Category — Ramblings

I have this thing with my mouth.

No, not herpes. And get your mind out of the gutter. Jesus.

I’m a chewer. A chomper. I destroy pens, chomp endlessly on ice cubes, chew gum. I smoked for 15 years.

Point is, I release stress by chomping on things — including food. Sadly, I’m not one of those people that gets all sick to my stomach, loses my appetite and upchucks when I get stressed. Oh no, I run straight for the fridge. I think I’m the only bride that got fat before my wedding.

Right now, I’m experiencing some epic stress. We got the final approval papers from the bank on our short sale. The buyer has already put money into escrow. We have a closing date.

But…

But it’s all still pending the home inspection, which happens tomorrow at 9:30 a.m. Until we’re assured that the buyer still wants the place once he gets written proof of all the things wrong with the house, we can’t put down a deposit on a rental house.

NOT that we’ve had any luck finding anything we can afford that we would actually live in. We’ve looked at probably eight houses and so far, we’ve seen some crack dens and a couple of shoe boxes.

Basically, I have no fucking clue what’s going to happen with our house or where we’re going to live and it is driving. me. MAD.

Will we have to put the house back on the market? Foreclose? Will we end up moving when I’m gigantically pregnant? Will we be forced to move into a shitbox because we can’t find some place safe that also includes an intact roof and floor?

I don’t know.

So yeah. Stress. Want to eat. A lot. Can’t sleep. Going insane. Praying to a little plastic statue of St. Joseph that I buried upside down in my backyard.

This is not a rational person speaking here.

Luckily, there’s banana bread and M&Ms and Heath ice cream.

I don’t know about you, but nothing puts me in a more festive mood than making some hot, thick bean soup in the middle of August in Florida.

I’ve been saving this recipe for a Spanish-style bean soup for a while. The craving finally hit and I made it, using Spanish chorizo instead of andouille sausage. But that’s beside the point.

The point is this:

I’ve never used great northern beans as called for in the recipe. Neither have I ever worked with kale, a collard-like green, leafy vegetable.

Turns out that these items are pretty potent. The soup was delicious. Deee-li-shus. But I’m estimating that, between the kale and beans, there were approximately 18 grams of fiber per spoonful of my soup.

We ate the soup on Sunday evening. Within a couple of hours, it hit us. A little cheek lift here. A walking rat-a-tat-tat fart there. A poof of wind on the way to the kitchen.

Soon, these innocent gastrointestinal gusts started getting more dangerous. Throughout the night, Chris and I lifted the bed sheets — and not in a kinky sort of way, either.

Monday morning, Chris emerged from his daily visit to the throne, complaining of some minor intestinal upset. Specifically, his insides had liquefied and he was concerned that he would die of dehydration or an evaporated bowel.

Lucky for me, I have a stronger stomach. Gas, yes. Pee shits, no. Monday afternoon, I dared to have a bowl of the tasty soup for lunch. Again, within an hour or so, I was doing the one-cheek salute to expel the increasingly toxic fumes.

The problem wasn’t the farting in itself. Around here, we enjoy, announce and even celebrate our gas. It was the intensity, the frequency and the duration of the gaseous episodes that ended up posing an issue.

Eight hours after consuming my bean soup for lunch, I was still farting like a geriatric. Even Elise and Althea were noticing, imitating a farting sound every time Chris or I would pass gas. At one point, I went to the bathroom and Althea pointed at the bathroom door and said, “Ama! PPBBBLBLLLBBBP!”

I knew things were out of control when I let a silent-but-deadly one fly and saw the cat lift his head, take a sniff and — I shit you not — move to the other couch.

If you’ve ever owned a cat, you know that it takes a lot for a sleeping cat to get up and move from a comfortable couch.

Monday night, I decided to freeze the remainder of the soup. Tasty as the soup was, Chris’ tender stomach and my sulfuric intestinal juices couldn’t handle any more.

We chuckled at the whole experience — haha, crazy pregnancy cravings; haha fiber soup; haha our colons are gone.

At about 6 o’clock this morning, I wasn’t laughing anymore. There was no mirth or merriment when Chris threw back the sheets, jumped out of bed and screamed “AWWWWWWWWW SHIT!”

I flailed awake in a panic. “What?? What the fuck is going on?”

“God damn that bean soup! I just shit the bed!”

“…….Are you serious?”

“I dreamt I was taking a shit and I shit the bed. Mark your calendar. I’m 36 years old and I just . . . Oh JESUS CHRIST!” he screamed, holding his butt cheeks together as he ran off to the bathroom.

