Fatty Sow, Part II.
You thought this post was going to be a continuation of my much celebrated opening weekend review of Fette Sau. Not true! Not true at all. What do girls really like to talk about? BOYS! So, ladies, have I got a story for you. Max and I had such a fight this afternoon!
Lucky for you, readers, we're not geriatric, so it was on Gchat. (NYT Modern Love, here I come). To wit:
Max: I wonder what I'll do for dinner.
me: I can't wait to find out
Max: I'm thinking some pulled pork
me: oh seriously?
from where?
Max: both the alan richman AND calvin trillin books refer to carolina chopped pork
So I've been craving it.
Pies n Thighs
me: that's one of my top meats, babe
on the list of meats I will eat
Max: This sandwich is the way to start.
me: sandwich?
I would just want it plain
or with okra or collard greens
or cornbread
that's how I'd want it
Max: Stop fronting.
me: no joke, babe
I don't think I'd like it in a sandwich as much
Max: Why not?
With cole slaw and a pickle and hot sauce?
Mmmm.
me: sandwiches need to have very tidy things on them
or else I have to take them apart
Max: These are not tidy.
me: to fully enjoy each component
Max: They fall apart in your mouth.
NO
NO
NO
me: yeah exactly
Max: You're making me mad. Stop it.
me: really?
Max: Sort of, yes.
Not mad. Disappointed.
Disappointed?? Shit. In the grand spectrum of how people feel about me, I prefer them to remain consistently clustered around the marker labeled "impressed." That's pretty far away from disappointed. Another confession? I super like looking hot. At a party the other week, I had a conversation with a (hot) young lady about how she gave up her vegetarianism following a freak car accident several years ago. Her boyfriend at the time took advantage of her "sprain of the buttocks" to feed her a hamburger, and she hasn't gone back.
I nodded and smiled while she told me that her recovery was quick, she feels good, WHATEVER, but then:
"And my parents?"
"Yeah?"
"They say I look much, much healthier. You know, parents are always worried, too skinny--" I decided it was time to get to the point.
"Do you think you look better?"
"Definitely."
I believe her! She had shiny hair, a woolly gray cardigan, tight little pants--honestly, that's all I remember. But my mom has been telling me that I look "wan" ever since I started smoking pot in high school. And moms are basically the arbiters of truth, especially when it comes to their offspring's appearances.
File this under the "things that are not true" tab, will you?
Showing posts with label mommy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mommy. Show all posts
17 April 2007
22 March 2007
Sexy. Safe. Texan?
"Emma." When my mom says my name like that, I get a weaselly little stomach ache and purse my lips together. It mainly happened in high school, and it was usually because I missed someone's birthday, left my pot in plain view, cursed at my sister or had premarital sex.
This last time, though, it wasn't so bad. She just asked me if I was planning on getting the HPV vaccine, officially known as Gardasil (if pharmaceuticals weren't so evil I'd think their branding departments came up with adorable drug names).
I was kind of embarrassed that I didn't really know how to answer. "Uh, I mean, I guess I will. Should I?"
"Well," my mom's voice was very sweet, as though she were informing me that my younger sister was getting married before I and it was to Mark Ruffalo, "Hannah did."
Basically, even though I was slightly jealous that Hannah got there first, I felt impressed. My mom told me some things about it that I didn't know or had forgotten after reading articles about the controversy surrounding Texas's mandatory vaccinations for all girls entering sixth grade.
I still wasn't convinced, though. My friend Becky gchatted me this morning. "Question:" she wrote, "what do you think about the HPV vaccine?"
I told her that my mom wanted me to get it, but I kept "looking for a reason it's bad." Almost simultaneously, she wrote "I am trying to find something wrong with it."
That's weird, right? Neither Becky nor I is, like, particularly averse to taking drugs. We imbibe, inhale, eat store-bought cookies and take birth control. I thought seriously about what my problem was. Wasn't it great that Christian Conservative Rick Perry kept all those little Texas babies from getting cervical cancer?
But, wait. Isn't he supposed to keep his laws off my body? (Hold it: I'm not as brilliant as you think--my neighbor in high school had that on a bumper sticker. Her bumper is the root of most of my wisdom). Seriously, maybe Becky and I are less paranoid than I thought. Remember Tuskegee? How no one's been working on a sickle cell vaccine because, in this country, that disease primarily affects blacks? Remember forced sterilizations of institutionalized populations? How difficult generic AIDS drugs are to come by? There's even the Vioxx cover-up, for pete's sake. There's a shared historical memory in this country of dis-empowered populations not getting the full truth about their bodies.
This doesn't mean that Becky and I and everyone--even boys, thank you Australia (the only country that, however unfortunately, doesn't seem to be endorsing rampant lesbianism)--shouldn't get the vaccine, I guess. But Merck is getting a, uh, pill jar full of golden papiloma coins from Gardasil.
This last time, though, it wasn't so bad. She just asked me if I was planning on getting the HPV vaccine, officially known as Gardasil (if pharmaceuticals weren't so evil I'd think their branding departments came up with adorable drug names).
I was kind of embarrassed that I didn't really know how to answer. "Uh, I mean, I guess I will. Should I?"
"Well," my mom's voice was very sweet, as though she were informing me that my younger sister was getting married before I and it was to Mark Ruffalo, "Hannah did."
Basically, even though I was slightly jealous that Hannah got there first, I felt impressed. My mom told me some things about it that I didn't know or had forgotten after reading articles about the controversy surrounding Texas's mandatory vaccinations for all girls entering sixth grade.
I still wasn't convinced, though. My friend Becky gchatted me this morning. "Question:" she wrote, "what do you think about the HPV vaccine?"
