I’ve been watching Orange is the New Black. I finally caved.
I’m not finding it as enjoyable as I was expecting after all the hoopla I’ve heard from other people, but it’s not bad.
Piper’s annoying, I’m in love with Nicky, blah blah blah.
But something about the show really bugs me. They make Larry seem like the bad guy for being affected by his fiance’s incarceration.
Let me just say this right now — being the loved one of someone in prison is often like being in prison yourself. And it’s perfectly fine to feel that way.
I’ll admit I’ve only watched most of the first season, so maybe they address this. Maybe it’s not as bad as I’m making it out to be. Maybe Piper is going to be the bitch for acting all woe-is-me on Larry’s ass. But maybe not, so I’m writing this anyway.
I’m on to my 3-year-old son’s superpower scheme.
It is not the ability to access some secret nook or cranny or crevice or closet or room or universe in our home. It is, instead, the ability to trick me into believing he has such a superpower and that such a place exists.
I have found his hiding spot. I, too, can access it.
If you recall, about two weeks ago my son lost his skeleton shoes as we were preparing for a long drive to see his father. Three adults and one child searched the entire house for far too long and could not find them anywhere. So I convinced myself Holden was privy to some hidden abyss and used it to stash all the items that go missing in my house.
My 3-year-old son has a superpower.
There is undoubtedly some secret nook or cranny or crevice or closet or room or universe in our home. Only Holden knows the location. Only he can find and access it.
We went to see his father Thursday night. The ride is about an hour-and-a-half, and Nate’s sister was kind enough to offer us a ride. Since I’m a huge procrastinator, I was still in the shower when she arrived to pick us up, which left Jack with the task of getting Holden ready to go.
He dressed Holden in an adorable “I Get My Good Looks From Dad” t-shirt, plaid shorts, mismatched socks, and his glow-in-the-dark skeleton slip-on shoes. Then Holden took off across the house, and when he returned to Jack in the living room only a few moments later, the shoes were no longer on his feet.
When I was a teenager, I used to make “life soundtracks”. My friends and I would round up all the songs that touched us at that moment, download them on Kazaa, and burn them to CDs (for any younger readers: here and here) (side note to self — have a talk with Peter Pan about this whole growing up thing).
Even then, I was astonished by how vast our music likes were. Country, classic rock, alternative, ska, emo, techno (back when Dubstep wasn’t taking over the world), pop, oldies, classical, swing, etc., etc. I don’t even know how we discovered half the songs we did. But they were all perfect.
A particular gem was Sleep, by The Dandy Warhols. My friend Rick and I latched onto it; I can’t tell you how many times the lyrics appeared as our AIM away messages or MySpace statuses (oh, here and here again). To this day, if I post a line on my Facebook, he chimes in with the rest.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. I have this constant feeling of not belonging. In a world where judgment and cruelty run rampant, I fear I will never find someone like me. And that’s not to say I’m a saint or anything, because I am most definitely not. It just seems like those around me are drifting away, or maybe I’m drifting away from them. Either way, we’re not meshing very well.
What’s so wrong with being passionate? Is it so horrible to care? Am I really that much of a contradiction that I turn myself into a hypocrite?
Photo Credit: WeKnowMemes
(Found using Google Image Search “Labeled for reuse” option)
Jack and I got into a debate today about how I strongly speak out against the use of derogatory/discriminatory terms (“retarded,” “gay,” among so many others I’d rather not post), yet use “the c word” more often than anyone I know. It doesn’t offend me. I don’t think it should offend you. When I use it, at least, it’s not to put one group of people down, or point out one specific aspect of a group of people; it’s simply to call someone a big-jerk-head-to-the-extreme, more or less.
I feel like it’s along the lines of calling someone a dick. Who would take offense to that? Maybe people who think their penis is a bad thing . . . maybe. In that case, the only people who should take offense to “the c word” should be those who have problems with their vaginas (and by problems I don’t mean actual medical concerns). (Why is “vaginas” never recognized as a word in any spell check I’ve ever used? There can’t be more than one vagina? Plural penises are fine, but only one vagina allowed!)