Maybe They Just Craved an A&F Polo Too...

Is it wrong, or odd, to have dreams about shopping? I just woke up from an extended dream about shopping at a mall store (oddly, as I've never happened to buy anything there, it was Abercrombie & Fitch...), and so it means that I spent the majority of my deep sleep thinking about sweaters, and scarves, and trying to find the girls' polos... and I think we fought off a homeless man who tried to come in. My conclusion? I'm pretty sure my brain is telling me it wants to be much shallower than I usually let it. Let's be real, that's often pretty shallow, but apparently it wants to be shallower. And hates the homeless. Who am I to argue with my own subconscious? So when I go out today, I'm going to put on earrings and cute shirt, and take absolutely no spare change in my pockets, and drive to the suburbs to see a stupid movie. So ha! Victory.

This also seems like an opportune moment to admit that I have a helpless dependency on some very shallow blogs, like the ever wonderful www.perezhilton.com, the hilarious gofugyourself.com, where I pretend that I'm in the writer's entourage because she was moderator of an X-Files internet forum I was all over back in the day (and that's a separate issue). But let's not forget the execrable but incredible www.babyrazzi.com. That's right-- a paparazzi photos website devoted exclusively to showcasing the startled snaps of helpless babies that just happened to get borned to famous people. Sweet. Celebrity mommas need to look out for me too, apparently. At least they have security details.


Who I'm Judging Right Now: The genuinely in love overweight couple sitting in front of me at the Blue Rodeo concert last night. He? Wore a stained Buffalo Sabres jersey and a baseball cap over gelled and buzz-cut hair. She? Sported an extra-long bleached-blond perm, and repeatedly nuzzled into his neck while I tried to crane my neck past her crazed and chemically altered hair tendrils to see my favourite ever over-40 country rockers. Then he kept trying to put his arm around her, and let because of its width half the arm kept draping across my upper leg, where I passive-aggressively jiggled it off and he kept on doggedly trying to replace it. When they started doing those our-faces-are-still-really-far-away-but-we're-still-going-to-
kiss-so-we-have-to make-'cute'-fishy-type-kissing-lips-which-we-will-then-
smack-loudly-on-impact-sigh-then-
gaze-lovingly-at-each-other- in-a-self-congratulatory-manner kind of kisses (you know those?), I briefly considered leaning over and informing them that I was there to watch my still slightly incestuously sexy Blue Rodeo prance around the stage with mandolins and skinny "country" jeans, not their hideous display of fish-like blubber love, thank you very much.

And now I'm judging me a little again. Oh well! Off on my trip to the suburbs now- that should kill any residual thoughtfulness and guilt. Anyone want to go with me to buy a cute sweater?

Put Eyes in the Back of Your Head

It's always the most radically inappropriate thoughts that stick around.

For example, I can't be the only one who regularly maintains brief fantasies about stealing babies. Or having one left at your doorstep. Or being the only teenage mother ever to have a perfect Hallmark life. Or having a moving car screech to a halt in front of them, a frazzled woman leap out, hand you her infant, tell you she's chosen you to have it because she's a mental person/addict/ne'er-do-well/mother of a Disney character (who must by necessity be absent), and then screeching off again (a true fantasy from middle school). Or maybe being chosen to inherit the world's most winsome infant and/or preschooler(s), so as in the process of raising it, become a vastly better person and have all your flaws are erased by mothering such a charming infant, who routinely makes you realize wise lessons, and then you end up marrying the friendly neighbourhood priest instead of having that series of ill-advised flings like you were hoping (TM 'Raising Helen').

In any case, this genre of fantasy is clearly really odd and inappropriate, especially if you're a 12-19 year old female whose life would most certainly NOT benefit from the addition of any of the above mentioned miniature people. Still, they stick around, and threaten us with the impending karmic doom of secretly, just a little, hoping to maybe possibly somehow encourage them to come true. But maybe it isn't about the babies at all; maybe it's the self-importance, the purity, the sigh of relief that comes from acquiring the beauty and fulfillment and attention of babies and motherhood without the inconvenience and judgment of getting knocked up, pissing off your parents, admitting fault, and pooing yourself on the delivery table. For example, I'm almost 100% certain that I was the only 14 year-old who had a dream/fantasy about achieving an immaculate virgin conception, only no one believed her. But I knew. I knew I was getting this Jesus-fetus as a reward for just how fucking great I was, no matter if no boy had even deigned to kiss me yet, let alone fertilize me, or if I was chubby and alone. Oh, the ego stroke of the foundling baby.

But all that is speculation. The only thing that I do know for sure is that I still want to steal your baby, so Mommas: grow eyes in the back of your head and watch out for the lady with the improbable Jesus-fetus.


Who I'm Judging Right Now: myself, more than a little, and the 14 year-olds running around the library hissing swear words and "shhhhs!" at each other. They make me feel crotchety and old. I certainly *don't* want to steal them.