Shirts on, America!

By the imaginary power vested in me by the United States of America, I hereby declare Saturday, July 24th, to be National Put Your Shirt On Day.

This day is directed at men everywhere. Ladies, you can remove your shirts with abandon, although—do I have to say it?—even in states where it’s legal for women to sun our boobs in the park, we tend not to.

Or maybe you do. In which case, huzzah! Send pictures!

Where was I? Ah, yes.

WHEREAS men everywhere--the six-packed and the ones with the bellies hanging to their knees; the ones sunning their pelts of back hair and the others who clearly wax their entire upper body; the bony-shouldered and the fat-necked; the overly tanned and the pasty-white—apparently have no problem exposing their upper bodies to the general public;

WHEREAS they seem to think they look damn sexy, strutting their naked chests about, tucking their damp, sweaty t-shirts into a back pocket;

WHEREAS, and I don’t care how good a body you have, such a sight is desperately unsexy;

WHEREAS they have no ability to discern where it is appropriate to be topless (the beach, the privacy of your own home) and where it’s so, so wrong (the subway, the drugstore, in front of me);

WHEREAS I never, ever again want to accidentally brush up against the sweaty contours of some stranger’s back-fat because he doesn’t have the decency to keep a healthy distance away from other people (much less put his shirt on);

We, the disgusted, shall use July 24th to spread the word: PUT YOUR SHIRT ON.

To celebrate Put Your Shirt On day, any time we see a topless man parading his chest-hairs down the avenue, we shall point to him and shout, “PUT YOUR SHIRT ON!” He might take offense, true—but on the other hand, you might engage him in a fruitful dialogue about the unattractiveness of the unshirted. Maybe he’ll learn a little something. Maybe he’ll grow. Maybe he’ll PUT HIS DAMN SHIRT ON.

This Saturday, across this mighty land, there will be heard triumphant cries of Put Your Shirt On. And the Shirts shall be Put On. And it will be good.

Who’s with me?

Have you been half-asleep? AND HAVE YOU HEARD VOICES?

People! People! Do you think I would leave you just like that? I was just expressing some doubts, is all. I wasn't really going to up and close down the store. But thank you for your words of encouragement, your emails, and your presents. Sorry I had to return the pony. He had a soft, damp nose, and I named him Mr. Sparkles. But the co-op board said I couldn't keep him.

In other news, work (real, paid work! Egads!) continues apace. I wish I could give you the details, but if I have learned anything from the lovely Dooce, it's that talking about work on the blog is verboten. Suffice it to say that it's a dream assignment, both entertaining and well-paying, and I couldn't be more pleased. I'm a bit hard to take lately, in fact. I keep kissing my reflection and interrupting conversations with loud outbursts of "I ROCK."

Now, about Henry. If a 21-month-old can be obsessive/compulsive, Henry fits the bill. He's down with OCD, as they say. Certain items, people, bits of media, etc. seem to inspire in him a combination of terror and reverence that is all-consuming. Today's obsessions are BLENDERS, VACUUMS, and THE RAINBOW CONNECTION. He wakes up and demands to see the BLENDER. He wants to look at the BLENDER. Let him touch said BLENDER. Then he will make THE BLENDER NOISE. The BLENDER goes EEEEEEGH. Turn it on! he demands. But do not do it, for if you do, there will be tears, and much clutching at the neck, and your shirt will get all damp.

After breakfast, he wants to retire to his parents' bedroom, where the VACUUM lives. VACUUM, he says, and points. VACUUM. The VACUUM goes EEEEEEGH. The VACUUM sounds suspiciously like the BLENDER. But do not touch the VACUUM! Or go near it! To do so would bring much shrieking and upset and subsequent incoherent babbling about the VACUUM, not to mention the BLENDER. Speaking of which. It's back to the kitchen for both of you, where you shall look at and discuss the BLENDER. EEEEEGH. Do you like that sound? EEEEEEGH.

Before his nap, he must hear RAINBOW. Short for the above-mentioned song, of course. SING IT. While singing it, he will become both entranced and agitated, sweetly mouthing the words and gazing up at you until you think you might never make it back to the office and then GRABBING YOUR LOWER LIP while you're singing and crying MORE! MORE! until you want to scream I'M ALREADY SINGING IT, I CAN'T BE MORE SINGING THAN I AM CURRENTLY SINGING. You will sing it again and again and again, all the while wondering what was UP with Kermit, with his strange conviction that there's a connection between rainbows and--and what? What are the lovers and the dreamers and he rooting around rainbows for? And what's with the voices calling his name? NEVER MIND THAT JUST KEEP SINGING.

EEEEEEEGH.

Wherein I abandon my values and family for pretty, pretty money.

So it seems that I have taken a job. Just like that. I swore a while ago that I would be all freelance-y and free-spirit-y forever and ever, that I would never again sit in a cubicle and be oppressed by the Man, and then the Man called and said, "Here's some money for you," and I said, "Hey, freelance life? Go sit at the curb until someone picks you up, because I want me some cash."

Yesterday I went to a meeting! In an office! A meeting where no one had yogurt smearings (smearings?) on their shoulders from their kids gnawing at their shirts, where people had Blackberries and wore pumps and slacks and ties (not all on one person, you understand) and seemed to not want to burst into hysterical giggles at the silliness of it all. And then they went, "We'll pay you! To do this thing!" And I was like "No shit!" and they were all "We totally mean it!" and so here I am, now, with a sort-of job. I mean, it's not a full-time job, and it's only for a year (a YEAR!) but now I have all this work, so, hmm.

