This blog is written by me and my badass newborn daughter. She said the title should reflect what we were writing about. I asked her what that would be and she said lots of stuff: books, movies, Miranda July, Quebec's 1978 budget, food, poopy diapers, Broderick Crawford, the Lakers, iambic pentameter, jackalopes, 17th century Japanese swords, bouncy chairs, and more. That's a lot of stuff, I said. She agreed, then added she was pretty sure she would NOT blog about snakes. So, there ya go.
Obviously, it’s been a few weeks since the last blog entry.This was due to the Kid’s entrenched negotiations (solely there as an impartial consultant!) during the whole debt crisis business.She got back last week and worked feverishly on a new blog entry.Alas, as I refuse for her to use this blog as a venue for her political discourse, we have had quite the heated back-and-forth regarding that entry.Since, she still depends on me for clean diapers, I won.(For now anyway…)
Instead, she has agreed (whole-heartedly) to give a BADASS shout-out to Mr. Anthony Hemingway, who directed a movie called “Red Tails,” which is about the famed Tuskegee Airmen of World War II (although, the youngster doesn’t understand why there isn’t a Tuskegee AirWOMEN movie…).Anthony was hand-picked by the producer, one George Lucas, to direct this film.And most importantly, Anthony has been a friend of Mommy and Daddy guy for a long time.In fact, if it weren’t for him, Mommy and Daddy guy wouldn’t have met.So, yeah, the Kid is more than OK as this being her back-up blog entry. PEACE OUT!!!!
This one’s been brewing in the tyke’s brainpan for a few weeks now, and she would have gotten to writing/posting it sooner, but some unbelievably important and lengthy naps reared their ugly heads, causing gargantuan delays. In her short, but highly productive life, the Kid has learned to embrace the commercialism of America with gusto (we were forced to take away all of her credit cards and ban her from watching QVC). But, there have been several “baby” items that have come our way over the past seven weeks that we thought should be discussed. The Kid was either gifted these items or we bought them for her ourselves (and in one case, the baby made the purchase). These are actual things she uses on a daily basis. May you who are future parents or current parents find this useful. May you who have no kids find this unbelievably insightful and useful. For our Amish readers… sorry, guys, you’re SOL (but still lovin’ the orange triangles! Keep it real Pennsylvania Dutch, keep it real…).
1. The Nuk Bottle Warmer - Egads, we cannot stress the usefulness of this enough. At first we were forced to warm the bottles in a pan of boiling water, which could often take waaaaaaay too long for lil Miss. But the Nuk BW fancy-pants steam technology (Steam! Modern science, what will they invent next????) heats her bottles in 90 seconds. Also excellent for Mommy and Daddy’s daily hot toddies and pore cleansing ritual.
2. Let’s face it, few things can cause more discomfort and pain than a lullaby; but, they are a necessary evil. Without them, few babies will be bored to sleep, and heaven knows how important it is to get these precious darlings as much shut-eye as possible. For parents, it’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t proposition. On the one hand, if you don’t play a lullaby the kid may not sleep and you’ll want to kill yourself. On the other hand, if you have to listen to “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” again you WILL kill yourself. Wouldn’t it be great if there were a lullaby album that turned some of your favorite seminal rock music into a peaceful ditty for your offspring???? Well, what song says “peaceful ditty” more aptly than U2’s “Sunday Bloody Sunday?” Yes, now with the album “Rockabye Baby! Lullaby Renditions of U2”, you can put the baby to sleep all the while singing “how long must we sing this song?” but have it mean something completely different than what you would normally mean while listening to a lullaby.
Another one of Dad guy's piss-poor swaddling jobs...
3. Prior to becoming a father, I was ignorant of the art of swaddling. Basically, swaddling is like putting your baby in a straightjacket. It’s an ancient practice and by Jove, me and the Missus would be lost without it. Oh, you uneducated non-parent types may think, “How awful, you straightjacket your baby!” Yeah, well let me tell ya something, they straightjacket the insane and if you’ve never seen an overly stimulated infant who is looooong overdue for his/her nap, then you’ve never seen an insane person. We use the Bambino Land Muslin Organic blankets for our swaddling. They’re lightweight, and perfect for the summer months. I tell you this because I know you were sitting on the edge of your seats wondering.