I told her that my mom wanted me to get it, but I kept "looking for a reason it's bad." Almost simultaneously, she wrote "I am trying to find something wrong with it."
That's weird, right? Neither Becky nor I is, like, particularly averse to taking drugs. We imbibe, inhale, eat store-bought cookies and take birth control. I thought seriously about what my problem was. Wasn't it great that Christian Conservative Rick Perry kept all those little Texas babies from getting cervical cancer?
But, wait. Isn't he supposed to keep his laws off my body? (Hold it: I'm not as brilliant as you think--my neighbor in high school had that on a bumper sticker. Her bumper is the root of most of my wisdom). Seriously, maybe Becky and I are less paranoid than I thought. Remember Tuskegee? How no one's been working on a sickle cell vaccine because, in this country, that disease primarily affects blacks? Remember forced sterilizations of institutionalized populations? How difficult generic AIDS drugs are to come by? There's even the Vioxx cover-up, for pete's sake. There's a shared historical memory in this country of dis-empowered populations not getting the full truth about their bodies.
This doesn't mean that Becky and I and everyone--even boys, thank you Australia (the only country that, however unfortunately, doesn't seem to be endorsing rampant lesbianism)--shouldn't get the vaccine, I guess. But Merck is getting a, uh, pill jar full of golden papiloma coins from Gardasil.
16 March 2007
And Do You Know What? I Love It.
I went home last night, home meaning my parent's house on Glenside Road, on the twinkling hill of any basically Jewish suburb within a ten mile radius of the city.
I met my father in midtown around 9, and then we drove back together (listening, uncannily, to his Neutral Milk Hotel). We bent our heads while we ran in from the garage, because if sleet doesn't see you it won't get you, and then I unlocked the door and my mom kind of, like, chimed "hello!" from the den.
She was at her laptop, wearing her blue plaid bathrobe, and watching college basketball. None of that was strange. Her eyes--one is blue and one is green, no joke--got really big while she was talking about a potential snow day.
"Well, first I heard six to 12 inches. Then I only heard four. But then..."
Daddy & I wait for it.
"THEN, Gary Cohen said he heard six for New York." Gary Cohen is the Mets' announcer. He's not a meterologist, and, last night, he was watching the Metsies beat Boston (no thanks to Billy Wagner) in Florida.
"Mom." I said. "Mom, Gary Cohen probably just heard the same forecast you did at first. I mean, right?"
Whatever. Still, none of this was strange. Until: my mother realized she had a serious debate on her hands, what with Cohen's geographical and professional lacks of credibilities, and muted the television.
She didn't get up, she just Muted The Television.
My parents got a remote! And when I looked, I saw that they'd gotten some sort of giant cable box, too! It is earth shattering. For years we had no remote, and only the cable channels that broadcast baseball. Then someone gave us an old TV and we had one very pygmy-ish remote that only controlled the volume.
Last summer my parents called Cablevision because they were being charged a "remote control" fee. My dad complained to the customer service representative and she was incredulous.
"You don't have a remote?"
"No!" My father's voice is strong and I bet it was theatrically straining at this point. "No, we don't have a remote."
"But," countered Tanya down there at Cablevision HQ, "but how do you change the channel?"
"We get up," said my father, who was telling the WASPy God's honest truth and oozing with that deity's chilly contempt, too, "we get up and change the channel."
My parents love that story. They are incredibly proud of themselves. And yet, following my complete freak-out about the number of buttons my mother had at her fingertips (she won't hold the thing, just lays it on the arm of the couch and presses), she looked up at me, all coquettish & grinning like she'd just received a personal phone call from Weatherman Gary Cohen. She said "and you know what? I love it."
I met my father in midtown around 9, and then we drove back together (listening, uncannily, to his Neutral Milk Hotel). We bent our heads while we ran in from the garage, because if sleet doesn't see you it won't get you, and then I unlocked the door and my mom kind of, like, chimed "hello!" from the den.
She was at her laptop, wearing her blue plaid bathrobe, and watching college basketball. None of that was strange. Her eyes--one is blue and one is green, no joke--got really big while she was talking about a potential snow day.
"Well, first I heard six to 12 inches. Then I only heard four. But then..."
Daddy & I wait for it.
"THEN, Gary Cohen said he heard six for New York." Gary Cohen is the Mets' announcer. He's not a meterologist, and, last night, he was watching the Metsies beat Boston (no thanks to Billy Wagner) in Florida.
"Mom." I said. "Mom, Gary Cohen probably just heard the same forecast you did at first. I mean, right?"
Whatever. Still, none of this was strange. Until: my mother realized she had a serious debate on her hands, what with Cohen's geographical and professional lacks of credibilities, and muted the television.
She didn't get up, she just Muted The Television.
My parents got a remote! And when I looked, I saw that they'd gotten some sort of giant cable box, too! It is earth shattering. For years we had no remote, and only the cable channels that broadcast baseball. Then someone gave us an old TV and we had one very pygmy-ish remote that only controlled the volume.
Last summer my parents called Cablevision because they were being charged a "remote control" fee. My dad complained to the customer service representative and she was incredulous.
"You don't have a remote?"
"No!" My father's voice is strong and I bet it was theatrically straining at this point. "No, we don't have a remote."
"But," countered Tanya down there at Cablevision HQ, "but how do you change the channel?"
"We get up," said my father, who was telling the WASPy God's honest truth and oozing with that deity's chilly contempt, too, "we get up and change the channel."
My parents love that story. They are incredibly proud of themselves. And yet, following my complete freak-out about the number of buttons my mother had at her fingertips (she won't hold the thing, just lays it on the arm of the couch and presses), she looked up at me, all coquettish & grinning like she'd just received a personal phone call from Weatherman Gary Cohen. She said "and you know what? I love it."
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