From behind the closed bathroom door, sitting on the toilet, shitting his brains out at 6 a.m.: “GOD DAMN THAT BEAN SOUP!!”

This pregnancy is posing a lot of issues for me — issues I didn’t have or feel with the twins, so this is all a bit scary. To explain:

When I found out we were having twins back in April 2008, I felt like we’d been somehow “chosen.” Silly, I know. But I saw it as a gift, a great responsibility with which I’d been entrusted. I took it as my sole duty to nurture and grow those babies to the best of my ability.

Despite having battled serious body issues throughout my life, I felt little trepidation about the weight I purposely gained. It was all temporary, I thought. When the stretch marks appeared, I took them in stride. When I explored my post-partum body, I accepted its changes for what they were and promised myself I’d do the best I could to improve it.

At 16 months post-partum, all was beginning to feel fine and well. I was back in the gym, just a few pounds from my pre-pregnancy weight. I’d finally pulled out my “skinny” clothes, even fitting into some of them. I had weaned the girls from breastfeeding so I could get back on Lamictal, a medication for bi-polar disorder that I’d had a ton of success with.

I finally felt like I was getting my body and life back.

In the back of my mind, I was dreaming of the surgery that would re-join my stomach muscles. In an even further recess of my mind, I thought maybe, just maybe, we shouldn’t have more kids. Our girls were perfect and awesome. Why mess it up?

And then . . . Well, I got pregnant again. I really, really wasn’t ready for it. It’s not that I didn’t or don’t want or love the baby. It’s that it wasn’t planned and really caught me off guard.

So this time around, I’m having body issues. 21 weeks into the pregnancy and I’ve gained about five pounds. This is nothing compared to the twenty-ish I’d gained by this point with the twins, but every ounce of this new weight is filled with panic and self-loathing.

That nagging bitch of a voice in my head questions, Five pounds so far — so what does that mean for the rest of the pregnancy? How on earth am I going to keep my weight gain below 25 pounds? 20 pounds? 15? I don’t want to puff up, I don’t want a fat face, I don’t want melting thighs and a monster ass.

The bitch goes on. My stomach . . . Ugh, my god, my stomach. The silvery-white stretch marks circling the center of my abdomen, scarring the folds of loose skin left from my last pregnancy, are turning faintly purple. The weakened skin is going to give out. Again. And stretch even more. Again.

I panic. I self-pity. I don’t understand. I thought I paid my dues with my first pregnancy. I sacrificed and worked hard and did everything right. I let my body do what it wanted and needed. I grew two full-sized, healthy babies, delivered them vaginally, nursed them for almost a year and a half, stayed home with them to raise them in the best environment I could give.

And this is what I get? Anxiety about weight gain, depression, stress and more stretch marks?

I realize all of this is unhealthy thinking. Frankly, it’s shameful and embarrassing to feel any of this at all. It’s so superficial, so shallow, so silly.

I’m supposed to be jolly and maternal. I’m supposed to give motherly smiles to strangers. I’m supposed to be glowing, goddammit.

But that nagging voice, that belittling bitch that tells me how worthless and disgusting I am, is seeping in.

I thought I was too fucking old for this shit. I know better than this.

These are just feelings. They are temporary. I love this baby, her little punches and kicks, the weight of her growing body, the thought of her in our lives. I will grow her and adore her and do a good job with her, too.

But these damned feelings…

So I tell my little girl I’m sorry and I love you and This has nothing to do with you.

My only defense right now is not thinking about it too much. It hurts — hurts to feel it, hurts to admit I feel it.

I promise I’ll try to be sarcastic and funny again soon. Right now, I’m just working through this the best I can.

I’ve been back in therapy for about a month now. Every time I get to a new therapist’s office, I find myself in a different life stage. In each of those stages, I’m pretty certain I know everything. I’ve finally figured myself out. I’ve got it all under a microscope and I don’t need any silly armchair psychology.

I really like my new Therapista. She’s from San Francisco, and her liberal upbringing is evident in her long, barely tamed gray hair, makeup-less face and quirky clothes. I like that she respects my personality by not delivering platitudes.

The problem, then, with Therapista is that she’s smart. And, despite her slightly crunchy demeanor, I don’t think she’s going to let me get away with shit.