4. The Jeep Universal Car Seat Carrier is da bomb! (Note: the Kid would like to point out just how white her dad is and apologize for it.) This thing weighs like 2 ounces, pops open and closed at the touch of a button and, most importantly NO ASSEMBLY REQUIRED! This stroller is perfect for younger babies. You take your car seat and strap it onto the Jeep frame and Bam! you’re ready to go. Universal for just about any car seat. WARNING: Like with any stroller, don’t let the baby take control of the wheel. The Kid is a bit of a daredevil and a lead foot. Any chance she gets, she’ll pop a wheelie and do donuts to impress the older kids at the park Also, if your baby is prone to road rage (she must’ve gotten THAT from her mother…), you may want to consider swaddling while in the car seat.
5. Next, I was going to discuss the baby monitor she received as a gift from her great-aunt Kitty; but, unfortunately, there’s a bit of a legal issue on this one. Seems the first time we used the monitor the Kid immediately cried foul regarding her right to privacy and immediately called the ACLU. Pending a hearing, we are advised by our attorneys (Dewey, Cheatum and Feldstein – see what I did there?) not to make any further comments at this time.
6. The Kid poops a lot. She needs diapers. We prefer the Seventh Generation chlorine free ones. We’re also transitioning to the G-Diaper cloth diaper system (Yeah, cloth. Every day in the US alone, forty-two gazillion disposable diapers end up in land-fills. Look it up. Save the planet! ) Poop. Diapers. Let’s just be adults and move on.
7. Not sure how to broach this next item. I guess, I’ll take the band-aid approach and just pull quickly: the Kid has uranium. “Ha Ha Ha! Oh, that’s rich, Daddy! You’re seven-week-old daughter has uranium. Ha ha. Ha. Ha.” Yeah… so one more time, let me be clear: MY DAUGHTER HAS URANIUM!!! I could send you to the Amazon.com link to the left and for $39.95 you’ll find a joke can labeled “uranium,” but that would merely continue in misleading you on this point. Instead click on the link below. I’ll wait for you here. (But, let me warn you, you may need item number 6 after seeing what you’re about to see…)
THEY SELL URANIUM!!!! THEY SELL RADIOACTIVE ORE!!! THEY SELL RADIOACTIVE ISOTOPES!!! THEY SELL MISC NUCLEAR ITEMS!!!(Not that there’s anything wrong with that… except for everything that’s wrong with that.) I’d rather not discuss what my daughter intends to do with her uranium, or how, as a minor, she masterminded her plan to purchase it. Let me just say, she’s young and impressionable, a big fan of the movie The Mouse That Roared, and a bit of a genius (I’m just hoping that she uses her genius for good, not evil. But, aren’t we all hoping that? I believe we are. I believe we are…). And, why, you may ask, have I not taken it away from her? Well, let me tell you why; it’s because she is a genius who has URANIUM. Besides, frankly, she’s much more capable of handling the stuff than I.
8.Pain free tweezers. Best to let the video do the talking.
I’ll be honest, I’m not really sure what she’s using these for.
9. Ah, there’s nothing like the soothing, relaxing comfort of a bouncy chair. The Kid prefers the Bright Star Ingenuity Automatic Bouncer. It’s what all the trendy newborns are bouncing in these days. Sure, it doesn’t have the fine Corinthian leather, or dual hydraulic shocks; and, maybe it lacks the contours and precision design of some of your finer German made bouncy seats. But, we’re Americans, damn it, which means we want the finest plastic and questionably chemically treated poly-fibers that the Chinese can provide us. But, she really does like it.
but she can’t wait! (Perhaps some of our Catholic readers may find creative uses for this in certain situations outside of airports…)
OK, true believers, that wraps up this edition of Not About Snakes. We’ll be back next week when we will most definitely not talk about snakes. As always, you can follow the Kid on Twitter (see the top left of the page) and also, type in your email (also top left) to get notifications when the blog is updated. Don’t be afraid to leave comments below (however, do be afraid of the Kid’s wrath if you say something disparaging – SHE HAS URANIUM PEOPLE, don’t piss her off!)
