Tag Archives: lisa b adams

Squirrely

Fucking Parenthood.

Not the thing itself. This time I’m talking about the show. I just watched the episode where Kristina tells her family she has cancer, and I’m crying so hard I’m going to short out my computer. That series! Jesus. They should use it at accident sites, as a way to tell if people are dead or alive. Just put them in front of any episode–if they don’t sob themselves into a fetal position by the end of the opening credits they’re corpses for sure. Of course, checking the pulse is faster. But the show is much more entertaining. If you think entertainment is having your heart ripped open and spread on toast like so much chunky almond butter.

Anyway. What I was planning on writing about–before I got dragged into the “Parenthood” grief cycle–was my dog. The jerk finally killed something. Just a squirrel. But still. It was horrible. And in front of my daughter, too! Fortunately we were standing in a driveway and there was a car blocking her view, so technically MJ didn’t see it. She just heard the screams.

I, on the other hand, saw the whole thing. As did Mike. My Dad saw it too. He was heretofore less familiar with Mina’s Caligula side. No longer. I don’t think he’ll be inviting her up to the house again anytime soon.

Oh, Mina. Sometimes I feel cursed with her. Her dog aggression alone would make her seriously challenging. Add in the broken windows, the repeated instances of knocking over small children, the magnetic attraction to skunks, the resistance to training of any kind, and you’ve got a dog that can be a wee bit hard to love. And let me tell you, adding murder to her list of crimes doesn’t up her desirability quotient. And I mean, really, what gives with that? Most dogs chase squirrels and miss. They miss every time. That’s what dog’s do. It’s supposed to be a cliche.

But our dog never got the memo. For there she was, racing after one, catching it, and then–while we all screamed “Mina, no!”–snapping its neck with one flick of her head in less time than it would take to flip a burger. Then, and only then, did she heed our desperate calls. She dropped it–leaving the corpse lying in the next driveway like some kind of flaccid fur sausage–and raced back to us. Wagging her tail, of course.

I kind of hate her.

I once saw my beloved ex-cat Sid kill a hummingbird, and I had much the same feeling about him. A sort of sickened realization: “My God. You’re an animal.” I never looked at him the same way again. Which is why he now lives–in shag-carpeted comfort, mind you– with my old neighbor. Don’t hate me. He peed on everything. And he’s safer there, anyway. Mina clearly would have done him in eventually.

Maybe the squirrel is part of the reason I cried so hard at Parenthood tonight. Maybe the hummingbird, too. And Sid. And Lisa B. Adams–I know I was crying for her. And for all of us poor sots. We’ll all end up like that squirrel eventually–mown down by an unseen force, necksnapped unceremoniously, and left as carrion on a stranger’s property. Where, hopefully, a raven will eventually come and eat us. Or at least our entrails. And the rest will eventually get cleaned up by that same neighbor. Who will wonder why the fuck there’s a dead squirrel lying in his driveway.

He’ll never know. Life is rough.

I need a bit more escape from it. I’m going to go watch another episode.

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Bra-Vado

Talk about a stay of execution.

I’d been feeling really tired for the last week or two. Like, exhausted. (And no, I’m not pregnant. Waah.)

As there seemed to be no other ready explanation for it, I came to the eventual conclusion that I had a terminal illness. Probably breast cancer. What can I say? I’d been reading a lot of Lisa B. Adams’ blog. I’m impressionable. If only my wild imagination had powers of good, like coming up with awesome screenplay ideas or new ways to save the coral reefs, what a star I’d be.

But it doesn’t. And I’m not. I just get a lot of diseases.

This latest one terrified me. But it also got me thinking about underwire bras.

I’ll explain: I’ve eschewed them my entire life. Mostly because I don’t have the boobs for them, but also because I’d heard somewhere, a long time ago, that they might be a cause of the aforementioned illness.

Cut to today. I’m sitting on the couch. I’m feeling tired. I’m worrying about breast cancer. But I’m comforting myself with the fact that, while there is, of course, a chance I have it, it’s not high. I’ve never, after all, worn underwires. At least I have that going for me.

Then, just to be sure, I reached under my shirt. And I froze.

My hand touched hard steel.

In that moment I realized something. Something awful: that not only had my breasts changed irrecoverably when I gave birth to my daughter, but that my relationship with them had too. We were so distant now–like married people asleep in separate rooms–that I didn’t even know what they wore. They were like teenagers, sneaking out of the house in one outfit, then changing into another when my back was turned.

“When,” I almost shouted at them, “did you start gallivanting around in that getup?”

I was seriously losing it. I was apparently in possession of a whole drawer full of garments I am deeply opposed to. How did this happen? Last time I checked, my bras were all of the flimsy cloth variety. True, they provided no support and little “nipple discretion,” but neither were they life threatening!

I must’ve purchased the underwires in some kind of lingerie-related blackout. It wouldn’t be the first time. I shopped for bras last year and accidentally bought a bunch of padded ones. Super padded. So padded that every time I hold MJ she jabs her thumbs into the cups like they’re some kind of finger trampoline. “Boing,” she crows. “Boing boing!”

I can’t feel it. But it still irks.

The pads are bad. The fact that the bras are pushups is worse. And more ironic, as there’s literally nothing to push up. Except the padding itself. Which is, for the most part, too busy being stabbed by my daughter to go anywhere. It just lies there, pleading for mercy.

But underwires? I didn’t think I’d stooped so low.

Clearly my breasts are no longer my own. We don’t speak. We are estranged.

Thank God I have other friends. It was one of them who informed me, this afternoon, that I wasn’t dying. Not now, anyway.

I’d mentioned my allergies, which are ghastly at the moment, and which I’ve never really had before.

“I know,” she replied. “They suck. Doesn’t the fatigue just knock you out?”

I sat up straight, a faint shaft of hope tapping at the uncleaned window of my mind. “Do allergies make you tired?”

“Oh, hell, yes.” she said.

I almost hugged her. “I’m not dying!”I shrieked, and danced–listlessly, but still–around the kitchen.

So the good news is, I may have a clean bill of health. The bad news? The pollen count is really high. I’m trying to use only cloth napkins for blowing my nose. Or rags. Made from old sheets. Which feels like blowing your nose on a bed. It’s sort of a disaster.

Wait a minute. The bras. I need to get rid of them anyway. I could–

Excuse me. I feel a sneeze coming on. I’ve got to get my shirt off and start working on these hooks and eyes.