On the Jargon of Pregnancy

Pregnancy is everywhere these days. Every celeb is pregnant. The latest trend in non-maternity wear is maternity wear (seriously, walk through the Misses department at your local Kohl's, Macy's, or Penney's; or the Juniors department at Target). Teenage drug use is Out, Teenage Pregnancy is In (possibly the most disturbing news I've heard about high schoolers lately, and I used to watch Maury regularly!)

In all this coverage, however, a long-standing irritation of mine has come to the forefront. I must ask all of America (and the rest of the English-speaking world) to please, for the love of all that is sacred, STOP MAKING THE ACT OF GIVING BIRTH SOUND LIKE A CRUDE BODILY FUNCTION!

This is the miracle of life, people, regardless of who is producing it. Can we have a little respect please?

Thus, I would like to eliminate the following slang terms from common use (or any use relating to pregnancy):

• "Popping out": A baby is not a pimple.

• "Pushing out": A baby is not a bowel movement.

• "Belting out": The birthing process is not equivalent to the passing of gas. (Rosie's Aside: For shame, Dear Margo. I tend to hold you to a higher standard than that.)

Husband would like to interject that "Preggers" should be stricken from the vernacular as well, as it diminishes the seriousness with which we should take pregnancy, and it makes the speaker sound like s/he belongs in a trailer park.

Radio Free Stupid

I was treated to a live airing of Springer-quality family drama on my way in this morning. Elliot was talking about earpieces or something and had a good run mocking the Apple Bottom Jeans song and some other crap from Usher, etc., but then he went to commercial and whatever the product they were hawking was, it was a commercial I abhor (there are so many to choose from), so I surfed stations. And of all things, I got roped into this super-special segment on HOT! 99.5. I know, but bear with me. If you're familiar with my penchant for all things trailer-trashy, you'll understand what caught my interest.

So DJ Kane is chatting with a nice girl named Patty. Patty is participating in Kane's "War of the Roses" schtick, in which we sneakily confront alleged cheaters on air. Patty is telling Kane about all the things that make her think her husband Lance (his actual name) might be cheating on her, including how he gets texts and emails from other women (Lance claims they're for work) all the time, and how he'll come home late (Lance claims he forgot to mention he was meeting a friend after work to grab a beer), or how when they took a family trip to Amsterdam (who goes to Amsterdam for a family vacation?) Lance left Patty and their son out in the cold while he dashed into one of the... um... establishments in the Red Light district for a span of time unspecified by Patty, though one can imagine that standing confused on the streets of Amsterdam can warp a person's perception of time (Lance claims he was taking pictures of the inside for a friend back home so Friend could see what the Red Light houses were like).

Now, if you remain unconvinced - as apparently Patty was - that Lance is a deadbeat who's only trying to see what else Patty will put up with, I think this next scrap of evidence is the nail in the coffin: one night Lance needed to return a movie to Blockbuster, so he left to do that at 7:30... and didn't return until 3 a.m. Now, take note Husband - if you leave to return a movie at 7:30 pm and I don't see you again until 3, it had better be in the ICU or in county lockup (which will require outstanding explanations of how you could get in that much trouble in the time it took you to return a movie to Blockbuster.) Patty stayed up till 3 a.m. and asked him when he got home where he'd been. Lance claimed to Patty that he'd gotten a call from a friend who needed help or "to talk" (take note ladies: men don't invite each other over "to talk;" if you hear this excuse, he's seeing someone on the side!) Problem with this excuse: he had left his cell phone at the house so that Patty couldn't call him to check up on him. D'oh!

And yet, Patty tells Kane that she just doesn't know. Seriously? How is that not proof positive? I call a 7.5 hour movie-return "grounds for divorce." But Patty just isn't sure. I know. I'm shaking my head in disbelief too.

So Kane offers to call Lance and put him to the test. (Another note ladies, you never need to "test" him for any reason. If you even feel the need to test him, you need to be ready to lose, in which case, you've already lost.)

Kane calls Lance's cell phone and, under the guise of a startup Internet florist, tells Lance he got Lance's phone number from a magazine subscriber list his "company" bought, and offers Lance a dozen romantic roses free of charge to send to anyone Lance requests. Lance is unsure, Kane claims that the gig is that the "florist" sends the roses to the recipient and hopes that Lance and the recipient are so thrilled with the service that they use the florist again. Almost plausible, I'll give him that. Lance takes the bait, and requests that the card say,

(wait for it...)