My wife and I are often woken around 3:30AM by our beautiful daughter (wet diaper, ready for the 4AM feeding a little early, wanting to discuss the meaning of life, etc.), but last night was the first time she chose the method of grabbing me by my shirt, pulling my face up to hers and screaming, "You! Computer! NOW!"
(You may ask yourself, "What is a six-week-old baby doing on the computer at that time of night?" Well, I'm very happy you're asking yourself and not me, because I sure as hell don't have an answer for you.)
We rushed to the laptop. "I crapped my pants when I saw this," said the Kid. I pointed out that crapping her pants was kind of her norm. She wasn't amused. The Kid was on one of her favorite sites www.badassdigest.com (natch!) and she showed me something called "Solid Potato Salad" that... well... honestly, I crapped my pants, too...
"You never told me that things like this existed," said my daughter. "I didn't know myself," I replied. "You're very much a disappointment to me," said she. "Thanks," said I. "Seriously, what the heck have you done with all your time on this planet?" she asked. "Hey, who showed you Soderbergh's Schizopolis?" I rejoined. "OK, I'll give you that, but you can't keep using the same trump card over and over," she said. "It's 3:30 in the morning and I'm not going to argue with you about how cool I am. You and I both know that no other dad gave their newborn a signed copy of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy for their one month birthday," I said. "Dude," said the Kid, "It was signed by you..."
On that note...
Be patient, it's about 45 seconds in that you'll wish you'd been sitting on the john when you hit play. Enjoy!
Just a quick lil sumn sumn for you today. Here are the newest badass chicks the Kid is interested in:
Garfunkel and Oates
Seems the Kid thinks smart, funny gals are badass (and she's probably correct there). We have to post a DISCLAIMER. The Kid says her Nana shouldn't watch this, nor should any of her over 40 family members who are easily offended. There are bad words in this video (don't worry she's five-weeks-old people, I've taught her only three or four bad words so far -- most of this stuff goes over her head, but she just can't resist anyone who is able to make the pop cultural reference swing from Norman Mailer to Tim the Toolman Taylor). "This Party Just Took a Turn for the Douche"
One other thing, the Kid is still hell-bent to get a unicorn. If anyone knows where we can procure one, please let us know by comment below, or email. (She may settle for a trained Neanderthal, so hit us up if anyone spots one of those on Ebay, too!)
“Cry – just CRY! And let slip Mommy and Daddy’s tenuous grip on sanity…”
The Kid
I’m writing this prologue, without having seen the body of the text. It will be as much a surprise to me as it will be to you on first reading. The older she gets, the more the Kid wants to flex her self-sufficient muscles. That being said, she wants to write this week’s blog all by her lonesome. Truth be told – so that I wouldn’t “interfere” with her journalistic/literary prowess – she hired a nice person named Margaret from a local temp agency to do the typing. (There’s still some disagreement over who is paying Margaret for her secretarial services… I argue that it most definitely should not be me since I’m more than happy to do the typing. My daughter says I can’t help but to give my own editorial opinions which creates a bastardized version of her original intent and work, which forces her to hire out. By her logic, since I can’t control myself, I am at duty for payment. I think her argument is weak, and besides, this is supposed to be a joint effort). Anyway, let’s see what she has to say.
Paparazzi photo taken of the Author circa 2011
“Hello. I would like to thank you for your continuing readership. And, if you’re new to this blog: WELCOME! Now, if you’d be so kind, I would love it if all of you would take a hike. Seriously, stop reading now. You’re still reading. This isn’t a cutesy way for me to get you to continue reading, I really, REALLY want you to stop reading. This week’s blog isn’t for you, it’s for my people – the babies. If you HAVE a baby at home, then I ask you kindly to please set him/her by the computer, walk away for 5-10 minutes – depending on your infant’s adeptness at reading – and go have a smoke or a beer or a good weep or whatever it is you giant people do when we’re asleep and/or not around.
