Andrea: I heart you forever, Paul.
Paul: Then do the dishes.
Andrea: What?
Paul: .......Nothing.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
unrighteous dominion, part deux
Andrea: I heart you forever, Paul.
Paul: Then do the dishes.
Andrea: What?
Paul: .......Nothing.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
holy envy
"Mom, I want a snack."
She's pretty adorable, this tiny girl who's just boarded the bus. Head to toe pink, umbrella included. I wish I could wear head to toe pink. Let me re-phrase: I wish I could wear head to toe pink and have people think I look cute.
"Mom, I want a snack."
She's not whining, just looking all cute and puzzled at her mom, who sighs patiently.
"I know, honey. Remember, you'll get a snack when you're all done with class?"
"Oh, okay."
She seems satisfied, and returns to admiring her frilly pink umbrella. I'm admiring it too, truth be told. It's quite a fine umbrella.
"Mom, I want a snack. Can I please have a snack?"
"Sorry sweets, you can have one when we're back from school, okay?"
Once again, this satisfies her. She peeks at me from her seat. I make a silly face at her, which she seems to like.
"Mom, I want a snack."
Here, my little friend determines that her previous tactics have proved ineffective, and she decides to step up her game. She's pretty sharp, and shrewdly decides to continue with the not whining (which is very big when you're five, from what I remember) and to go with a cool and calculated attack:
"Mom, I want a snack. Mom, I want a snack. Mom, I want a snack. But Mom, I want a snack. Mom, can I have a snack please? Mom, I'd like a snack. Mom, can I please have a snack?"
Her mother, demonstrating saint-like patience, calmly replies "I know, honey. I know."
It's my stop. I get off the bus, smiling and sad all at the same time. I think I know how she feels.
It's weeks later, and Paul and I are visiting some good friends who've just reproduced for the first time: a sweet baby girl. I'm holding her, patting her back, delighted when I get her to burp, beyond pleased that she's stopped crying and is nuzzling sweetly into my neck. I think:
Put me in, coach. I can do this.
I know, honey, I know.
I'd like a baby, please.
Remember, Andrea? You'll get one, when it's time.
Oh, okay.
So, how about now? Can I have a baby now? I swear, I'll be good. I'll feed it vegetables and everything. It's just that I'd really like one, and everyone else has one. I've been really patient, right? I mean, did you just see how I got her to stop crying? Good work, right? Well, there's way more where that came from. Have you seen my silly faces? And my diaper changing- pure magic, I tell you. I've got names picked out and everything. Good names, too. Not the kind that will get them made fun of, you know? And I found this website that has these really awesome onesies and there's one with a picture of the Ramones on it and how great is that? So, how about it? Can I have one?
No, not right now. Remember, soon, just not yet.
Right.
I think it's holy envy because it's a good thing that I want, right? A holy thing. It's not like I'm saying "Holy envy, Batman. I'd like a baby."
Paul smiles at me as we leave. He says:
"Put me in, coach. I can do this."
She's pretty adorable, this tiny girl who's just boarded the bus. Head to toe pink, umbrella included. I wish I could wear head to toe pink. Let me re-phrase: I wish I could wear head to toe pink and have people think I look cute.
"Mom, I want a snack."
She's not whining, just looking all cute and puzzled at her mom, who sighs patiently.
"I know, honey. Remember, you'll get a snack when you're all done with class?"
"Oh, okay."
She seems satisfied, and returns to admiring her frilly pink umbrella. I'm admiring it too, truth be told. It's quite a fine umbrella.
"Mom, I want a snack. Can I please have a snack?"
"Sorry sweets, you can have one when we're back from school, okay?"
Once again, this satisfies her. She peeks at me from her seat. I make a silly face at her, which she seems to like.
"Mom, I want a snack."
Here, my little friend determines that her previous tactics have proved ineffective, and she decides to step up her game. She's pretty sharp, and shrewdly decides to continue with the not whining (which is very big when you're five, from what I remember) and to go with a cool and calculated attack:
"Mom, I want a snack. Mom, I want a snack. Mom, I want a snack. But Mom, I want a snack. Mom, can I have a snack please? Mom, I'd like a snack. Mom, can I please have a snack?"