"Dear Angela, Last week was amazing. Can't wait for this weekend. Love, Lance."

I'll wait while the laughter dies down.

Of course, Patty is on the other line, listening in, and now breaks in with a string of terms not appropriate to share with my adoring fans. Also because they were bleeped out and I can only speculate. Lance is pretty solidly caught red-handed, though we can all agree that Patty is twelve kinds of dense for not having had enough proof before.

Lance backtracks - oh no, it's only to cheer Angela up! (Sounds to me like last week provided a fair amount of cheer, but that's just my perspective...) Seriously dude, you're screwed.

Spectacularly screwed.

But wait. There's more.

Patty, you seem particularly dismayed that it's "Angela." Do you know this Angela person?

Why yes, yes she does.

Angela is Patty's stepsister.

Thank you! You've been a terrific audience! I'll be here all week! Don't forget to tip your waitstaff! Enjoy the veal!

Had to Share

Courtesy of Overheard in the Office, June 16 2008:

9AM Mexico: Hey, We Warned You!

CSR, on speakerphone: And where would you like this order shipped?

Secretary: 123 Main St.*, Los Alamos, New Mexico.

CSR : We don't ship out of the country.

Secretary: That's fine, but this address is in the country.

CSR : No, you said to ship it to New Mexico.

Secretary: Yes, New Mexico is a state in the US.

CSR : Sorry, but we can't ship out of the US.

Secretary: Do you have a supervisor I can talk to, please?

[Long pause.]

CSR supervisor: This is Tim. Can I help you?

Secretary: I hope so, Tim. Your employee doesn't seem to understand that New Mexico is a state in the United States, and so refuses to ship me your product.

Supervisor: Well, that's true. We can't ship out of the country. I'm sorry ma'am.

Secretary, raising her voice a little: Have you never even heard of the state of New Mexico? It's one of the big, square ones? It's right between Texas and Arizona? It's one of the 50 United States?

Supervisor: I'm sorry, it's just our policy not to ship out of the US.

Secretary: Tim, let me get this straight. Your company is going to lose a $14,000 order because the people in your customer service department are too moronic to know or comprehend that the state of New Mexico is a part of the United States?

Supervisor: Yes, ma'am. That's our policy.

Secretary, completely exasperated: Well, I guess there's nothing more to be said, is there?

Supervisor: No, ma'am. Have a nice day.

Los Alamos, New Mexico
Overheard by: New Mexican

via Overheard in the Office, Jun 16, 2008

A Smattering for Thursday

I'm feeling very scattered today and there are a fair number of things to piss me off in the world, but I'm not committed enough to choose just one and go with it. So I'll spread the love around.

• Katharine Heigl needs to take the advice she gave third-person-style to Isaiah Washington back when he was shooting his mouth off and "just not talk in public. Period." First she ragged on "Knocked Up" and said it was sexist and portrayed women as shrews and men as loveable goofs. I want to know what movie she watched, because that's not at all what I saw in that movie - I saw a bunch of imperfect but overall good people, and the exploitation of funny but believable situations that their imperfections got them into. Hopefully Judd Apatow and Co. have the sense not to work with her again. Then today I see that she removed herself from Emmy nomination because she felt that the Grey's Anatomy writers hadn't given her Emmy-quality material to put forth an Emmy-quality performance. I'll agree that this season overall sucked and her character reached new depths of annoyingness in the fall, but if you don't think your performance was Emmy-worthy, fine, just say that. Don't go blaming the writers! Shame on you!



• United is now charging to check a single bag. It's a good thing I'm not going anywhere that requires air travel this year.



• I watched The Other Boleyn Girl last night. Dis. A. Ppointed. It reminded me of Titanic in that it seemed the filmmakers were far more interested in setting than substance. The set designers and constumers deserve Academy Awards - the realism was astounding and expert. But do you remember how bad the script was for Titanic? It was only slightly better for The Other Boleyn Girl. Scarlett and Natalie did what they could, and Eric Bana turned in a surprisingly strong and dynamic performance. But it all fell flat to me. Furthermore, it was as though the scriptwriter neither read the book nor even consulted with Philippa Gregory. In the book, Mary was the middle child; in the movie she was the youngest. In the book, Mary's first child by Henry is a girl; in the movie, it's a boy. In the book, George's homosexuality was evident; in the movie, they skimmed it so lightly it was imperceptible. In the book, Anne was a viper from the start and living at the French court where she learned charm, manipulation, intrigue, and court life; in the beginning of the movie, she and Mary are BFF and living in England, and Anne is only sent to France for a few months as punishment. Sloppy, sloppy job. The book was fluff but historical fluff and handily written. I had such high hopes - it would have been a cakewalk to make this movie a real thing of beauty. And it was in terms of the scenery and costumes. But the script was a landfill in the middle of parkland.