Last week, I divulged some intimate, problematic feelings I’m having about this pregnancy. I rambled on about being ashamed at feeling less-than cosmically thrilled, terrified at the changes in my body, scared about how the new baby will fit into our lives when things are so difficult as it is.

Therapista reassured me that these moments will pass. I will fall in love with my new daughter just like I did with the girls.

“Sure, but how do I deal with these feelings in the meantime? What’s the mantra I tell myself to get through this right now?” I whined.

She tilted her chin slightly downward so her eyes gazed up at me. With a tiny shake of the head, she replied, “The mantra you tell yourself is that these are just feelings.”

Uh? Just feelings? JUST feelings? Just feelings?? Um, excuse me lady, but in case you haven’t been reading Cosmo for the past 25 years, FEELINGS are the most important thing in this world! We are shackled to our feelings! Our feelings are our destiny! They define our past, shape our present and inform our future! We must acknowledge, belabor, journal, share, celebrate, reward, punish, revel in, and carry around our feelings like so much emotional baggage!

… Oh wait. Um. I think… Hm. Maybe you’re on to something there. Maybe some feelings do require examination while others are just buzzing flies that will eventually run out of steam and drop dead on the kitchen counter, where we can sweep them onto the back cover of said Cosmo and unceremoniously dump them into the trash bin.

It’s a totally foreign and even uncomfortable concept if you’re as inured to pop psychology as I am. But, looked at another way, this new little mantra takes away the weight, the burden of some feelings. It makes them a lot less scary. Not every emotion is definitive. Not every emotion has to mean that you’re an evil person, that you need fixing, that you’ve got deep-seated psychological issues that are bound to destroy you and the lives of those you love.

Some feelings are just feelings and they’ll go away when you’re done feeling them, or when you get a good night’s sleep, or when you eat some chocolate or have a good cry.

So, while it turns out I still don’t know everything, I think this time on the couch might actually be productive and eventful for my life.

Just a feeling.

I have nothing to write about.

No, really. I don’t.

Okay, lemme think. Ummmm…….. There was that one thing that seemed pretty interes–….

Nope. Still nothing.

The girls are still cute. Here they are in my in-laws’ dog bed. (???) Well, not my in-laws’ dog bed, but their dog’s dog bed. You know what I mean.

And speaking of dogs, our dog is leaving tomorrow. Rather, we’re giving him up. A million reasons why, but him being 90 pounds, dangerously oblivious and aggressive-acting toward the girls has a little something to do with it. It’s really Chris’ dog and I’m not sure how it’ll hit him — Chris or the dog — tomorrow, but having known the dog for almost seven years now, I may feel a little tug at the ole heartstrings too.

Since we’re on the topic of the heart, I might as well tell you all that I’m going back into therapy. Like, real, talk-your-shit-out therapy. I’ve been to psychiatrists over the past few years, but have neglected the actual non-drug-related maintenance of my well-being for many, many years. I have two appointments this week with different therapists. I need it pretty bad. Not taking any head pills, plus the craziness that is this pregnancy, are really turning me into a horrible human being.

About the pregnancy….Well, the nausea is mostly gone. I can eat again. So that’s good. But man, when they say every pregnancy is different, they aren’t kidding. With the girls, I was euphoric. The massive surge of hormones was the best antidepressant I’d ever had. This time around, I’m a MESS. With a capital M-E-S-S. I’m super depressed, haywire, unstable. My moods turn on a dime. I’m having frequent headaches and migraines. I’m exhausted, uninspired and disorganized. It’s incredibly hard to deal with this nonsense when I already have two kids and a husband who need someone who isn’t a nutcase.

Okay, maybe I had a few things to say. I’ll shut up now.

Money be damned, we recently decided to book a family vacation — just the four of us, as it will be the only and last time we will ever go anywhere as “just the four of us.” We settled on renting a cottage at a relaxing fish camp on the Atlantic. It will be four days of beach, water, sun and hammocks.

And bathing suits.

Last year, I wore this horrific tankini. What, you don’t think it looks that bad? That’s because you don’t see the front of it. It was a last-minute purchase made under duress from Target — which, unless you have the body of a starving tween, is not the place to go bathing suit shopping under any circumstances.

At the time, I chalked it up to it being a mere 8 months post-partum that I had to purchase that thing. I called it The Year of the Tankini. You know, because the next year, I’d have my old body back and I could go back to wearing a sexy little two-piece.

