Wal-Mart: Rolling Back Prices, Splattering Heads, or The Hazards of Bargain Hunting

Ok, you need to read this:

• "(CBS/AP) A worker died after being trampled by a throng of unruly shoppers when a suburban Wal-Mart opened for the holiday sales rush Friday, authorities said. Nassau County polie said the 34- year-old worker was taken to a hospital where he was pronounced dead at about 6 a.m., an hour after the store opened. The cause of death was not immediately known."

This is a report from November 28th, 2008. And my friends, this is fucked up.

I love the holidays. I mean, I guess I do. They are great in a lot of ways. Time to reconnect with friends and family. Time to eat cookies in excessive quantities. Lots of time to lament having gotten suddenly and inexplicably fat.* Oh yeah, and people give presents.

I like getting presents. Like, who doesn't? The Great American Gift Exchange is an expensive tradition that allows us to show the people who mean the most to us just how little we actually know them. Sure I love my Aunt, but I don't want another jar of Vermont maple syrup. If it's the thought that's supposed to count, Hey relatives, start using your effing brains.

Despite the more enjoyable aspects of the season, "the most wonderful time of the year" has its drawbacks (e.g. Holiday Muffin Top, or Family Reunions). And one of the biggest bummers of the holidays is shopping for gifts. Stop in at any store between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, and odds are good that the lines will be out the friggin door. Even major retailers seem to always run out of the one awesome thing you wanted to buy your dad, leaving the poor guy to settle with another shitty tie. There are only so many great gift ideas to go around. I wonder if my dad would like a Bidet...

Now that we're all just coming off the whole post-Thanksgiving "Black Friday" thing, let's pause to think about that news story I showed you. Sure the holiday shopping rush is stressful and not all that fun, but just think: it could be your last.

Guys, a dude died at Wal-Mart. He DIED, because people are fucking nuts about getting a deal. I just... I just can't wrap my mind around wanting ANYTHING at Wal-Mart so badly that I'd:

1. Line up outside Wal-Mart at 9 p.m. the night before the store opened. Yes, people did that.
2. Stampede through the doors when they opened at 5 in the g-damned morning.
   
3. See a worker in my path and actually physically push him to the floor in a selfish, mob-induced frenzy for blocking the cheap-o DVD rack.
4. Proceed to step on his head/stomach/wiener/etc., so as to effect his death.

Talk about bargain hunting! They're rolling back prices, and the people are out for blood.

Thanks Wal-Mart for opening all those extra check-out lanes so my food-stamp-munching, death-trample friends and I can more easily waste our hard-earned factory wages on toys no longer made within the borders of the great nation we claim to love with magnetic ribbon-shaped bumper stickers. So much tacky shit to buy, (apparently) so little time. I like America, but I fuckin' LOVE a deal, man! And I'll kill you to get it.

In fact, according to that article, the Wal-Mart bum-rush wouldn't even stop to allow paramedics to resuscitate the poor, dying man. And in the midst of the unimaginable, hellish chaos, at least three other people were injured.

Seriously. What is wrong with these people. Would Mary and Joseph have tried to kill the Wal-Mart staff on Jesus' 1st birthday to get a better price on swaddling cloth? Me thinketh not.

Everyone, the moral of this story is simple: Let's keep holiday manslaughter to a minimum. Let re-gifting tube socks be the extent of your yuletide misdemeanors. Deals are great, but killing other human beings at Wal-Mart to get them is unforgivable.


*It was those damn delicious cookies.

My Two-Day Vacation From Facebook, or "Let's Cut The Small Talk"

I know more about you than you think.

Creepy, huh? I know, it is. It's creepy that I know you got married three months ago. It's creepy that I've never in fact met your baby, but if I wanted to kidnap her I'd know exactly who to look for. I also know what your apartment looks like, and your beer of choice. I know who's potentially got a crush on you, the names of all your favorite books, and where you're going on vacation. It's fucking creepy, but I know.

I know, because Facebook told me.


