Her Blanket Should Say 70 Cents on the Dollar

Hooboy, people is WEIRD about gender.

This is my opinion based on experience and also, cultural norms and political evidence.

My daughter is currently my posse. We go EVE’RWHARE together because… well, I am her primary caretaker and I don’t want to stay home all the damn time. My daughter is also one of those babies that makes people squee because, and I quote, “Oh mer gawd, her cheeeeeeeks!” and “Wouldya lewk at those eyelashes!” So I get a lot of strangers approaching me–which as an introvert is my nightmare–and making all sorts of “I just want to eat her face” comments.

I mean, I want to eat her face too. It’s that kind of face. But she’s MY baby. Only I get to eat her face. Back off, zombies.

The problem is that she is not always easily gendered based on cultural norms because… and this is going to absolutely shock you to the point where you’ll want to comment on what a terrible mother I am and if you knew my address, you’d send the Mommy Police right to my door:

She has a blue and white blanket. GASP! WHAT?! HOW DARE YOU! THEY SHOULD CASTRATE YOU, EDA, FOR CONFUSING EVERYONE SO MUCH.

Ok, first of all, calm yer tats, because I’m done having babies. Castration seems like an expense and I’m not paying for it so if you really feel like it should happen, fork over some dough. But be warned, I wasn’t planning on having any more anyway so you might be wasting your video game money.

Secondly, it’s a blanket. It’s a hand-me-down from my son, just like the blue and white striped bucket hat she refuses to wear for more than three seconds (which is why I refuse to buy her a new hat). And she doesn’t always wear pink, which, I know, is very confusing for the old folk out there who desperately need that specific gender marker to make sense of their world.

But you know what? Even when she does wear pink–true story here–even when she’s wearing a freaking tutu and a shirt that says, “Daddy’s Princess”, people still get caught up on the blanket… which is only covering her feet half the time because she kicks it off. Even with an abundance of culturally appropriate signals as to her gender, people will still say “he” and when I very gently answer, “Yeah, she’s got a tooth coming in so she’s a little cranky,” they will fall all over themselves to correct their HORRRRRRIBLE mistake, blaming the blanket–that goddamn penis-signifying blanket–for mis-gendering her.

And I’m like, “It’s really not that big a deal.” But they cry and they shake and they run to the shower to wash off the humiliation.

Are we not yet at the point where a baby’s genitals don’t matter to strangers? Can we get there, please? And, this one’s just for me, can we maybe not approach adorable babies like they’re public property and force their reluctant mothers into conversations?

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The gender is…. none of your business, stranger in Target. Please let me browse the coffee aisle in peace!

 

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Make Them Eat Cake

Here’s an #authorconfession for you: I often look up the exact meaning of words to see if they’re specific to the thought I’m trying to convey. When I use the word “obtuse”, I mean a specific kind of dumb (not sensitive or observant, dull, slow, dim). I don’t like to be inaccurate in my word usage.

But that’s my problem. And I try not to hold other people to that standard.

I do, however, become grouchy (irritable and bad tempered) when people use the wrong word (my husband calls shower curtains “tents”). And I’ve been known to become indignant (strong displeasure at something considered unjust, offensive, insulting) when people use the OPPOSITE word.

My in-laws often use the opposite word. They describe their dog yanking forward on the leash as “pushing”. And this one makes me so angry: they use the word “make” when they mean “let”.

My mother-in-law once told me she was going to “make” my child eat everything she cooks. I made sure that was a word whoops rather than a threat, of course. Still, not what one wants to hear before dropping one’s infant off at Grandma’s house.

I mean, of all the ways in-laws can poop on the party of your life, this isn’t the worst. It’s just the one I’m thinking about today.

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Make them eat cake.

TV Will Now Actively Rot Your Brain

My household recently switched from regular old cable I only wished I had when I was a kid to some kind of streaming service I do not totally understand as an adult and we saved ourselves a good $70 a month. Ok, so we can’t watch Riverdale live and we can’t “DVR” our shows anymore but it’s a good cheap service with “apps” and like, an on-demand type thing so we still get all our shows.

And then May happened and a good number of our shows got cancelled.

So… we clearly made the right choice because, I mean, if our Live TV options are a bunch of low brow sitcoms and derivative police procedurals, then why pay $70 more per month when we can just wait one day to watch Riverdale?

Honestly, my kids’ bedtime routines take so freaking long we don’t end up watching ANY of our shows until a week later anyway.

With that, I bid adieu to the latest casualty on my list of things to watch when we get around to it:

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In a world where Last Man Standing survives and Brooklyn 99 has to go shopping for a new network, there is no place for smart people saving the world. Let’s bitch about women and their nail polish and periods instead. 

 

 

 

Cheese and Rice!

I’m having trouble confronting the reality of Americans being super dumb again.

How does one confuse The Last Man on Earth with Last Man Standing?

Last Man Standing is a derivative situational comedy that uses sexist stereotypes as low brow entertainment.

The Last Man on Earth is freaking genius sauce, ok? Ah durrr!

For real, something truly original and hysterical and thought-provoking and amazing could be cancelled because some total turds can’t tell the difference?

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