Her mother, demonstrating saint-like patience, calmly replies "I know, honey. I know."
It's my stop. I get off the bus, smiling and sad all at the same time. I think I know how she feels.
It's weeks later, and Paul and I are visiting some good friends who've just reproduced for the first time: a sweet baby girl. I'm holding her, patting her back, delighted when I get her to burp, beyond pleased that she's stopped crying and is nuzzling sweetly into my neck. I think:
Put me in, coach. I can do this.
I know, honey, I know.
I'd like a baby, please.
Remember, Andrea? You'll get one, when it's time.
Oh, okay.
So, how about now? Can I have a baby now? I swear, I'll be good. I'll feed it vegetables and everything. It's just that I'd really like one, and everyone else has one. I've been really patient, right? I mean, did you just see how I got her to stop crying? Good work, right? Well, there's way more where that came from. Have you seen my silly faces? And my diaper changing- pure magic, I tell you. I've got names picked out and everything. Good names, too. Not the kind that will get them made fun of, you know? And I found this website that has these really awesome onesies and there's one with a picture of the Ramones on it and how great is that? So, how about it? Can I have one?
No, not right now. Remember, soon, just not yet.
Right.
I think it's holy envy because it's a good thing that I want, right? A holy thing. It's not like I'm saying "Holy envy, Batman. I'd like a baby."
Paul smiles at me as we leave. He says:
"Put me in, coach. I can do this."
Saturday, March 8, 2008
andrea in wonderland
The Queen of Hearts gets manicures. I mean, why wouldn't she? If I were Queen, I'd get manicures daily. No, make that twice daily. No, thrice daily! I think when you're Queen, the word thrice is very big. I had a point. Oh! So, there's this woman who works at the hospital who looks exactly like the Queen of Hearts. I first saw her at a computer training course. I sat across from her, and had an extremely difficult time concentrating. I kept wanting to shout "Off with her head!!". It wouldn't have been appropriate. On the last day of the class, I came very near to telling her she looked exactly... like a dear auntie of mine (um, yeah! that's it!), and would she mind if I took her picture, but my better instincts told me not to. Also, I was afraid she might sit on me.
I saw her again in an elevator, and was really quite thrilled. I felt like we had a history, even if she didn't know it. I did my best to send telepathic messages to the other people in the elevator, not wanting them to miss out on an opportunity to see the Queen (of Hearts), but I don't think anyone got it. Yesterday, I went for a manicure while on my lunch break, and as I happily breathed in the toxic fumes and admired my freshly painted nails, I saw her! She was getting a manicure!! I was de-lighted. Hey, I shouted inwardly, you know you're a pretty great villain! I mean, not as great as Maleficent because I think we can all agree she's the best villain ever, but you're pretty great! So, you get manicures too, huh? Cool. Me too. So, remember when we were in class together? Can I have a picture taken with you so I can show my friends? Or, would you mind shouting "Off with your head!!"? That would be awesome.
I totally get why she came to New York. Fresh start, get lost in the crowd, work at a hospital. I bet she got crazy bad press when Alice went public.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Andrea vs Paul: The Great Fruit Debate of 2008
Yesterday evening, at approximately 7:15pm, Paul David Boerem accused me, Andrea Gale Boerem, of prejudice against fruit, including allegedly preventing fruit from being included in meals and snacks, and of not including fruit as a kitchen decoration which would encourage consumption of said fruit. Allegedly. (I know that last "allegedly" wasn't really necessary, I just like how official it sounds.)
I would like to respond to these charges:
I AM INNOCENT!! I WOULD LIKE TO BE CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES!! Plus, the charges aren't even for real because he's not a lawyer!! Also how come it's MY fault??