Four years ago when Facebook launched, I was staunchly opposed. Why do I need a website to keep in touch with my friends? How does this change any thing. What a dumb idea... A dumb I idea I wish I had thought of.

Of course, back then there wasn't much to do on Facebook. At the beginning, there was no real reason to spend countless hours browsing friends profiles. No deep, insightful, emotional status updates. In fact, when Facebook started friends from high school who wanted to keep in touch did it the old fashioned way: through e-mail. Wasn't that impersonal enough? Sending messages to people on the internets? Anything less than hand-written mail, or a face-to-face encounter seemed entirely too newfangled to me. But, I guess I was wrong. Again. Seems to be a pattern.

Anyway. In light of all the time-sucking Facebook can do, I took a break. Having had quite literally nothing to do for the last few weeks besides walk my dog, go to spin class, and tutor Geometry (oh, the thrilling life I lead!), I found myself spending far too much time on the 'book. Like a drug, or better yet, a cancer, Facebook had encroached on my time, and was eating away at the very embers of my being. I was losing my life to Facebook. When checking an empty email inbox and a pathetically short-changed checking account trickles into 'The Mundane,' Facebook seemed to offer a sort of voeuyristic repreive. A chance to see how my life stacked up to those of my friends. A chance to feel... normal.

Yeah, it didn't work.

Every damn day, someone new got engaged. And then someone else was having another kid. And someone started learning a lot in grad school, or was travelling Europe. And then someone else was working at some super-sweet job, or just bought a house, or worse... was getting married! Good God, was no one sane anymore? Had no one else moved home out of boredom or financial need? AM I THE ONLY ONE ON THIS GODDAMNED JOURNEY TOWARD HAPPINESS?

According to Facebook, I was. So I quit. But as you can see, it didn't last.

Yes, I'm a little disappointed with myself. I thought I was stronger. I thought I had what it took to say NO to Facebook. But my will to take a stand has waned, and my desire to poke people and write wall comments expressing my sheer delight at seeing them last night in Folsom took over. Guys, if you thought Lisa Zine was a strong woman, you thought wrong. I may not really keep in touch with you that well, but dammit, I know whats going on in your life. That party you went to last weekend looked like a lot of fun, but you should lay off the booze for awhile. And your baby is growing up so fast! Also, you looked awesome in your wedding dress. Thanks for the invitation. (Bitch). Omg! Just kidding.... Poke!

Granted, I may love poking, but I don't necessarily love Facebook. Some days it makes me feel like I'm on the wrong path, or that my life is a giant bore, or that I should be going to Vegas more often. Other days I'm just glad to know my friends are still alive. But if there's anything to actually love about Facebook is that it really cuts down on the need for small talk at bars.

Let's take last night, for example. We're out at a local bar. We're "catching up," as they used to say in the olden days. The beer's flowing, the chicks are pretty fugly. Life is good. And best of all, as stated above, I already know what's going on with you. Chances are either one of us could spout off a few unimportant details about where we are and what we're doing, and it wouldn't be news to either of us. And isn't that awesome? In so many instances I was able to cut through the bullshit and right to the good stuff: "So ___ has gained weight, huh? Awesome."

So if Facebook has done this for me, the least I can do is stay loyal to it. It kills me a little bit to know that my sobatical didn't last longer than a few hours (about 48-ish). I'm merely human. And frankly I'm a bored human. But it's Thanksgiving, and the holidays always make me feel warm inside. And so does Facebook, with or without all its demons.

So get ready. Next time I see you, I'll know exactly what you've been up to. And I won't even ask.

Happy Thanksgiving, Facebook Friends.

Poke!

How I Lost Myself to LOST, or Forgive the Trite Analogy But This Show is Like Crack

I did it. I finally caved.

When the gardening is done, the dishes are clean, and the town you're living in is a virtual no-man's land in terms of stimulating activity, one must get creative in the way of entertainment. Well folks, my creativity is waning, and the best I can seem to come up with is God's gift to modern man: TV on DVD.