So anyway. For this year’s tankini, I spent $100. This disgusts me. Because have you ever gone tankini shopping? It’s awful. It’s like the bathing suit manufacturers were blindfolded at a Kmart curtain clearance as part of a diabolical Project Runway challenge. You try on eight or nine of these things and you’re ready to throw your life savings at the first person who can hand you a tankini that doesn’t make you feel like your great grandmother vacationing in Boca.

For instance:

Seriously. The model can barely keep herself from laughing, this thing is so ugly.

Note to bathing suit manufacturers: Women who are shopping for tankinis are not buying two-piece bikinis for a reason. We need shape and support for our boobs and magical panels to flatten our bellies and flattering tops to avoid back tacos. Anything involving Hawaiian prints from the 1980s, tight elastic around the legs or ruffles around anything has no place on a tankini.

The suit I got isn’t too bad, all things considered. Aside from the fact that Chris said I looked like a shower curtain in it. And aside from the fact that the bottoms actually come up past what used to be my belly button and are about as comfortable as those scratchy underwear your grandma used to buy you from Pic N Save.

Oh yeah, and since I’ve apparently forgotten, I’m freaking pregnant. So by the time we go to the Awesome Fish Camp Vacation Cottage, I’ll have a baby bump with twin skin hanging off of it AND a diaper-esque tankini to really show it all off.

Yep, it’s Year Two of the Tankini and I’m embracing it with vigor.

Somebody. Help. Me.

P.S. Any unintentional insult to grandmas and great grandmas anywhere in this post is completely the fault of tankini makers.

Organized playgroups, preschool at two years old, flashcards, Hooked on Phonics, Baby Can Read . . . Modern parents do a lot of things to stimulate their child’s intelligence. God forbid we let the child be bored or unproductive for a single second of their childhood.

Well, you know what I say? I say learning begins at home, that’s what I say. It’s the simple things that a mother and/or father do on a daily basis that teach their kids how to discover their strengths and get along in the world.

So, even though I “just stay home” with my girls, I don’t ”interact well with productive citizens” and I frequently “make an ass of myself;” and although Chris can be “inappropriately humorous” and “a bit flighty,” if not “completely disconnected from reality;” we still do plenty of intelligence-boosting activities to help fire up those neurological synapses. Or whatever.

Sample curriculum, you ask? You got it.

Introduction to Hygiene and Self Care
Current grade: A
Notice the profound excavation into the nasal cavity with the single digit of the right hand, the slightly up-tilted eyes and firmly closed mouth. Clearly an advanced technique, surprising to witness in such a young subject.

Clothing Design for the Diaper
Current grade: D
Elise and Althea have made no progress in this class in the past 17 months. Despite continued efforts to train and instruct on the crucial skills needed for diaper-covering clothing, the children continue to defy design standards by exposing their size-four Huggies.

Photography: The Art of the Self-Portrait
Current grade: C
Only one of the four subjects is even pictured in near-entirety. The others show 3/4 of a face, a mis-aligned profile and a pair of feet in the background. Were it not for an inept instructor, the children might stand a chance at passing this course.

Bad Ass-ness: Theory and Praxis
Current grade: A+
From the windswept hair to the cooly askance sunglasses, Elise shows a natural aptitude for bad ass-ness.

Woodworking 102: Gifts of Sticks
Current grade: B+
Both children show incredible aptitude in stick-gift giving. They should now concentrate on mulch, branches and other wood materials to diversify their talents.

Practical Home Improvements
Current grade: B-
Excellent spectatorship, though actual participation lacks something to be desired.

There’s some really random shit that can set me off into giggle fits. Once upon a time, it was the words ‘desk,’ ‘slimy’ and ‘chicken.’

Desk and slimy just aren’t funny anymore, but chickens are ALWAYS funny.

Anyway. That tidbit is vaguely connected to the fact that, the longer I’m married to Chris, the funnier I find him — and not always in the ways he intends. He’s the master of awful puns and tasteless jokes, but those generally just make me groan.

It’s when he’s being totally serious that he says something unintentionally hilarious to set me off. Here is the latest comedy in the ongoing theater of our married life, as told in two parts:

Part I

Salad dressing. Not funny? Not normally. But sometimes, salad dressing is piss-in-my-pants hilarious.