Now, I would like to clearly define my feelings about fruit and vegetables. I have nothing against them- they are peaceable, and clearly mean no harm. Except maybe for pineapples, which are kind of sharp and pokey, but I guess that's not really the pineapple's fault. That said, I do not like to eat them because they taste yucky, except I guess fruit doesn't really taste yucky, but the texture really bugs me. Also, I do not like ANYTHING about bananas. Or peas. Or beans. I cannot budge on this.
The quibble began when Paul related a grocery store experience from earlier yesterday, when a most friendly lady who was very pro-mango felt it her duty to extol the many virtues of mangoes. Paul agreed, but then he told her he never eats them, and I quote, "because my wife doesn't like fruits or vegetables, so I never eat them."
The injustice of this statement screamed at me like Howard Dean. Naturally, I had to defend myself.
My argument was polished. Concise. Elegant.
"Huh? No way. How come it's MY fault? You can eat fruit and vegetables anytime you want!! How many times at the grocery store do I ask you if you want fruit or vegetables and you say NO!!! Yeah, how about that? You can eat fruit or vegetables any time you want, buddy."
Paul counters by explaining that he doesn't think about it because when he grocery shops or plans meals, he's thinking about what I would enjoy, and marriage is about the two of you together trying to make each other happy.
Well, I didn't fall for that baloney. No, sir!
"Wait- you don't eat them because you don't have anyone to eat them with you?? That sounds to me like you wish you were married to someone else. Hey- how do you think that makes me feel? To know you're suffering in an unhappy, fruitless (hahaha) marriage? Do I not make you happy? Don't I make you peas sometimes? Do you want another wife? Is that what you want?"
I am sounding a little hysterical. I get carried away sometimes.
At this point, Paul smiles and says I'm right. Except I know he doesn't really think I'm right. He's placating me. He really thinks that he's right, and I know it except I can't prove it because he's looking at me all lovingly and saying I'm right.....
Okay, he wins.
I would like to respond to these charges:
I AM INNOCENT!! I WOULD LIKE TO BE CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES!! Plus, the charges aren't even for real because he's not a lawyer!! Also how come it's MY fault??
Now, I would like to clearly define my feelings about fruit and vegetables. I have nothing against them- they are peaceable, and clearly mean no harm. Except maybe for pineapples, which are kind of sharp and pokey, but I guess that's not really the pineapple's fault. That said, I do not like to eat them because they taste yucky, except I guess fruit doesn't really taste yucky, but the texture really bugs me. Also, I do not like ANYTHING about bananas. Or peas. Or beans. I cannot budge on this.
The quibble began when Paul related a grocery store experience from earlier yesterday, when a most friendly lady who was very pro-mango felt it her duty to extol the many virtues of mangoes. Paul agreed, but then he told her he never eats them, and I quote, "because my wife doesn't like fruits or vegetables, so I never eat them."
The injustice of this statement screamed at me like Howard Dean. Naturally, I had to defend myself.
My argument was polished. Concise. Elegant.
"Huh? No way. How come it's MY fault? You can eat fruit and vegetables anytime you want!! How many times at the grocery store do I ask you if you want fruit or vegetables and you say NO!!! Yeah, how about that? You can eat fruit or vegetables any time you want, buddy."
Paul counters by explaining that he doesn't think about it because when he grocery shops or plans meals, he's thinking about what I would enjoy, and marriage is about the two of you together trying to make each other happy.
Well, I didn't fall for that baloney. No, sir!
"Wait- you don't eat them because you don't have anyone to eat them with you?? That sounds to me like you wish you were married to someone else. Hey- how do you think that makes me feel? To know you're suffering in an unhappy, fruitless (hahaha) marriage? Do I not make you happy? Don't I make you peas sometimes? Do you want another wife? Is that what you want?"
I am sounding a little hysterical. I get carried away sometimes.
At this point, Paul smiles and says I'm right. Except I know he doesn't really think I'm right. He's placating me. He really thinks that he's right, and I know it except I can't prove it because he's looking at me all lovingly and saying I'm right.....