I started watching LOST.
Ok, I know what you're thinking, because I've thought it myself. WHY? WHY, LISA, DID YOU START WATCHING LOST? Are you really that bored? Has your mind rotted due to over sleeping? Are you actually that interested in joining a cult?

And you know, I can't really answer those questions, because I don't know why I started an innocent experiment that has now become an addiction. It's not that I found LOST, but more like LOST... found me. But at least I'm not totally bummed out about the Olympics being over. I swear, it's like crack with a disc menu.

LOST is more addictive than Pinkberry, and more entertaining than watching lions mate at the zoo. A thousand times more entertaining! I'm hesitant to admit this, but I guess for the sake of how pathetic is, I'll have you know I've spent somewhere around 23 hours over the last four days devouring the entire first season. Now there's no way I could watch lions do anything for 23 hours, much less crave it more and more on a (pretty much) hourly basis.

To my fellow LOST-is-a-ridiculous-trend resistors, I only have this to say: Please, do yourself a favor and swallow your pride. Start drinking the Kool-Aid. I held back for so long that my staunch opposition just, wore away like the sands of time. And perhaps that's why now I'm able to enjoy LOST without guilt, shame, or reservation. The way it was meant to be enjoyed... while you're unemployed.

You wanna know the best thing about watching the show? It's not how dramatic it is, or how badly it makes you want to visit Hawaii. It's not how you feel empowered, nay convinced, at the end of each episode that you'd totally be able to sustain your own life and the lives of 40 other people if stranded on an island and given only a smattering of random supplies. The best thing about LOST is not how it makes you wonder how many strangers you could potentially call friends, nor is it how scared you are to go outside in your backyard at night. No, the best thing about watching LOST is telling other people about how you started watching LOST.

I mean it. And I know this because I experienced the phenomenon last weekend.

Whilst visiting some long LOST friends* in LA (which, let's face it, often feels like an island you can't escape), I was asked frequently by my inquisitive companions just what it is I'm doing with myself now that I've moved home. And instead of getting into the humdrum details of the nothingness that has consumed my every day, I was able to sound delightfully occupied and productive when I mentioned that I had started watching season one of LOST. The show's role in my life, as a stand-in for friends and career advancement, spared me the embarrassment that the truth would have surely forced me to suffer.

By mentioning that I have started watching LOST it is evident to anyone listening that my inner strength has indeed weakened, but said message can be read between the lines. I can save face, while maintaining an air of serenity. Yes, my life is like a party you never want to leave, is what my audience hears. Don't worry about me, friend, I have plenty to do and have learned much about hunting boars in the wild. I'm very well adjusted, and want for nothing. You needn't worry about me. Now go in peace.

Trust me, it's pretty much the best thing ever.

So if you're on the fence about hopping on the bandwagon of the most underrated-overrated show ever, I'd encourage you to just go ahead and bite the bullet. Get in there and get all messy in it. Start from the beginning, and succumb to the obsession. Just because you have stupid friends who like it, it doesn't make you stupid too.

And besides, the worst thing that could happen is you have a few pseudo-thrills and something kind of lame to talk about.


*Get it? Get it?

Moving Home Has Revealed Dark Truths About My Taste or, True Confessions of a Closet Country Fan

Moving home is an emotional experience.

It's an ambiguous mix of sadness, relief, hope, and disbelief. For me it's only been about 8 weeks, but I find myself asking with unnerving regularity questions like, "Did I really move back here?" and, "How long is this going to last?" and, "If I'm not paying rent, where did all my money go?"*

For those of you who haven't moved home or aren't quite sure what I'm talking about, I'd encourage you to stop grinning smugly at your financial independence. Just wait. Your time will come.

But it's not a bad thing. I mean, the temporary retreat from mainstream society has its perks. Not long after making the trek back up north, I realized just how much of my time had been needlessly eaten up by work. Unemployment, under the right circumstances,** can be pretty sweet. It's freed up a lot of my time to do important things like plant a vegetable garden, watch the summer Olympics, and run errands. Boredom can always be remedied with a trip to Target, or an afternoon spent baking, slash, berating myself for being way too young to be acting like a suburban housewife.