• Ask Amy is showing her bitchy colors. In today's article, she had three letters. The first was legitimate: shy college freshman made friends in the first week who have progressively gotten into drugs and drinking and the writer wants to abstain but doesn't enjoy hanging out with his new friends while they're high; what can he say to his friends to get them to lay off the dangerous substance (Amy's Answer: very little, make new friends). The second one was silly and characteristic of the charged topic that any celebration has become: writer's neighbor sent graduation party invitations for their daughter with whom writer has had very very little contact in the 13 years they lived there; neighbor is obviously grubbing for gifts and writer isn't going but if writer sends a card will that set precedent for writer to receive yet more invitations of the sort.... (Amy's Answer: get a grip, send a card with a regretful decline and best wishes and stop overthinking). Third letter pissed me off: a hateful tirade framed in the guise of a question as to why women have not stamped out the awful concept of fathers giving their daughters away at weddings like they're property to be disposed of and why aren't we all walking ourselves down the aisle (Amy's answer: Amen sister.) Screw you both. I dare you to find one woman outside of scary cults who honestly believes this practice has anything to do with property anymore. It's a sentimental thing, it's a traditional thing, it's an honor thing, it's a compromise thing (we want to walk ourselves but are afraid we'll hurt our Dad's feelings if he doesn't get to walk his little girl down the aisle). Some brides have their mothers give them away to honor their mother as the person who raised them. Some brides have siblings do it, or friends, or no one. And that's all fine. Weddings are all interpretive now anyway. So Amy, how about offering perspective, or a gentle wait-a-minute to your "advice seeker." And Feminazi, stuff your dogma and actually ask someone why they're doing what they're doing before you go assuming you know their motivations.



• Candy has calories. I think it's fair that that pisses me off.



• Some Marines got expelled and punished for what Drudge Report describes only as "puppy video." I have no idea what the video is or is about, and I refuse to open the link because my imagination can carry me far enough to assume that whatever it was they did to a puppy had to be bad or they wouldn't have gotten in trouble for it. And to that I say, there isn't a circle of Hell severe enough for those people, but I hope Satan gets on that real soon.

Confession: June 10 2008

I'm having a rotten morning where everything is going wrong. I'm inexplicably angry at everything and everyone, I probably bruised myself when I walked into the corner of a wall, my clothes looked like hell, it's hot as blue blazes, my new deodorant stinks, I got glittery eye shadow all over my face so I now look like a 13-year-old, and I caught my nice work bag in the door on my way into the office.

But all of that is okay now. Because I must confess something.

I am in love.

I have developed a terrible girl-crush on Anne Hathaway. My affection for her surpasses my adoration of Natalie Portman. I want to BE Anne Hathaway. Anne Hathaway is gorgeous. Anne Hathaway is radiant. Anne Hathaway is classy and graceful. Anne Hathaway is smart. Anne Hathaway kicks ass. Anne Hathaway is pale and has absolutely zero issues with it, and refuses to try to change it. Anne Hathaway can actually act (a rare trait in Hollywood starlets today). Anne Hathaway takes gutsy roles (see her play the wife of a barely-closeted gay cowboy in Brokeback Mountain) but isn't afraid of fluff work (*cough*Ella Enchanted*cough*, though I guess it was good for its target demo and even Colin Firth bows to the tweener audience sometimes) and will tolerate a boring and predictable ending in pursuit of an overall fun movie (The Devil Wears Prada). Anne Hathaway is naturally thin but still actually likes to eat (see story, albeit poorly written and a desperate topic to begin with, here). Anne Hathaway can be cut to the bone and only asks for Tylenol (see story here).

And best of all, Anne Hathaway is so cool that she uses this as a description of what it's like to kiss Steve Carrell on set of Get Smart:

"Making out with him is like the yummiest lollipop, dipped in sunshine and wrapped in a masculine wrapper! That's the only way I can think to describe it."

Anne Hathaway, I think I love you. Husband, try not to be jealous.

A Well-Deserved Long Weekend

Was that the longest month ever or what?! High point: celebrating my three year anniversary with Husband. Low point: just about everything else.