Okay, he wins.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
running in slingbacks
The universe is trying to tell me something. Only problem is, I can't quite figure out what. We speak a different language, the universe and I, since I'm human, and the universe, um, is kind of infinite and eternal and all. You see, Saturday I had planned to meet a good friend at the temple. I checked the weather: 44 degrees, sunny and a little windy. No rain, no snow. Perfect. I wear my cute tweedy brown skirt that Paul bought me with a cream colored sweater and tan fishnets and my brown kitten-heel slingbacks. I am feeling quite dapper. I don coat and scarf, and step outside.
Into a snowstorm.
Gigantic fluffy and very wet snowflakes are fluttering down, and I think this looks quite pretty, but then the wind starts, and I change my mind. The snow is evil, and it is out to get me. My fishnet clad legs are feeling quite chilled, and my hair is soaked, and snowflakes are attaching themselves to my eyelashes, and I know this sounded like a lot of fun in the Sound of Music, but when you're wearing mascara, well, not so much fun. I consider turning back, but then I rally and inwardly shout things like "Stand your ground!!!", and "Push forward!! You're almost there!!" I make it to the subway station, and discreetly try to preen. Preening discreetly is kind of hard, in case you were wondering.
I get off the subway at 59th, and prepare myself to navigate another blizzard. I step outside.
Into bright sunshine.
No trace of snow at all!! At all! It is a lovely wintry day, and I look like I took a shower with my clothes on. I make it to the temple, all the while reminding myself that the Lord looks on the heart, and not on outward appearance, and really, REALLY hoping that's true, because I am looking not a little bedraggled.
We have a very nice time at the temple, and I sit next to a cute little old lady with lavender hair, and I think, that's nice, that there are still old ladies with lavender hair. Also I encounter a man who sounds just like the Impressive Clergyman from The Princess Bride.
Upon leaving, the temperature has dropped considerably, and the wind has come out to play. The wind and I, well, let's just say we're not exactly friendly. My friend and I cross the street, and a particularly large gust of wind blows some hair into my very sticky lip gloss. I hate that.
"AAAAUUGH!!! HAIR IN THE LIP GLOSS!!!"
I fish the hair out. All better.
"Thanks so much, I had such a great time, and- OH, NO!!! IT GOT ME AGAIN!!! LOTS OF HAIR IN THE LIP GLOSS!!! AAAAUUGHH!!! IHATETHEWIND IHATETHEWIND!!"
Seeing my obvious discomfort, my friend shouts "Run! Run!! Run!!!"
After a quick hug goodbye, I am off like a shot, doing my best to navigate Columbus Avenue in my kitten heel slingbacks, which it must be said can only be worn comfortably for about three hours, and once this time has ended, they become wicked sharp toe pincers. They eat my toes. I am not a graceful runner, and the kitten heels are not helping. Plus, my toes are being devoured. I am running/limping down the street while trying to protect my lip gloss from further invasion. This takes some concentration, so naturally I am less than pleased with the people who decide to stop right in the middle of the street and make me want to get MADMADMAD, but then I remind myself (through clenched teeth) that they're all God's children, and hurry on.
As I wait on the platform for the train to come, I realize someone near me is talking. That someone is a homeless/drunk man, and he is feeling a little frustrated that the train is taking so long to come.
"Why is it taking so long? Do you know when the train is coming? Do you know when the train is coming?"
He doesn't appear to be speaking to anyone in particular. Suddenly, I am intently studying the gum splotches on the concrete.
"There are NO express trains coming EVER, EVER again. It's because people don't like Germans. Yeah, or chocolate."
Hmmmm.
I look over at him. He is holding a paper airplane, fashioned from one of the posters with subway information. He looks fondly at his creation.
"This is an excellent airplane. I'm quite brilliant, you know, at this, making paper airplanes. See, look!" He launches the airplane, which does in fact fly quite nicely.
I ride the train home, entertained by a little boy who, high on life and perhaps candy, is tirelessly circling one of the subway poles while singing "IT'S THE BEST DAY EEE-VER!!". He alternates this with a rousing chorus of the ABC song, and The Wheels on the Bus. His dad chimes in on that one. The lady sitting next to me is quite amused, and inquires:
"Did he have cupcakes?"