OK… here we go. Hello, my brethren and sisthren! I am here to help and guide you through the first weeks of your journey here on mother earth. Some of you have already made the trip into this world, while others of you who are reading this are still in vivo. (If you are wondering how a baby in the womb could read this blog, then you are obviously a giant person {who defied my request to cease reading} and NOT a baby! The babies don’t need such simple things explained to them…)
The giant people have countless books, written by self-proclaimed “authorities on the subject” in regards to child rearing. Just look to the left for crying out loud! We, the infants, have no such thing to map our way. I intend to rectify this. May these simple suggestions and insights assist you in what will be at times a frightening yet exciting adventure. I wish I had had a primer like this before I’d come into the world, it would have helped me start this blog while still in the womb, instead of waiting until I exited. Don’t fret if some of this seems daunting (and I beg of you, do not feel inferior to me because I can read, write and solve complex philosophical problems. The simple truth is, you are inferior to me. But, I’m sure you’ll find those whom you are superior to – most likely your parents, aka the giant people. These things happen. Move on.)
Your giant people are going to be very, very pleased to see you once you arrive. They will love you and have great aspirations in regards to who and what you will become. In turn, with time, you too will probably love and appreciate them. First things first, though. From birth until – well you should decide how long “until” is – you must, MUST pulverize their will, break them with impunity and utterly demolish their souls. To paraphrase a great sage, “Crush your enemies – See them driven before you, and hear the lamentation of their women!” Harsh you may say? Life is harsh, kiddo, you’d best decide now on which side of the ledger you want your name printed!
So, how does one do this? Simple, my friends. You have limited weapons at your disposal, but they are powerful ones. Initially, when you enter into life, you will scream and cry. You’ll do this for no apparent reason; although, the giant people will say it has to do with the shock of leaving the womb’s comfort. Bullpocky! You’re doing it because it’s fun – a real rush, daddi-o! And, man, oh man the giants are going to love that first cry, because they’re gonna think that means you’re healthy. Well, that “healthy” cry is your first, best and most powerful weapon. It will only be a matter of days before that cry has changed how they think. It will change how they live their lives. It may even change their faith in the existence of a higher power; because, you are going to bludgeon them with that cry.
If they’ve done their due diligence and read a parenting book or books, they’re going to think they have a handle on why you are crying. Let them think just that – at first. Give them a glimmer of hope that they are competent parents. And then, my friends, obliterate them.
What they will not understand is that you are crying for absolutely no other reason than to gain the upper hand. You can sleep 24 hours straight, no problem, but DON’T. Sleep erratically and when you’re not sleeping SCREAM. They’ll feed you. Great, thanks. SCREAM. Burp you, holy crap that felt great. SCREAM. Clean diaper. Suh-weeeet. SCREAM. Give them a little cute smile, that’ll catch them off guard, they’ll run for the camera and then, yup… SCREAM. Scream at night (especially at night), scream during the day. Oh, and cry and scream in the grocery store or any other public setting.
The giant people will consult their books, their friends, doctors, websites, family, Oprah (Oprah’s a whole other story…) to try and figure out what they’re doing wrong. And, there’s the key. They’re not doing anything wrong or right, it’s just that you have an agenda – to break their will, to bend them to do your bidding. And why would you do this? Because, it’s FUN! It really, really is. Just wait, you’ll see.
And, if like me, you have grandparents who live out of town, then here’s something else you should do. Find out when the grandparents are coming, and the week before, really, and I mean, really pour it on thick. Let your cries and screams become epic, I mean real horrorshow, bloody murder, hot poker up the tush kinda wails. Your parents will then warn their parents that you aren’t all sugar and spice and that they should just be prepared that their grandchild is a “spirited” or “fussy” or “evil” baby. And then, oh this is good, this is RICH, then when the grandparents arrive, do a complete 180. Become the embodiment of perfection. Sleep when you’re supposed to, eat, burp, everything right on schedule. Keep the poops to a minimum and let the charm drip like honey. You’re going to become the sweetest little Gerber baby anyone has ever seen. Then, THEN, your grandparents will CONTINUALLY tell your parents that they don’t know what they were talking about and that you are “a perfect little angel.” BAM! Beautiful.
Definition: Angel...
Definition: Illustrating the point...
(of course who wouldn't scream with
that ridiculous thing on their head?)
Small caveat, however, if your parents are even half-way savvy, they may begin to suspect that you’re playing them. I suggest keeping up the good Samaritan routine for at least a week after the grandparents leave. This will make your parents think that you were perhaps having a growth spurt or some such nonsense and that you’re now moving on to the next phase of your development. It’s a load of hogwash. You’re just setting the next trap and this trap is made out of more CRIES AND SCREAMS.