By now, my adoring public should know that a month of no- or minimal-bloggage means only one thing: Submittal. Correct assessment. True to form, the engineers managed to amaze even this jaded individual with exactly how far behind schedule they could fall, and how little respect or regard they could show for the time, patience, and personal lives of people without an engineering degree (and in some cases, of people with one!) My head is pounding, my wrist aches, and I'm developing Smoker's Lips from how I keep mine pursed in frustration all day.

But the submittal is gone, with only one more to go, and since I had lots and lots of hours to burn since they won't pay me overtime, I took Friday off and gave myself not only two 3-day weekends in a row, but a 3-day week as well. Allow me to title the sum-up in alliteration.

Relaxation. The recycling truck woke me up pitifully early (since when do they recycle at 6:45 in the morning??) but that only ensured that I was awake and the bed was stripped when the mattress delivery people called to ask if an earlier delivery time was okay. So we got a new mattress, ending the threat of mornings in which I wake up with my shoulder locked way the hell up next to my ear and I look like Quasimodo staggering into work. Which I've done in the recent past. I also watched Bridget Jones's Diary for some mindless fluff, and enjoyed my directionless day immensely.

Reunion. On Saturday, I had lunch with Friend Leah, whom I hadn't seen since her 27th birthday in 2006, and we spent the vastly better part of 4 hours talking and catching up and taking up space in Sunflower Vegetarian Kitchen, and that was very much fun! I also got tapped to be her Maid of Honor in November! Hooray! And *blush!* I'd like to thank the Academy... I'm still all squishy inside over it.

Robbed. I also watched Atonement, which, might I add, was ROBBED for Best Picture last year. I saw No Country for Old Men, and while the Coens are still up to their old tricks, making deep and intense movies, I think I missed something. I got the morality play, and the predator-vs-prey aspect, and the right-vs-wrong aspect, and the fatalistic overtones. The scenery was stark, and the acting was good. But Atonement wiped the floor with it, I thought. Keira Knightley actually has talent (kudos to her for reminding us) (and holy crap I want that green dress!) (or at least one that would look good on me, but no one works in emerald anymore and they should!) (yet I digress), and James McAvoy is my latest obsession, and everyone played their part fantastically and the ending was chilling, startling,... and perfect, especially from a writer's perspective. I'll stop before I become a spoiler in case you haven't seen it too. But I haven't sent the DVD back to The Mighty Netflix yet because I think it needs another viewing to catch the nuances. After which, I may write a review in which I let loose the spoiler fury.

Redemption. On Sunday, I subjected Husband to my playing catch-up with this season's final three episodes of Grey's Anatomy. Last season was a complete shambles and I was not impressed at all with what I saw during the fall. Then the writer's strike hit and I lost track of most of the story lines and actually ended up deleting the episodes from Tivo because I had lost interest. For whatever reason, I saved these last three episodes and decided to use them as a barometer for next season: if I liked them, I'd stay on for the 2008-2009 season; if I was bored or hated them, I'd delete my Tivo season pass. Four hours(ish) later, survey says I'll be watching next season. Meredith grew a pair, which made me happy because I want to like her. The writers bolstered Callie's character, which made me happy because she's a hella-fun character. George developed a spine, which made me happy because he always gets shit on. Christina got props from the Chief and regenerated some confidence, which made me happy because Christina eats her fellow characters for breakfast. Bailey's marriage isn't dead yet, which made me happy because Bailey kicks ass. Izzie and Karev are a sorta-kinda thing again, which made me downright ecstatic (been waiting three years for that! Now if they can just work on giving her back the personality she had in Season One...) because Izzie used to be an interesting character, and Karev is hot (!!) and and still is an interesting character. However, as Friend Merideth pointed out, they need to lose Lexie. She's a failing character. She worked as a plot device last season, and she could have worked as a real live character. But it's like the writers didn't know what to do with her once she had served her dramatic-twist purpose. She isn't developed, she doesn't bring anything, her dialogue is annoying, and they're about to send George down another "stupid relationship" avenue (as in, it's stupid of him to be in this relationship) with her and... isn't that storyline dead by now? Can't you leave poor Georgie alone for just a little while?

This weekend I felt good, and genuinely relaxed, which was such a foreign sensation to me that I didn't know what to do with it most of the time. I shouldn't get too chill though: we're going into our final submittal, and it's the biggie. But after that, I'm changing jobs again. I don't care whether it's a multinational corporation or the Dollar General. I've got to get the hell out of here. This is ridiculous.