All of that's fine, really. But, every silver lining has a cloud blocking it. So if trips to Target is my silver lining, then my cloud is that while I'm driving there, I've started to listen to the radio.

I know! I know! It's terrible, and I'm sorry but I have very few alternatives! I've listen to my CD collection probably twelve times in the last month, and I lack sufficient funds to update it with deep, creative, substantive music. I own zero books on tape, and whether I like it or not (which I don't) there are moments where I just can't stand the silence.

But the really sucky thing is that Sacramento radio stations are worse than stepping on a rusty nail. Sure it sounds dramatic, but I can't think of anything else that gets the point across. Sac radio is worse than... Paying off your credit cards? Drinking flat generic cola? Sitting next to a crying baby on a plane? Losing your little toe at a cock fight?

Scratch that. I'd rather listen to the radio if it meant I'd never have to hear the death-cries of a baby on a plane. Crying babies are the worst.

But I think you get my point. The radio around these here parts eats shit, so it's no small wonder I've been forced to seek creative solutions to this frequency deficiency problem.

Solutions like... listening to Country.

(Oh God, I may have just lost half my readers.)

Whatever. I'm admitting it right here, right now, out loud.

Throughout my formative years, like any kid I went in and out of various musical phases. One phase lasted for several months in which I just about worshiped Sarah McLachlan (I was eleven, sue me). Then there was another phase where I "discovered" punk and started wearing All Stars. Luckily, I survived both.

Following the McLachlan phase, I became a slave to peer acceptance, and shackled with the chains of conformity I was unable to indulge in my appreciation for country music. Unless I wanted to face inevitable public shaming and ostracizing from my already chilly classmates, I was wise to ignore the tender place in my heart for songs revering Chevy Pick-ups or those reproaching abusive boyfriends. Maybe it's all the Crystal Light I've been drinking, or the excessive lounging around that has led to the regrettable demise of my good taste, but I can't help it. I wish I could stop, but I keep finding myself tuning into the country radio station, singing along to songs like "Jesus Take The Wheel," aloud in my kitchen while I bake cobbler. I may be damn near unrecognizable to my friends, to hell with it, I live at home now and that opens the door to real life honesty even I can't fully understand. So I don't give a crap anymore.

Judge me not, friends. Moving home is a big change, and a difficult one at that. So a person is forced to find comfort in even the darkest of places. And for me, 101.9 FM "The Wolf" is that dark place. But you know what? It feels good. It's unabashedly cheesy, and it makes me proud to be an American. I actually kind of like country music, and if that bothers you I couldn't possibly care less.

So feel free to join me in my kitchen anytime.

Sing loudly enough and I might give you half of my next cobbler.


*I think it has mostly gone towards gas and frozen yogurt runs.

**Thanks Mom and Dad, for not considering me a complete failure.

Loving the Olympics Makes Me Hate Myself, or I Get the Gold Medal for Mid-20s Angst

Despite what my box of Cheerios tells me, I am not an Olympic Champion.

Neither is this guy.

When I was 9 years old I took gymnastics lessons. For six months I tumbled. I cart-wheeled. I jumped on a trampoline. And while the other girls in my level (they called it Basic A), all quickly mastered the fundamentals, I was left behind in the proverbial dust, unable to complete a back walkover.

I quit gymnastics before ever moving up to Level 1.

Sure, at the time it was disappointing, but at that point in my life, the future was full of possibility. When my dream of Gymnastic Gold died on the balance beam (scariest shit ever) alongside my confidence, I was still just a young woman of 9 years. Although at that age I could have competed for China, I chalked my failure up to experience and moved on to my next endeavor. It was probably swim team, or dance or something else I was terrible at.

Which I guess brings me to my next point:

I like watching the Olympics, but I know not why.

It's likely that my Olympic fascination centers around the abundance of shirtless men, all at the peak of their physical fitness.* I mean, at the end of the day (and even at the beginning) I am a girl, after all. Perhaps the Olympic games are really just about satiating my carnal appetite without watching porn...