And, really, that’s it. It may seem senseless to you now; but, I assure you it’s great sport and it’ll give your parents good stories to tell when you’re an adult.
OK, a few other things you’ll need to know:
“The Chapelle Show” is the bomb. Watch it as soon as you get home from the hospital.
Don’t let them let you sleep on your stomach.
Don’t drink and drive.
If your daddy dude doesn’t know the joke about the Japanese atheist, you and giant mommy person may need to rethink keeping him, because that’s a great joke and you don’t want to miss out.
Don’t spit out the pacifier too many times, because they may stop giving it to you and you don’t want that to happen. That pacifier? Brother, let me tell you, that puppy’s Nirvana…
No matter how many times they try and give it to you, don’t eat steak for at least twelve months.
The Beatles are timeless.
Plastics.
Do not waste your time learning to speak Sumerian.
And last, but not least, never, NEVER settle for second best!
Until next time, “Make mine Marvel!”
Konichiwa, b#*%!^s!!!!
(sigh) Loveable little dickens ain’t she? Me and the wife are really beginning to question whether starting this blog was a good idea…
Although, the topic of child-rearing will be part of this blog, it won't be the only thing addressed. Hopefully, me and the kid will have a little something for everyone so that those of you without children won't get bored or feel alienated. That being said, I'd like to discuss... literature and child rearing (see what I did there?)
The kid (really should consider capitalizing the "K") has been working on this blog for over a week now. Literature and fine South American coffee are staples of her life. She believes that the written word is a crucial part of each child's development. In her own words:
"You may question the usefulness of reading books to a kid that's only a month old; but, that means either you don't have a kid, or you're a lazy, horrible, horrible parent who probably can barely live with themselves. Just sayin' is all...
Goodnight Moon was written, I have no doubt by a witch doctor. I say this because if anyone has ever seen how a child reacts to this simplistic, boring as all get-out book, they would know without a shadow of a doubt that some sort of voodoo is at work here. If you've never had the opportunity to read this book, let me give a brief description: bunny in pajamas, kittens, rodent, mush, mittens, moon. That pretty much sums everything up. Yet... the first time the giant people read this to me -- I was mesmerized*. (Ya know how the giant people get when they come home from the hospital with a baby. They get all excited and can't wait to read his/her first book -- it's ever so mind-bogglingly cutesy.) I'm not kidding. I could not pull my yet-to-focus-because-I-was-only-four-days-old-eyes away from this weird little scripture. Voodoo...!"
As I'm typing this (she dictates to me -- oh, the Kid can type, but she's lazy), she's sitting on my lap and shaking her head in the affirmative (of course it could merely be that she hasn't quite developed full neck muscle strength). This book haunts her, she says, "It's evil, but I love it. I imagine if I had any idea what narcotics were, then I would compare Goodnight Moon to that. Also, don't listen to this Daddy guy about my neck muscles. He's full of it. I was holding my head up in the hospital. The giant person we call Mom has pictures of me holding my bottle by myself on day three. I rolled onto my side last week -- also by myself. I'm practically the model for the next link of human evolution. I'm a veritable marvel of nature. I'm a badass." (More to come on badassery a little later.)
The next tome on her reading list is a little peace of intrigue by the good doctor hisself, Mr. Theodore Geisel. The Kid writes (dictates!)
"Oh, The Thinks You Can Think! is typical Seuss. At least, that's what I'm told, since it's the only Dr. Seuss book I have (hint, hint) I can't really comment on it's typicalness (hint, hint). Anyway, the sentences are short and easy to read, the rhymes catchy. The art is a bit strange. In my limited experience, I've not quite seen houses, landscapes and "people" that look anything like what's in this book. But as the Dad guy points out, I shouldn't look at things too literally, as this book is about imagination and it's supposed to teach me to use mine. Whatever. I think this Seuss guy was on those narcotics mentioned above. And the Dad guy just said that, in fact, I may like the book more if I were a stoner. (Will someone please check this dude's credentials. I mean is someone who makes a stoner reference around his newborn equipped to be a father? Hello! Anybody??? And what is a stoner anyway? Where's Mom?) I do like the use of the word 'Schlopp' in this book. That's a funny word. It kinda sounds like what my butt does when I poop. Funny, funny word..."
