Women Are NOT Stupid

For the past few months I have been gnashing my teeth in anger at the number of ideas being put forth across the nation to "regulate" abortion. The bills that require a woman to have an ultrasound. The bills that require a woman to take a class. The bills that require a woman to undergo counseling. The proposal that a woman be made to watch an abortion before getting one. Each time a new one has come forward, I have shaken my fist, and roared a terrible roar.

Why?

Not because I am pro-abortion.

Not even because I am pro-choice.

Because at the heart of every one of these bills is the belief that women are idiots.

The sponsors of every one of these bills says they aren't trying to stop abortion, but instead are just trying to make women more "aware" of what is happening in their wombs, and what will happen if they undergo an abortion.

Do they really think women who have found themselves with an unwanted pregnancy aren't "aware" of all that?

I would say they are painfully aware.

I would say that almost all, if not all, women seeking abortions understand the physical, mental, and emotional ramifications their actions will have. However, they are also aware of the physical, mental, and emotional ramifications if they carry the pregnancy to term. So, they make a choice. 


Anyone who thinks it's an easy choice are really the ones who need to be made more "aware." 


As if calling women stupid isn't bad enough, some of the backers of these bills are also calling women liars. In Idaho a lawmaker objected to exempting victims of rape from undergoing an ultrasound before an abortion because most women who claim rape as a reason for an abortion are lying. 


You know, because women take rape so lightly. 


Suddenly, being called a "slut" doesn't seem that horrible. It's better than a stupid, lying whore. 


Did I not mention the whore implication in these bills? Oh, I didn't need to? Good. Moving on. 


Abortion is legal. Even if it is outlawed, it will still happen. There will still be women who make the choice to end their pregnancies. The only difference is, then they will have to make very risky choices do to it. Choices that could, and in many cases will, kill them. 

If these lawmakers really want to "protect" women they should make sure those aren't choices they have to make. 


Anything else would be idiotic.  

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Name All the Animals -- Or At Least the Bears

All bears are apparently named Chris.

Don't feel dumb if you didn't know that until now. I, myself, was not aware of this until just recently. I guess I just assumed that bears, if they actually have names, wouldn't all have the same name. Doesn't that make things awfully confusing at the country jamboree? Do they have last names so they can be "Chris R" and "Chris D" like kids in elementary school? Also, I guess I thought bears would have cooler, tougher names like "Chuck" or "Norris" or "Chuck Norris." Not that Chris isn't a great name, it's fine, it just isn't what I pictured as the perfect moniker for a bear.

Meg is the one who set me straight.

Last weekend Ryan and I decided to have a date night and let Meg have a sleepover with at her Grandparents. Because my parents are on a relentless quest to dominate Meg's affections the night not only included pizza, but also a trip to the toddler hysteria inducing, wallet draining "Build a Bear Workshop" There Meg selected out a large, pink, fuzzy bear. She went through all the rigmarole of giving it a heart, watching it get fluffy innards, picking out the perfect tutu to match it's eyes, and giving it a name. The name she picked? Not Bubbles, or Fluffy, or Angelina, but Chris, of course.

We don't know anyone named Chris.

That's a lie.

Everyone knows someone named Chris.

However, the Chrises in our lives aren't people that Meg interacts with, and certainly aren't ones she would want to name a bear after. She has no Chrises in her various classes or play groups. We racked our brains trying to think of where she came up with Chris. Books? Not that we know of. Movies? Nope. Songs? Bands? Beat poets? We could find no reason in her seemingly Chris-free existence.

On Monday, Meg told us that not only is her pink bear named Chris, but her much loved, smaller, brown teddy bear is also named Chris. I asked her if her stick horse was named Chris as well. She looked at me like I was high. "No," she said, "that's a horse." I felt chastened.

Then, on Friday, Meg got to meet real bears.

No, it wasn't a cage fight. Nor was it an incident that will soon be turned into a Lifetime movie starring Tori Spelling as Meg.