Specifically, this incident:

My husband was getting amorous and I was feeling receptive. It was all sweet and romantic and junk. As I snuggled my face into his shirt, I smelled salad dressing. The smell made me wonder why the hell he would smell like a bottle of vinaigrette, and my God, when was the last time he showered?, and maybe we needed a stronger detergent, and you know, there’s always a kid in school that smells like glue so surely there’s  kid that always smells like spoiled salad dressing. And suddenly my husband was that kid. I pictured him sitting in the corner of a 1st-grade classroom with thick glasses and too-short shorts, reading a book about dinosaurs while intermittently sniffing a bottle of Elmer’s glue and obliviously passing gas, all while smelling like a bottle of expired Wish-Bone House Italian.

As he moved to feel me up, I collapsed into silent laughter on the floor, unable to express why I couldn’t go on with our romantic rendezvous. How could I possible have sex with a guy who farts alone in a corner and smells like salad dressing???

Now can you see why this is funny? My husband is the kid in school who smells like…..Oh Jesus H., whatever. It’s funny. This person would agree with me.

Part II

I think everyone who uses predictive text messaging can understand this one. You try to type “Be home soon,” but the auto-corrector changes it to “You’re a lazy piece of shit and I want a divorce.” Or something like that.

Anyway, I was waiting for a doctor’s appointment and texting with Chris to pass the time. The receptionist was being a bitch and asking for my confirmation number, which I didn’t have because who the fuck actually writes down confirmation numbers anyway, let alone keeps them on hand in case anyone should ever ask for it?

Since the receptionist was clearly incompetent, I texted Chris and asked him to check my email for the confirmation message so I could throw it in the receptionist’s face and be all “BOOYAH!!!”

Me: “are you able to get to a computer right now?”

Him: “Yes.”

Me: “nm. these idiots said i didn’t have an appt but they ‘found’ it. stupid.”

Me, two minutes later when it became apparent that they  had no intention of keeping to my appointment time: “okay, wtf. can you look on my screen and go to my gmail? one of the most recent msgs is a confirmation from the doc.”

Him: “I can’t. I’m sitting in the toilet.”

Him: “on, rather.”

I started snickering. Okay, not just snickering — I burst into hysterical, tear-inducing laughter. Because now my husband was not only the smelly salad dressing kid, but he was the smelly salad dressing kid who fell into the toilet at school and had to walk around with toilet-water-soaked pants the rest of the day while all the other kids made fun of him.

I literally could not control the laughter. I covered my mouth and tried to take deep breaths, but that just made me laugh harder. I started to perspire. Tears were rolling down my cheeks. Sweat dripped down my back and forehead. I could not stop.

People were starting to stare, so I got up and walked into the hallway, thinking a change of scenery would stop the laughter. But that just drew more attention to me. The nurses started asking, “Are you okay?” and “Are you laughing or crying?” I was laughing so hard that I just waved them away — I couldn’t even respond. Every time I tried to sit back down, it would start all over again. Finally, I had to shut myself into a bathroom to get the fit out of my system and wipe up the sweat and tears.

Chris will read this and shake his head. Whatever. It’s hilarious.

At least as hilarious as chickens. Or sharting. Or sharting chickens.

Oh Jesus, I think I need to change my pants.

Okay, I’ll bite.

Ms. Perpetua has been doing this for the past few weeks and I’m ready to jump in. It’s called ControverSunday, where we write about stuff that polarizes the best of friends and angers the most loyal of readers. I love it.

This week’s topic is extended breastfeeding, a subject near to my heart. (Literally, because I’ll be talking about my boobs, and they are located near my heart.)

I’d never heard of “extended” breastfeeding until a few months into my own breastfeeding experience. Back then, as now, I didn’t really think about how long I would breastfeed my twins. I breastfeed today, and probably will tomorrow, and likely the day after that.

Or maybe not. I’m not sure anymore.

In any case, here we are, 16+ months in, and I’m still nursing my babies. Er, kids, I guess. Because Elise and Althea aren’t babies anymore. I snuggle them close to my sides when they’re nursing and, in my mind, they are still tiny, needy little newborns. But then I glance over my shoulder and see round toddler bellies and long toddler legs and I realize that I have two thinking, learning humans drinking milk from my breasts.

It rattles me for a fleeting second because I know there are people who think it’s strange that I’m still breastfeeding my 16 month olds. Thing is, I don’t think it’s strange. Most of the mom friends I hang out with don’t think it’s strange, either. Many of them are still nursing their kids — toddlers who are the same age as Elise and Althea.

Perpetua elucidates an underlying but major aspect surrounding the controversy with extended breastfeeding:

This discussion seems to have less to do with nutrition than it does with how we feel about breasts in public, and how we feel about the way a two-year-old relates to those breasts. Regarding the first issue, there’s nothing inherently wrong with breastfeeding in public.  Kids exist, kids have to eat, some kids eat breastmilk, la dee da. Adults relate to the public display of breasts differently. . . .