"No. I took him to see Spongebob Squarepants."
Ahhhh.
The universe is trying to tell me something.
Into a snowstorm.
Gigantic fluffy and very wet snowflakes are fluttering down, and I think this looks quite pretty, but then the wind starts, and I change my mind. The snow is evil, and it is out to get me. My fishnet clad legs are feeling quite chilled, and my hair is soaked, and snowflakes are attaching themselves to my eyelashes, and I know this sounded like a lot of fun in the Sound of Music, but when you're wearing mascara, well, not so much fun. I consider turning back, but then I rally and inwardly shout things like "Stand your ground!!!", and "Push forward!! You're almost there!!" I make it to the subway station, and discreetly try to preen. Preening discreetly is kind of hard, in case you were wondering.
I get off the subway at 59th, and prepare myself to navigate another blizzard. I step outside.
Into bright sunshine.
No trace of snow at all!! At all! It is a lovely wintry day, and I look like I took a shower with my clothes on. I make it to the temple, all the while reminding myself that the Lord looks on the heart, and not on outward appearance, and really, REALLY hoping that's true, because I am looking not a little bedraggled.
We have a very nice time at the temple, and I sit next to a cute little old lady with lavender hair, and I think, that's nice, that there are still old ladies with lavender hair. Also I encounter a man who sounds just like the Impressive Clergyman from The Princess Bride.
Upon leaving, the temperature has dropped considerably, and the wind has come out to play. The wind and I, well, let's just say we're not exactly friendly. My friend and I cross the street, and a particularly large gust of wind blows some hair into my very sticky lip gloss. I hate that.
"AAAAUUGH!!! HAIR IN THE LIP GLOSS!!!"
I fish the hair out. All better.
"Thanks so much, I had such a great time, and- OH, NO!!! IT GOT ME AGAIN!!! LOTS OF HAIR IN THE LIP GLOSS!!! AAAAUUGHH!!! IHATETHEWIND IHATETHEWIND!!"
Seeing my obvious discomfort, my friend shouts "Run! Run!! Run!!!"
After a quick hug goodbye, I am off like a shot, doing my best to navigate Columbus Avenue in my kitten heel slingbacks, which it must be said can only be worn comfortably for about three hours, and once this time has ended, they become wicked sharp toe pincers. They eat my toes. I am not a graceful runner, and the kitten heels are not helping. Plus, my toes are being devoured. I am running/limping down the street while trying to protect my lip gloss from further invasion. This takes some concentration, so naturally I am less than pleased with the people who decide to stop right in the middle of the street and make me want to get MADMADMAD, but then I remind myself (through clenched teeth) that they're all God's children, and hurry on.
As I wait on the platform for the train to come, I realize someone near me is talking. That someone is a homeless/drunk man, and he is feeling a little frustrated that the train is taking so long to come.
"Why is it taking so long? Do you know when the train is coming? Do you know when the train is coming?"
He doesn't appear to be speaking to anyone in particular. Suddenly, I am intently studying the gum splotches on the concrete.
"There are NO express trains coming EVER, EVER again. It's because people don't like Germans. Yeah, or chocolate."
Hmmmm.
I look over at him. He is holding a paper airplane, fashioned from one of the posters with subway information. He looks fondly at his creation.
"This is an excellent airplane. I'm quite brilliant, you know, at this, making paper airplanes. See, look!" He launches the airplane, which does in fact fly quite nicely.
I ride the train home, entertained by a little boy who, high on life and perhaps candy, is tirelessly circling one of the subway poles while singing "IT'S THE BEST DAY EEE-VER!!". He alternates this with a rousing chorus of the ABC song, and The Wheels on the Bus. His dad chimes in on that one. The lady sitting next to me is quite amused, and inquires:
"Did he have cupcakes?"
"No. I took him to see Spongebob Squarepants."
Ahhhh.
The universe is trying to tell me something.
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