Yesterday while Aaron and I were at OCSC I typed this on my screen:
THINGS THAT ARE BOTHERING ME TODAY
And then I ran out of battery. So here it is, my list of THINGS THAT (actually) BOTHER(ed) ME (yesterday):
Mommies-to-be: Get over yourself goddammit. Personal fertility problems aside, it is REALLY not that impressive that you managed to get knocked up. I do not care. I am not jealous. Stop coming up to the register at Carrburritos and fondling your pregnancy with splayed palms for fifteen seconds before you order salsa. Also. I am the burrito girl. I swear I don’t want to know how long you and your husband have been trying to conceive. Why do you people keep me in the know about this? Oh, oh yeah, that reminds me:
Public breastfeeding: Go. Fuck. Yourself. Look. I know your ugly little baby has to eat, but this does not give you license to whip your bloated tit out in the middle of a restaurant and declare it feeding time with no regard for discretion. Ever heard of “a blanket?” No? What about “the corner of the room?” No? See, it’s sort of like farting in public. It must be done sooner or later, but maybe you walk over there, away from people enjoying their quesadillas? Yes. I know I just likened the miracle of birth to a bad bout of flatulence, and I’m not sorry.
I know it’s legal. I know it’s natural. I know it’s the Patriarchal Culture of Repression and Psuedo-Porno BlahBlahBlah that causes me to be uncomfortable with a dumpy chick’s exposed boobie. I just don’t see, in the case of last night’s specimen, why a breastfeeding mother would need to weave in between all the (occupied) tables in the tiny little restaurant, pacing back and forth while her kid ate. She was parading around, daring people to comment. So I did.
“Just take a seat next to the ambulatory breastfeeder, wherever she may be ” I told one customer, loudly. We’ll bring your food out to you, since you are hungry. Feel free to pick up your burrito and gallivant around the goddamn restaurant for digestive aid purposes.
Last week a woman brought her five-year-old in for lunch. The little girl climbed up on a barstool and we had a conversation about the weather and her favorite music. I was enjoying myself because I don’t usually engage in intelligent discussions with toddlers. When I rang the woman up I noticed she only got one meal and I was surprised to see that she ate the entire thing without offering any to her daughter. You see where this is going?
She actually looked at her daughter and said, “Time to eat, Sweetie!” and whipped her FUCKING titty out, WHIPPEDITOUT and offered it to the girl. Look. The kid starts sucking on the teat, right, and she has to prop the rest of her FIVE YEAR OLD body up with part of the table, her legs draped over an empty chair. I can see this woman’s nipple. The kid is bad at breastfeeding. I can’t help but think she should have had enough practice by now.
This is dangerously close to molestation as far as I am concerned. That being said, of course you can deem it feeding time for your brat while you have a tostada in front of you. Just don’t flaunt it, okay? As a childless spinster, I’m not open-minded enough to accept your areola into my life at this time.
Everyone is corrupt.
She sucked too bad at the flute to win the beauty contest.
It’s probably not her kid.
He’s friends with terrorists.
He’ll probably drop dead/go senile during his term.
He only worked X-amount of days in the Senate.
He’s a loser.
She can see Russia from her house.
Please. It’s the lesser of two evils, as they say. YES, I am registered to vote. Will I vote? I DON’T KNOW YET, what’s Nader up to? Why do people keep asking me who I’m voting for? I feel like I should answer that question, “Catholic, 36C, Reverse Cowgirl, and it smells like roses, bitch.”
AKA: None of your beeswax. I was at dinner with Rocky and his parents and their artist friends a few weeks ago and they asked me, in this nice restaurant, who I was voting for. Since I didn’t want to get into it, I said the stupidest thing imaginable.
“I don’t think I’ll vote this go-round.” What was I, a brit? This go-round? WTF was that?
There was a collective gasp. The whole restaurant hushed and I heard someone’s fork clatter to the ground somewhere near the bar. I saw the waitress heading over with our check. Rocky’s mom’s friend’s husband just stared at me, his bread chunk frozen in transit to his gaping maw.
“What religion are you guys,” I asked. No one answered. “Pass the butter?”
I have more to say on this subject. Just not now. I have to go do something highly personal that I’m willing to share with a voting recruiter on my way to the post office, a place which members of Chapel Hill society can no longer enter without a gauntlet and shield. Maybe I’ll go dig snots out of my nose!! Maybe I’ll go masturbate in public!! Perhaps I’ll speak in tongues at the Baptist church!! I mean, you obviously want to be in on every aspect of my personal life. I’m just trying to help.
Dude, I’m gonna go take a monster shit in the coffee shop bathroom RIGHT NOW, and I’m not gonna flush it. I knew you’d wanna know, that’s why I told you. BECAUSE IT’S YOUR BUSINESS, America.
I’m writing in Nader, btw.