Raising a Girl
This is an incredible article.
“How many men do you know are going to walk into store parking lots from now on wondering whether they’ll be snatched and their lifeless body left in the woods? Mugged, maybe. Guys worry about that. But not grabbed and disposed of like garbage. That only happens to men in a hellhole like Baghdad. Whereas, every woman I know lives each day as if what happened to Kelsey Smith could happen to her. It’s terrorism on a universal scale.”
I want to do this.
This is so funny. If only we could actually fight wars with pillows, the world would be a better place. And there would be less birds, because we’d be harvesting feathers for weapons. And seriously, does anyone really like birds. I could definitely do without the crap on my car, and for world peace, it’s worth the sacrifice.
Randomness
In case anyone is still reading this site, we are still attempting to make some major changes. That, combined with my new FULL TIME JOB plus Lucy plus Trent plus gin equals no posting on this site. Sorry. I probably should write something about the horrible thing that happened on Monday, but I really have no words. There is evil in the world, and, apparently, sometimes evil cannot be stopped. My prayers are with everyone affected, and hopefully, someday, somehow, we can get something positive out of this horrible event. Sometimes I just can’t understand people.
But I can understand Steve Martin. Because he is funny. And weirdly hot (I know, totally gross). And reminds me of my dad (again, I know I said he was hot and now I’m saying he reminds me of my dad…Freud would have a field day with that one!). And did I mention funny?
A selection:
Several years ago, In California, I ate my first clam and said it tasted “like a gonad dipped in motor oil.” I would like to apologize to Bob ‘n’ Betty’s Clam Fiesta, and especially to Bob, who I found out later had only one testicle. I would like to apologize to the waitress, June, and her affiliates, and to the DePaul family dog, who suffered the contents of my nauseated stomach.
Once, in Hawaii, I had sex with a hundred-and-two-year-old male turtle. It is hard to argue that it was consensual. I would like to apologize to the turtle, his family, the Kahala Hilton Hotel, and the hundred or so diners who were eating at the Hilton’s outdoor café. I would also like to apologize to my loyal wife Karen, who had to endure the subsequent news item in the “Also Noted” section of the Santa Barbara Women’s Club Weekly.
Read more here.
A Conversation at the Grownup Table, as Imagined at the Kids’ Table
Taken from this article at the New Yorker online…
MOM: Pass the wine, please. I want to become crazy.
DAD: O.K.
GRANDMOTHER: Did you see the politics? It made me angry.
DAD: Me, too. When it was over, I had sex.
UNCLE: I’m having sex right now.
DAD: We all are.
MOM: Let’s talk about which kid I like the best.
DAD: (laughing) You know, but you won’t tell.
MOM: If they ask me again, I might tell.
FRIEND FROM WORK: Hey, guess what! My voice is pretty loud!
DAD: (laughing) There are actual monsters in the world, but when my kids ask I pretend like there aren’t.
MOM: I’m angry! I’m angry all of a sudden!
DAD: I’m angry, too! We’re angry at each other!
MOM: Now everything is fine.
DAD: We just saw the PG-13 movie. It was so good.
MOM: There was a big sex.
FRIEND FROM WORK: I am the loudest! I am the loudest!
(Everybody laughs.)
MOM: I had a lot of wine, and now I’m crazy!
GRANDFATHER: Hey, do you guys know what God looks like?
ALL: Yes.
GRANDFATHER: Don’t tell the kids.
