These days there is no sound that brings fear into my heart like that of the wanton squeaking of the crib, as broadcast by the trusty baby monitor.
It’s a cruel harbinger that baby– suddenly so enamored with his newfound ability to stand and look kingly in his crib– has decided to take a very short nap, and I must away from my mommy comforts to be royal buffoon once again.
Do not get me wrong: I adore the Herr Meow.
But I do resent not being able to write or catch up on the juicy online goss or just eat a friggin’ piece of toast because I’m bound to hear a heart-wrenching “Nyaah!” coming through the monitor.
An accusing “NYAH!” followed by possibly the saddest and most remonstrating sound known to man:
First the sobs are fake. And then they get more and more heartfelt and heartbreaking.
I swear, this does not happen often, but my house has stories. Stories which I must climb upwardly to get to my diapered in distress, who breaks into a glad and gummy grin when he sees me. Distress, gone.
I did have time to take my shower, and for that I am grateful.
As I showered and did all my paraphernalia, I thought of things to write about were I to have the time after showering.
My result was that I am a brute.
Apparently us brutes are rather rude and blunt and say things like they are. Sadly, we’re also kinda stupid– the quizzy writer conveyed that a brute is kind of like a King Kong.
King Kong, I am not. However, I have been told I am brutal. Which in my opinion, proves that the quiz isn’t too too far off.
But that got me thinking about Dr. Phil, and how people listen to HIM when he is blunt and truthful and decidedly brutal.
Dr. Phil is over 6 feet tall and a Texan. I’m sure that if you tried to disagree with him he’d grill you up for dinner. He plays up his King Kongian attributes to tell people that they suck.
And WHY they suck.
He may be derided and mocked, but he knows what’s up. He knows that if he were 5′ 2″ and from, say, Oregon, people would just clock him a good one in the jaw for calling them narcissistic slackers who are a general waste of oxygen.
And talking about general wastes of oxygen, two things:
Dooce is an excellent writer and I believe that what she writes is compelling– but mostly for her unique voice and editorial comments. But Britney Spears is still a bit of a waste of oxygen.
Okay, maybe calling her a waste of oxygen is very harsh. Certainly her baby daddy and somewhat-erstwhile-we-hope husband Kevin Federline is a waste of oxygen– a mooch and a scammer and a bad rapper. There are tens of thousands of young men who could do what he’s done– he’s just a lucky sonofabitch. Perhaps, then, one could argue that luck is a saving grace.
Back to Britney. She willingly married that scumbag, despite the protests of her family, friends, and pretty much anyone who has any media access in America
She went from much-envied pop tart to full time freak show, complete with horrifying footage as memento for all of us. Where was her mother in all of this?
Well, she was duped about the marriage bit– probably because she would have disapproved otherwise– and has been doing damage control ever since Britney thought marriage was a prank you pulled on people.
Which brings me to her double, impending motherhood.
Maybe Britney really is as dumb and pathetic as she appeared to be in her interview with Matt Lauer.
(certainly, it’s within the norm for the co-creatrix of “Chaotic”)
And maybe Britney does think that marriage is a prank you can pull on people. Including yourself, really– only that you don’t have the depth of character involved in realizing that you are the punchline to your own unprenupped joke.
So in keeping with this puella aeterna M.O., is it too far-fetched to think that Britney also has this dim, juvenile approach to motherhood, where babies are to be changed and fed (with a bottle, I would imagine…) and then to be placed in their room and forgotten, perhaps. Or simply to be treated as items of pleasure, who do not need to be minded or disciplined, and for whom you needen’t alter your wardrobe– perhaps to wear slightly more sensible shoes so that the world doesn’t have to read and browse through the pictorial about you nearly dropping your child and breaking and ankle while walking around in 4-inch wedges. For instance.
See? I didn’t even bring up the fact that I do distinctly remember floating in the backseat of my mom’s car when I was little; and that while seatbelt laws save many lives, Britney doing her… ahem…. *country* thing was not necessarily that bad (although you’d really have to live under a rock to not know that babies are supposed to ride in a REAR FACING carseat until they are one year of age AND 20 lbs.). And I didn’t bring up the fact that the nanny dropped him: babies do fall. Babies survive all manner of nicks and dings and whatnot. And to crucify Britney for something that the nanny did –and who was promptly replaced by Perry the Manny– would be rude.
However that bit of dropping the kid while wearing her hoochie mama outfit, and the fact that she married Federline against her mother’s wishes; the fact that she married this other yokelly doofus seemingly just for fun; and the fact that she does not seem to think that calling her lap-drive with the kid “country” offends folks who may live in rural areas but who are responsible parents……
….well, I think you get me.