his slow stroll toward his home. He had been friendly, polite, but sad.
Today has a gorgeous, sunny, crisp afternoon. I was holding Lauren while watching the dogs out back as they continue to master their fence system. The air was perfect on my skin, but slightly cool for Lauren, so I stood in our mudroom with the door ajar enjoying the sunshine and the pretty neighborhood landscape. I turned toward the front of the house and noticed the old man from across the street. Walking slowly but steadily up the street, with his wife on his arm. She was very slight, her steps ginger and her bony, white fingers clutched a tissue. They walked slowly, his steps measuring hers, and I kissed Lauren's forehead as I watched them move up the driveway and disappear into the house. As I stood there I noticed how new Lauren was, and how old they were. I also noticed what a perfect, sunny September day it is, and I wondered if the old woman would live to see another day like this next year. I shed a tear for a total stranger. I do not even know her name.
As I wiped the tear from my face I kissed Lauren and walked away from the window. Sort of helps you keep things in perspective.
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