Of course, Henry will have something to say about all this. I've come to see that kids take up a lot of time and energy, and he probably wouldn't understand it if I told him to play quietly until Mummy came home at 6 pm. So there's that. I'll have to get some help. Because we are still poor (until the cash money comes a-rolling in, YEE HAW), help will probably come in grandparental form, with all the psychic damage that implies. Not damage to him, of course--oh, he'll be just peachy.

I'm not sure what all this means for the blog. In addition to the job, there's my fiction writing, which has been woefully neglected, as I am addicted to the instant gratification of blogging. But attention must be paid, my friends. Attention must be paid! Then there's, you know, life. I can't just give up on the blog, I think, right? I can't. I will find a way. (Cue dramatic music, which swells to triumphant climax, then peters out into sad, aimless jabs at a toy piano. Plink. Plinkety. Plink.)

Hey, dawn? I got a rosy finger for you RIGHT HERE.

Day 1

Today, it happened. We knew this day would come. We’ve been spoiled for so long, and why should the Gods spare us, when so many other parents have been suffering since the day their children were born?

Today, the boy woke up at dawn.

Okay, if not dawn, then sometime around then. Close enough. Dawn-ish. Listen, asshole, it felt like dawn, and this is my blog, so I’m calling it dawn. Sorry, was I being irritable? Sorry. I woke up at DAWN.

Which, look, on its own, not the worst thing. We can enjoy this fine summer day, in all its splendor! We can leave the house before the cancer-giving rays of 10 am arrive! We will be like the early bird! Surely that early bird doesn’t start the day cursing up a storm! But the thing is. Here’s the thing. We, the husband and I, are not the morning-loving types. We do not greet the day with a song and a smile. We stay up late watching “Aqua Teen Hunger Force,” then we read for a while, then we eventually manage to find our way to sleep, and by then it's usually insanely late. We roll out of bed when the child wakes, which until now has been (and I write this, knowing full well that half of the Finslippy-reading population will have no sympathy whatsoever for us from this moment on) somewhere around 9.

9, or even later. Sometimes, yes, sometimes as late as 10. This is why I love him. I thought we had an understanding. He sleeps late, and I will continue to provide affection.

I tried to reason with him. When I heard his little voice singing out to us from his crib, and I saw that the big hand on the clock was at some obscenely low number, I went to him. I shook his hand, and I said, “Good sir, it is still yet an early hour. Would you not enjoy a few more hours of rest? Your parents would be most obliged, and we would start the day in good humors, and also, you’re killing us with this waking up early shit. Please, I beg you. I need more sleep. Please. I’ll buy you a car. Anything. Anything. Please.” He probably couldn’t understand most of it through all of my sobbing, but anyway, by the time I got around to “please,” he had already clambered over the crib railing, monkeyed up my arms, and settled on top of my head, demanding Cheerios and Elmo, tout de suite.

But maybe this is an aberration. Maybe—probably!—some unparalleled set of events occurred in his room, like a chipmunk got caught in the air conditioner, which shorted out, causing some some sparks to fly into the room and hit that damned stuffed animal that when you hit it, it sings DEEDLE DEEDLE DOO over and over until you feel like madness is seconds away, DEEDLE DEEDLE DOO DOOP; maybe all that happened! Which I didn’t see any evidence of, and I really looked, but you never know! Yes. Yes, I’m sure this won’t happen again. Oh please.

Day 2

Damn.

Damn, damn, damn damn.

Is it so much to ask? Is it so cruel of me to request that he sleeps until a decent hour? Or to ignore him until he goes back to sleep? Not that he would. Not that he did. I laid there for minutes that seemed like hours, listening to him singing “Momm-eee,” over and over, in this singsong that I used to think was so cute and you know what I think of it now? I think he’s taunting me. It’s like, “Mommy, you chump, get up! Mommy, you love me too much to ignore me! The beast has risen from its slumber, and so must you, Mommy! MOMMY!” A couple of times he stopped, and I thought, oh, thank you, Lord, I knew I could count on you. Then the dog would bark—WHY DO WE HAVE A DOG? Who let him in here?—or the people upstairs would walk around—who told those people they could walk? Why didn’t we hobble them years ago?—and it would start up again, the taunting, the “Momm-eee, Momm-eee.”

I walked around Brooklyn yesterday like a zombie. A zombie with hair sticking up all at weird angles, like antennae. I forgot to fix the hair before leaving the house. This is not something I forget, normally. You don’t know this about me, but I am all about the presentation. It’s not like I’m applying eyeshadow every morning, but mascara, that’s another story. But yesterday it was all I could do to apply sunscreen to both of us. I greased us up with SPF 3,000, threw him into the stroller, and lurched toward the playground, forgetting his drink, his snack, and my sanity. I stayed in the shadows and hissed at anyone who came near us. At some point Henry asked for some Goldfish, and I may, I just may, have said, “Fuck Goldfish.”

No, I’m sure I didn’t! Ha, ha! Wouldn’t that have been terrible, had I said it! Which I did not!

Day 3

[EXPLETIVES DELETED BY TYPEPAD MANAGEMENT. We’re not running a cussing factory, here. Although those were extraordinary. What’s wrong with you, woman? You’d think no one else ever had to get up early.]

Day 4

Me so tired. Me not enjoying this. Me not like baby. Me want compose poem, but me not remember how.

Me sad. So sad, me.