Now, onto Harry the Dirty Dog.
"This book bores me. Drives me crazy every time they try and read it to me. You'd think they'd get the hint by the way I either fall asleep or scream like a banshee the second they open it; but, they seem intent to make me like it. Whatever! I like what I like is all I'm saying. It's the story of a dog who is white and he hates taking baths, so he steals the brush (see, aren't you bored with this crap already, too?), burying it in the backyard. Then he does all this doggy Ferris Bueller stuff and ends up getting so dirty that his owners can't recognize him. They want nothing to do with him. It reeks of a racial subtext that I wonder if the author is even aware of. Sure is plain to my four-week-old mind. But, I digress. In the end good 'ol Harry unearths the brush, gets a bath and lives happily ever after. YAWN and YAAAAWWWWN. Next!"
"Ah, here we go, the next two reviews are on books sent to me by some character calling himself "Uncle John." No idea who this guy is, but he's got good taste in literature. First up, In The Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak, who is most famous for Where the Wild Things Are (Yet another book I don't own. Ahem...). This book caused a little bit of consternation in our household the first time Dad guy read it. Seems our plucky hero, Mickey is a bit of a nudist. By the fifth drawing, ol' Maurice has got our boy Full Monty. WELL, you can imagine how that opened up Dad guy's eyes! But, we had a good talk and a few things were explained regarding the difference between little girl parts and little boy parts. Dad guy handled it all pretty well, I must say, and I think he's probably better off now that I've explained these differences to him. On with the story! So, this Mickey guy is in some sort of dream where he meets a bunch of giant bakers. The Mickster is pretty bossy and likes to yell a lot (I REALLY admire him for that, by the way) and before you know it he's rolling around nekkid in the cake batter. Talk about unsanitary. He then fashions an airplane out of the batter and begins terrorizing the giant bakers. Wasn't really sure during my first reading (at age 3 weeks) what this book was supposed to be about. But now, rereading it as an older 4-week-old it's all so much clearer. Simply put, this book is about ANARCHY!!!!! There's something I can sink my gums into. I'm penciling on my Guy Fowlkes mustache as we speak. Attica! Attica! Attica!"
(Me and the Missus won't be reading In The Night Kitchento our lil dearest anymore.) OK, onto the next book on her reading list, Harold And The Purple Crayon.
"Harold And The Purple Crayon is the autobiographical tale of renowned street artist Banksy's early life. Harold, as Banksy refers to himself here, has a purple crayon and he likes to draw on anything, anytime, anywhere. That's pretty much it. I was hoping for a bit more insight into what makes Banksy Banksy, but as usual, he keeps his inner self shrouded in mystery. This book may only be recommendable to diehard Banksy fans."
Banksy why, WHY must you be so coy and aloof???
And lastly on the Little Miss reading list:
"Norman Mailer's An American Dream. The grand master of masculine writing has often been labeled misogynistic and this book, published in 1965, in particular was called out for its treatment of women, most notably by Kate Millet in her classic feminist text Sexual Politics. While neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Millet, I, as a young woman, found the book to be an honest commentary about a man, protagonist Stephen Rojack, who is horribly flawed and a prisoner of his own pseudo-masculine conditioning. Lacking the insight that might have been provided by modern therapy, Rojack is a runaway train who cannot -- must not -- cease the maddening trek in which he is on. I found this decorated war-hero, former congressman and sensationalist talk-show host kin to the great subjects of Greek tragedy. Fate has cast his lot and he cannot escape his doom, when in an alcoholic rage, Rojack murders his estranged high-society wife, makes it look like a suicide and descends into a lurid underworld of Manhattan jazz clubs, bars and Mafia intrigue. Rojack's violence gives him a feeling of liberation, constantly maintaining his innocence no matter how intense the scrutiny or severe the consequences. Oh, and he thinks the moon is talking to him (who wouldn't want to read about a guy who thinks the moon is talking to him???). Mom isn't too keen about me reading such violent, sexually charged material; but, then I say, she shouldn't have helped teach me to read!"