But I doubt that.

I like the national pride that comes with winning medals. I like the cheesy national anthem playing as my new favorite competitor takes the podium (kind of, I also think the medals ceremonies are a bit long and uncomfortable/unfun to watch). And I like that events are featured that I'd normally never ever think to watch on ESPN because I loathe ESPN and wouldn't watch anything on that channel anyway.

Swimming, for example, is really only fun to watch when it's Olympic swimming. Hurdling is only fun to watch when it's Olympic hurdling. Same goes for water polo, fencing, gymnastics, and a barrage of other sports that are only entertaining when the competition is for "The Gold."

I like that the Olympics count for something. Like Pride. Glory. And Kicking the rest of the world's ass on a global stage without using guns or bombs or WMDs. The world remembers for years what you did as an Olympic athlete. Your accomplishments are called "historic," and "unbelievable," and you set records and stuff. It means something. Unlike the NBA, or the NFL or any number of professional sports leagues, the Olympics has an air about it that makes it feel more legit. You could pay me $10 million dollars to play professional basketball, and sure I'll work hard because I'm being paid $10 million dollars. But it's the Olympians** who have the real heart, the real balls to get up every morning and train. When the game is over and a team has that look of profound joy and relief and disbelief on their faces, it's just really cool to watch. It sounds goofy, but I love that shit.

But, in spite of all the rock hard abs and national pride and feel-good crap, I can't help but find the Olympics more than a little depressing.

Recall the pathetic story I told you about me as an incapable 9 year old. Take that same girl and fast forward 13 years, and sure you've got a modest list of accomplishments, but not one of them comes close to achieving an "Olympic Dream." Not one of them even comes close to qualifying for the Olympic qualifiers.

Those gymnasts are freaking young! I mean, at 16 I was proud of myself for things like getting an A on an Algebra II test, or not getting into a car accident during my first year of being a licensed driver. If I didn't feel bad about my thighs, or my hair looked good for more than 6 hours, that was a good day! My mind at that point could barely wrap itself around surviving high school, much less concept of Olympic destiny, or anything even remotely like it for that matter.

So when I say it's depressing to watch the Olympics I don't really mean that I get thoughts of loneliness or hopelessness while watching. I don't want to stay in my pajamas and mope around the house in the dark all day long. I wouldn't rather be watching soap operas. I just wish I had a little more to show for my 23 years. If those little non-menstruating girls can go home Olympic champions, and if Michael Phelps can win 100 Gold Medals before the age of 24, I'd just like to be able to sit in the same room with those kids and not feel totally inadequate.

And I'd be remiss to say I wasn't totally jealous of all the attention. Damn straight I'm jealous. The glitz and glamour of being a world-class athlete would be totally awesome and intoxicating. I'd deal with the stress just fine if I knew I could give a shout out to my mom on international television at the end when I raked in another win.

The Olympics are cool. But they lure me into the danger of thinking that I should have peaked by now. I'm 23 and I just moved home to the most boring place on earth to coach junior high volleyball and substitute teach in order to work myself out of debt. I have maybe 4 friends within 10 miles, and I planted a failing vegetable garden to keep myself busy.

If this is the top of my game, there's not a whole lot of room to fall.

And maybe that's a good thing.

Hi, Mom.



*This was Tommy's observation. But I mean, really. Even I'll jump on the Michael Phelps bandwagon despite its being totally overplayed in the media.





** Obviously I'm completely dismissing Olympic sports that allow pro-athletes to play. Kobe Bryant shouldn't be an Olympian. I kind of think it's bullshit.

Too Many Chicks In One Room Is Not A Good Idea, or "Sex and the City," Yikes.

Women, in mass quantities, could feasibly end the world.

I say this, because I had the supremely disturbing experience of going to see "Sex and the City" on opening night last weekend. It was pink. It was loud. It smelled like a perfume counter.

And it renewed my faith in Men.

