you don't even have kids

Last Sunday, for the 4th, Lynnette and I headed up to a large local park that sits above the city to eat dinner and watch fireworks. It's a place I love to go by myself and hike around and take photos.

Sunset over the valley

Anyway, I'm not super patriotic and I'm not about to derail this post with my political leanings except to say that they're my own so please don't stone me. But who doesn't love fireworks? I certainly do. Fireworks are totes awesome!

I mean they're all sparkly and explodey and firey. Who doesn't love that?

So anyway, we went up above the city to watch the fireworks show, mostly because we wanted to avoid crowds, paying to get into the city-sponsored stadium show, and traffic. And it was a brilliant idea. We found a lovely man-made lookout and settled into a spot on the concrete with our blanket and pizza. We could see fireworks shows not just in our town but all along the valley. It was fantastic!

We even made friends with the other families there and had a generally kickass time, except for the monster Chernobyl mosquito bites I got on my back and the concrete made my ass and ankles sore. Which sucked. And made me feel old. Because you know that shit doesn't bother you when you're a kid, right? Like, you're just happy to see fireworks and be up past 9!

But no, I was all whiney about my numb ass and mosquito bites.

So anyway, after the show ended, everyone was getting up and as I was stretching out my sore back (SEE? OLD. LADY.), I groaned.

The lady who had been sitting behind me (who looked about my age, aka 30ish) complained that her back was sore.

I laughed and said: Yeah,  I'm clearly getting old.

And she said: ugh you don't even have kids.

So I replied: I would have them if I could.

EXCUSE ME? Like, that pissed me off, yo. I was totally offended. 

I mean, I know what she meant to say was, You look young or something to that effect. But what she essentially said was that since I didn't appear to have children, I must, in fact, be young. 

But what the hell did she know about me? I could have lost a baby for all she knew. For all she knew, I couldn't have kids. Or I could have had a child who died. Or I could have kids at home. Hell, I could have a 12 year old at home. SHIT, technically, I could have a 16 year old at home (I can do the math). 

But beyond that, what does having kids have to do with anything? Yes, children wear you out. Yes, it's hard work. That's not what I'm saying here. I'm saying that I know plenty of childless people who live hard lives and age their bodies just as much as parents do. 

I want children immensely, so I want to make sure this post in no way implies that I think parenthood isn't an awesome life choice. BUT, parenthood isn't a badge of honor that you get to lord over others with smug condescension. Nopetty nope it is not. 

So now that this has turned into one spectacular rant, I should prob reel it back in. But you know? That shit pissed me the fuck off. I'd just like to see people think before they speak. Have a little compassion and tact before words just fly out of their mouths like flies did in that Mummy movie (that was tres gross right?). Or like word vomit a la Mean Girls. 

What could it hurt to consider that maybe, just maybe you're not the only bitch walking the planet and that other people have lives and experience and histories that have nothing to do with you? Maybe, just maybe you might offend someone. Or hurt someone. With a little flippant ass fucking comment. 

What would she have done if I'd replied, I did. Maybe I could have managed a small tear. Would she still have thought herself better than me? Or wiser or older or whatever it was she felt she had over me with her motherhood? 

Well what the fuck did she know? Nothing. 

As my brilliant friend Lynnette said, "People assume that just because their life is easy, everyone else's is too." 

People: is it too much to ask to think before you speak? Really?

parental units

I was reading one of my favorite blogs just now, written by one of the funniest women on the planet, Heather Armstrong of dooce.com, and in this particular post, Heather describes how her mother has the shortest phone conversations ever. And anyone who knows my mother at all will at this point be smacking their heads and going, what a lucky lady!

This is because while Heather's mom may not be able to stay on the phone for over a minute, my mom holds the record for being the complete antithesis of that. Now, I must say at this point that I do not get along with my mom, haven't spoken to her in a long time, but that's not the point. So let's set all that aside.

My mom loves the phone. Lives for it. Call her at your own peril. I recommend that anyone calling her just start the conversation with "goodbye" or "gotta go." That will buy you an hour or so. Don't even attempt, "I can't talk long." She won't even hear it. She'll just keep barreling through so keep those goodbyes going as long as you can. And if all else fails, she doesn't really understand cell phones. Just pull the, "I can't hear you....are you there?...can you hear me?....if you can hear me, I'm hanging up now..." and just hang up. Thank god for cell phones. I don't know what people did before them. How did they ever end conversations with my mom?

She's also a salesman's dream come true. She's gullible and will buy whatever you're selling. So if you can imagine her two favorite mediums, shopping and the phone, coming together in a vortex with my mom at the middle, well, that's a phone bill I don't want to see. Salesmen (and women) beware. She'll buy your product alright, but at what cost? You may sell twenty subscriptions to Angler or 15 dog hair trimmers, but you'll lose twelve hours of your life. Twelve hours you can never get back!

Don't get me started on QVC. Before my dad cut up her debit card, I'm pretty sure the entire call center there knew her middle name. And my dad's. And mine for that matter. Because what else do you think she talks about.

Okay, okay, I'll stop making fun of mi madre. But, this is the easy stuff. The stuff you're supposed to make fun of. This is the stuff that sitcoms are made of.

To be fair, here's some quirky stuff about my dad. My dad has been a closet smoker his whole life. I think the only time he smoked openly was in Vietnam. I actually think he thinks no one knows he smokes. Hey, dad! We know. We know. He also looks like a mad scientist. Seriously. He's had this Albert Einstein thing going on since 1980 and I don't think he's combed his hair since 1973.

This works because he actually is a scientist. He works in a chemist lab and I hear that the younger techs like to give him that photo of Einstein sticking his tongue out. Perfect likeness. Oh I know. Did you ever see Willie Wonka? The first one? My dad looks like Grandpa Joe. Hold on, yes! Here's a picture . Do you see? That's my pops. Ooh also, my dad used to be a fire captain and the younger guys used to call him Many Moons. Love that. But he's got a great sense of humor.

I found this website this weekend whilst holed up in my house sick and I think I want to submit a pic of my 'rents. I have a bunch, but this one is a big contender:

That's me in the middle. I'm guessing this is early 1981 and you've caught my dad in a rare hair combed moment. This is also about one year before he started losing that mane of hair. Poor guy. Do you love their matching shirts? You know my mom made him do that. They have tons of pictures with matching shirts. I swear.

Today, halfway through the day, I realized it's my adoption day. It's the 29th anniversary of my adoption and we always celebrated with dinner and a small present. This year I forgot about it, but my dad did make me lunch on Saturday and bought me a much needed appliance for my tiny kitchen. I say success! But every year I've been less and less excited about this day. And that's complicated. Part of it the lack of relationship with my mom but part of it is that I just keep forgetting. And as I've gotten older, celebrating was put on the back burner. Some years I had to work, one year I was in France, etc. It's become not such a big deal.

Part of why we celebrated when I was a kid was that I shared my birthday with my mom. So instead of my birthday, this was my special day. And instead of a huge party (which my mom loved to throw for our birthdays and invite all of China), I just wanted a special dinner with one close friend. That's kind of how I still roll. But since then, I've made a bigger deal out of my birthday. I get a special day and don't really feel the need to do that twice.

Plus maybe that just shows how comfortable I am. So what if I forgot? I'd rather have quality time with friends on random days for no better reason than the pleasure of each other's company.

Well anyway, happy 29th adoption day to me. I may have been alive longer, but I've been an Andrea since November 17th, 1980. I was a Rachel before that. But that's a story for another time.