That wraps up this segment. If you, too, want your child to be able to read at the level of our child, then I suggest you check out "YOUR BABY CAN READ." (This program may also be useful for the slower-reading adults out there, too.) It's right there, to your left. No. Your other left.
One more thing before we go...
BADASS CHICKS THE BABY ADMIRES
The Kid considers herself a bit of a badass (as you probably read in the masthead at the top of the blog) and is studying badass chicks in history, literature, film and the local Babys-R-Us. Today, she would like to share with you, her dear readership, the badass chick she is digging on the most today.
BADASS CHICK OF THE DAY: Meiko Kaji as Matsu, aka Sasori (Scorpion!) in the 1970s Japanese"Female Convict Scorpion" series of movies. (The Kid is dying to get her hands on that long black coat and oversized hat and wreak some daycare havoc.) You really want to witness Japanese 70s exploitation badassery... then check out these flicks from Amazon. Not for everyone, only for badasses and baby badasses.
Peace out!
P.S. Don't forget you can follow this blog and get updates sent to your email by typing in your email address at the top of this page. Also, check out the archives in case you missed or want to revisit any of the Kid's awesomeness.
The kid turns one-month-old in three days. A lot has happened in her brief sojourn here on Terra: gay marriage in New York (somehow, she believes her birth had something to do with moving this along -- really, she's got a healthy ego, that one), Boston Bruins win the Stanley Cup, North Dakota is now the newest Great Lake (she didn't find the humor in my saying what with all the wet diapers, she probably did have something to do with moving that along...), first announcement of the withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan, the newest Pirates of the Caribbean movie, Pirates of the Caribbean, Collecting a Paycheck moved into the top 10 of highest grossing films ever, the whole Anthony Weiner thing (the kid was fascinated with that -- it was her first major news story) and well, I'm sure some other things have happened, but who the hell can remember what they are.
So, I asked her what she wanted her almost her birthday blog to be about? Books and literature? She's been working on a literary blog entry since last week, so I thought that might be what today's post would be. But, she said no that it wasn't quite up to her standards yet, and she would wait til later in the week to post that. What she really wanted to write about -- in fact, what she felt was imperative that she write about -- was gas.
I'm not at all surprised that this has come up in the blog, as it's been pretty much the main topic of conversation in our house for a couple of weeks now. It all started when we had an unforeseen and sudden need to change her formula.* The formula she'd been on had been working really well, but the new one...
Ouch.
Things got so bad with the gas-causing properties of this new formula that at one point I had the uneasy, sneaking
suspicion that we had adopted not a human baby, but a shaved howler monkey. Either that or Charles Manson has got some sort of Chucky thing going on with our daughter. Results should be back next week...
After one fateful, fitful night of constant screaming (me and the kid) due to her inability to pass gas -- one in which I'd done all the text book suggestions: pat her on the back, rub her belly, change her position, gently twist her at the waist, call in an exorcist -- it became apparent that we were going to have to do whatever it took to get her back on the original formula.
*NOTE: We started her on Organic Similac
(really people you need to read how horrible the ingredients in baby formulas can be. I'm just sayin'.) which had been provided to us unexpectedly by a Similac rep whom we met at the pediatrician's office prior to the kid's birth. The rep kindly gave us two cases and then promised more, since the organic formula can be hard to find in stores. We were thankful. The kid seemed to take to the formula immediately and all was well. Except that promise of more formula (the repeated promise, as in, I'm getting it to you today -- which was falsely promised SEVERAL times) fell flat and we were in the lurch to find a back-up. And, on a serious note, I'm not a big fan of baby formula in general. Google the subject sometime and see for yourself how bad baby formula can be, or read the hubpage article to the left about the dangers of Soy in baby formula OR visit mercola.com and investigate the subject. However, a baby's gots to eat!
Fortunately, my wife found some Organic Similac in a neighboring town, so we were able to avert a disaster of near epic proportions (those who successfully email in the number of cliches in each post will receive absolutely nothing). So, I know, none of this is particularly interesting and/or entertaining, but here's where things get good! You see -- wait a sec.
Oh, sorry. I've run out of time. I have to go. Well, needless to say, this story would've been extremely funny (a real knee-slapper) with lots of great descriptive phrasings, but as it would take another 1000 words or so to do it justice, it's best if we just leave it for another time.