This leaves us with how toddlers (as opposed to “un-thinking” infants) relate to breasts. I’ve heard the “If he’s old enough to ask for it, he’s old enough to stop!” rule before, which also seems rather a bit too arbitrary. . . . More to the point, though, is that toddlers most likely don’t relate to breasts as sexual objects.  WE relate to toddlers relating to breasts with sexuality in mind.

And that’s where I think some folks have a problem. I understand that people get uncomfortable with the idea and/or act of breastfeeding an older infant or toddler, particularly in public and especially in the U.S. The sexualization of the lactating mother and her nursling is indicative of the larger social perceptions and fears of sexuality in general. And that’s stating it mildly. As they say, we’re more comfortable with the sight of people being blown up on film than we are with the flash of a nipple during the Super Bowl halftime show.

But every day, there are small revolutions that challenge this attitude — from the public protests against breastfeeding discrimination to a Facebook fan page on the historical images of women breastfeeding.

So where was I going with this . . . Oh yeah, boobs. The bottom line:

• Breastfeeding is great and I’m a very strong advocate for breastfeeding your child(ren) as long as possible and is comfortable for mother and baby.
• Extended breastfeeding is great too.
• Except, in my opinion, when the nursing child is old enough to warrant a film crew coming out to document it. I saw that lady on that BBC documentary and yeah, that was extreme.

I don’t feel like being witty, coherent or organized, but I have a bunch of would-be posts accumulating in my head so I just need to get something written.

Feel free to comment on any, all or none of the following topics:

Why won’t my children sleep?

The girls are just about 16 months old. For the past week, they have been waking up crying — no, wailing – several times during the night. The cries are so intense that we don’t wait more than 10 minutes to see if they’re going to settle down on their own. We rock, we sing, we check and change diapers, but still the waking continues.

At this point, I’ve given up on explanations. Teething apparently lasts for a decade or more. They are obviously going through tremendous developmental stages. I’m pretty sure that the growth spurt explanation is BS, because from birth to 16 years seems to be one giant growth spurt.

All I know is that I really, really enjoy kids who sleep through the night. I would like to have those children back.

OMG-GYM

I joined a gym to get away from the kids.

Okay, that’s a bit dramatic. But seriously, the crying/whining thing, and the fact that my body still resembles a mountain of melting Play-Doh even 16 months after giving birth, made me think:

• Many gyms have childcare centers.
• All gyms have exercise equipment.
• Therefore, most gyms will solve many of my problems.

This was an equation I could solve.

So far, so-so. Althea tends to start panicking after about 30 minutes, but, much to my surprise, Elise walks around like she owns the damned place.

I totally have baby fever, but I really don’t think we’re ready for another child

That’s pretty much it. We want another child, and now’s the time to take advantage of my ever-dwindling youth (and egg count). Chris isn’t getting any younger. There will never be a “right time.” There will never be enough money. So all the logical “we shouldn’t have another kid yet” excuses are semi-bunk.

But ugh. I loved being pregnant, but now that I haven’t been pregnant for a while, I really don’t want anything to do with it. The nausea, the worry, the cravings, the weight gain, the deprivation, the heartburn, the 40 fucking weeks….

Then the newborn stage. My GOD, the newborn stage.

Can’t I just give birth to a six month old who sleeps through the night?

Also, how the hell does one ever leave the house with three children and no help?

We went to Disney World — not entirely against my will

I grew up just a short distance from Disneyland in California. I know Disney. I marveled at “it’s a small world.” I grew a little and split from my chaperons to smoke behind Space Mountain. I went without chaperons and smoked wherever I wanted. I got kicked out for smoking. I got high and rode “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.” I shoplifted near the old “Jurassic Park” ride and got caught. (That one sucked.)

Then I went to college and realized what an evil machine of manufactured imagination, monetized innocence and capitalist cultivation the Disney Empire is.

But then I became a Florida resident, had kids and decided that $99 for four Disney parks was a really good deal.

So, before I knew it, this happened:

In case you’re wondering, the girls are pointing at birds. Yes, $99 and the kids like the birds. Chris is just looking hot and perfect. I, on the other hand, am just trying to suck in it, tuck my chin and hope that my newly developed brow wrinkles don’t show up in the photo too much.