Like most women between the ages of 18 and 40 (maybe 1 and 100?), I enjoy the HBO series "Sex and the City." It took me and my dear friend Kristin 6 months to watch all bajillion episodes last year, and now that I've had the oddly pleasurable experience of watching the last two-and-a-half hour episode, er, movie, I can say I've seen it all. And I can add to that that in all honesty, despite the ration of shit I have gotten from my male associates, it was enjoyable.

For the most part.

Maybe it's because it was opening night (worst idea ever), or maybe because it's the only movie of the summer targeted specifically at women ("Iron Man" could count, because Robert Downey, Jr. is very much back on his game, but not for purposes of my argument), or maybe because I'll always be skeptical of Other Women who aren't my proven, trusted friends, but going to see this movie can only be described as an utterly bizarre, rude awakening as to how women across the country behave and what they must be thinking.

I'll break it down into several phases:

Phase I: Standing In Line

Naturally, on opening night of virtually any anticipated film there will be a line. But the line for "Sex and the City" stands in a category all by itself. I got there almost an hour early, and waited and watched as hundreds (literally hundreds, it was so scary!) of women lined up behind me, all giddy and eager, all with the same look of hopeful desperation on their faces, as if they'd all been waiting three years for an orgasm that never...quite...came. In groups of four, sometimes five or six (any more than four is sooo passe), they chatted, and giggled, and often full-on squawked. Many tried way too hard to look "the part" with fancy heels and flashy couture. Others had horrifically large collagen-filled lips and Botox-deadened eyebrows. And there was more pink in that line than I've ever seen in one place. The group of chicks in front of us had even fashioned these horrendous shirts earlier that day.

An explosion at a nearby Amoxicillin factory would have made more sense. As it was, the sickening pink obsession happening in that line was more than this girl could handle.

Phase II: Being Herded Into The Theater Like Cows to the Slaughter

Eating beef on occasion does not imply that I would ever enjoy being part of a cattle drive, but as the doors opened to the theater, I had no say in the matter and was reduced just another piece of dress-wearing meat. Luckily my friends and I were at the front of the line and thus able to avoid the absurdity of cat-fighting our way into a row of seats next to each other. Equally lucky was I to witness said absurdity. As the bitches flooded in, it was nothing short of a shit-show battle for chairs. It's baffling how inclined to fight "the fairer sex" can be. Sure, women are generally more inclined to share (it's a quality we have a natural tendency to adopt as children), but for some reason all efforts to "be nice" disappear when really important stuff is on the line. Really important stuff like a perfectly unobstructed view of all the totally awesome outfits Carrie Bradshaw wears in the most totally awesome city in alllll the land, New York.* Look out ladies, there are other, more vicious women around, and they will verbally smack you down if you insist on saving seats.

Phase III: The Crazy-ass Fucking Screaming During The Opening Credits

Yeah. So the theme song came on, and it was mayhem. So much screaming.


Phase IV: Watching The Movie and Feeling Like A Soulless Vacuum For Not Crying

So much dramatic stuff happened, it was almost laughable (to me). For everyone else it was apparently quite cryable. I mean, I see how trying to wrap up a nearly 10-year series with a loyal (almost overly-so) audience in less than 2 hours could be difficult, so I applaud the writers' efforts to cram in a plausible narrative storyline in with years and years of background. But some of the emotional stunts they pull are just silly. They're designed to get you to cry, and then to laugh, and then to cry again... those bastards. I see right through their dirty tricks! Dammit if I'll be turning on the waterworks when those fab-four shove their ludicrously expensive wardrobes and their enviable luxury lifestyles in my face while I get ready to leave my pointless job and move home.

All in all, the movie itself was...well, fun I guess. It was mostly predictable, but Carrie changes her hair color at one point, so I guess it was a little unpredictable, too. I enjoyed seeing the characters for one last hurrah, and I'm not "unglad" that I went. There are things in life I'm not proud of, but that's no reason to hide them in a shoe box on a shelf in my retardedly huge, custom designed closet.** But similar to radiation from an atom bomb, the estrogen fall-out from that movie theater will probably be enough to give me PMS for a month.

...and it might even destroy the world.


*What? Don't act like you didn't know.
**That's a loose reference to the movie, if you haven't, or don't plan to see it.

The Apparent Nightmare of Working Motherhood, or, "I Can Teach My Kids Spanish By Myself, Thank you Very Much"

This entry is all about advice I'm not qualified to give.

First piece of advice: Avoid Credit Card Debt.

Second piece of advice: Don't Bitch To Me About Your Nanny.

If you count a degree in Communications something real and/or of value, then you can call me a college educated, reasonably intelligent person. I realize that there are issues out there in the world on which people have varying opinions. Some opinions are stronger, some are weaker, and although I am a woman, I too have a point of view that some egalitarian societies would consider valid. While I generally tend to veer away from divisive issues because I want everyone to like me, this is a safe place where women are free, so I think it's OK for me to blog my mind. I'm a grown up now (not really), and after seeing the poster enough times I realize that being right is not always popular, and being popular is not always right. Or whatever.*


Don't worry, I'm not going to write about abortion or the death penalty or gay marriage or states' rights. Let's be honest, I have reached a certain level of cyber-popularity,** and now that I have an online reputation to maintain I'd rather not stir up any shit in my posted comments section lest I risk losing any one of my 4-7 readers.

Plus you already figured out that this entry is about Nannies, so you know it's not going to be that outrageous. This isn't Berkeley. And I'm not some fanatic (Berkeley is the only place you can find fanatics these days). So let's get started...

Face the facts, reader: Nannies are the new Mommies.

It's true. The times they are a'changin', and what was once commonplace, over time becomes passe.

Green Tea is the new Coffee.
Quitting Jobs and Moving Home is the new Hard Work.
Hooking up is the new Going Steady.

Nannies are the new Mommies.

Granted, the notion of "A Village" raising "A Child" is not an entirely new thing. Maternal Expert and Presidential Hopeful, Hilary Rodham Clinton, even went so far as to write a book on this very subject! One I don't plan on reading. But even before Hilary, it was supposedly an African proverb (however, the truth of that statement has not yet been verified by Wikipedia, but I trust 90% of what they say 90% of the time).

Apparently we have a lot to learn from Africa. And from Hilary Clinton.


Or do they have a lot to learn from me? Because I'm pretty sure that regardless of the truth in the idea that a child's community and society are very much influential components of that child's upbringing, I'm also pretty sure that Parents raise Children. Call me old fashioned, but I'm almost positive I'm right.

The way I learned it was: Parents get drunk... Parents conceive child... Parents give birth to child... Parents raise child. It makes sense to me, but my un-hipness is more apparent by the minute, because from what I can see, even this simple formula has become passe.

Why? You ask.

Because I hear a lot about Nannies. Specifically bitching about Nannies.

A woman I work with recently had twins and until she hired a new one, she was always bitching about her nanny. Ok, so twins have got to be a massive handful for a new mom. Zero to sixty in nine months. I get it. Taking care of one baby is enough of a handful, so naturally two babies would be very overwhelming for anyone... including a Nanny, right?

Maybe I'm really anti-nanny because I don't make enough money at present to justify getting one. If I had a kid, it'd be just as expensive for me to employ someone to raise it while I went to work as it would be to not work at all. Perhaps if I was actually realizing my earning potential, I'd be more inclined to hire a Spanish-speaking mother for my children. But likely not.

Lady, if you want your babies to be held a certain way, or fed at a certain time, or to acknowledge you as their primary caretaker, you should stop bitching all day about your nanny and either train her to be JUST LIKE YOU, or quit your job and RAISE YOUR CHILDREN.

I didn't hire anyone to do my homework for me in high school. I didn't hire anyone to do my job for me at work. And I don't plan on hiring a pinch-runner-nanny to raise my kids for me.


Mostly because I hate working.



*Note that I am actually too lazy to re-arrange the verbiage of that phrase, and would rather just insert a footnote.

**Also, it is un-confirmable.