Baby bears were brought into my office to promote an outdoors show going on. They were about the size of cats, and one of the cutest damn things I have ever seen. Meg was especially taken with them, and wanted me and Ryan to pet them along with her and the other kids who had been brought in.
"Daddy, pet Chris," she said. Ryan explained to her that we had left Chris, both of them, at home. "No, Daddy," she explained, "not those Chris, this Chris."

That's when we figured out that all bears are named Chris.

I don't know how Meg gained this knowledge. Maybe the fact we called her "little bear" as a baby gave her some kind of physic bond with her ursus brethren. Maybe at her age she still is in touch with her "wild spirit." Maybe she's just messing with us.

Whatever the case, from now on, until the day I die, whenever I see or hear about a bear, the name whispered in the back of my mind will be "Chris."

I won't ever say it out loud though. I don't want people to look at me strangely.

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Money, Money, Money

I am trying to come up with ways to make money. Other than with my job, that is, for which I am probably vastly overpaid, and yet feels like it doesn't pay nearly enough. I'm talking about some magic bullet money making scheme that will solve all of our financial worries, and make it so we don't have think twice when making non-insane purchases.


So far? I got nothing.


Well, maybe not totally nothing. Today while I was thinking about how to make more money I decided to "brainstorm" and write down ideas. I came up with:

1. Be a personal speech writer for people who have to speak at weddings and other events. 
2. Show people my boobs for money. 
3. Offer to teach people how to make extra money, then sell them those ideas. Tell them no refunds. 

Yeah, sorry, I was wrong. I got nothing. 

Did you know the woman who invented Spanx is now a billionaire? And all it took was making too tight panty hose. I'm sure there were a couple other steps in there -- marketing, business plan, blah, blah, blah -- but I like to think she made her super girdle, held it aloft and the money just came pouring down on her head. That makes it feel more like something that could happen to me. 

Okay, right now, impromptu brainstorming session. What are things people need, but cannot buy? AND GO!

1. Bathtub shorteners for people who like to lie down in the bath and not drown, but are too short to touch both ends. 
2. Armpit patches for people who don't want to shave but don't want to look like hippies. 
3. Something that makes everyone skinny and doesn't cost much, and is totally organic -- like magic. 

Shit, now I'm back to charging people to look at my boobs. 

I do have nice boobs though...

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Lead Balloons

I knew, when Meg was born, that the decor of our home would change. However, I pictured it would be all about moving fragile things to higher shelves, tripping over toys, and papering the walls with her artwork.

I had no idea it would involve a style I can only think of as "festive sports bar chic."

These balloon came to darken our doorstep almost two months ago. They were used for a segment on a TV morning show about Superbowl eats a FULL week before the Superbowl. Afterwards, they were just hanging around the newsroom, so I said I would take them home. I thought Meg would enjoy them for a couple days, and then they would follow in the steps of all other balloons that have entered our house and either deflate or be popped by a cat. I was fine with either. What I wasn't fine with them that I start thinking about rearranging the living room so it involves more stadium seating and replacing the rug with AstroTurf.

Sorry, I'm exaggerating. If I am going to have a field I want it to be natural turf.

I have tried many a time to get rid of the balloons. First, I tried asking Meg if she thought it was time they went home. If she could have said "hell, no" I think she would have. Instead she just screamed about how the balloons are her friends. After that I started planning a quiet, sudden "disappearance" for the balloons, but Meg somehow sensed what I was up to, and started saying good-bye to them every time she leaves the room, and asking me if the balloons will be there when she gets back. I thought about pricking each one with a tiny pin and just letting the helium seep out, but all I can picture is Meg inspecting each one -- CSI style -- looking for the murder wounds, thinking about how she will sweat out the perp: her mother.

I'm stuck.

On the upside, the menus at our house have been fabulous lately. We've been having chicken wings, and nachos, and onion rings, and jalapeno poppers, and mozzarella sticks almost every night. Nothing else feels proper. Salad is for balloon-less homes.

I also like to think of the money I will make renting them out for Superbowls in the future. I think their lure as the "never ending" balloons will just inflate the price.

Get it? Inflate the price?

Yeah, well, see what your sense of humor becomes when living with a Macy's parade float in your living room for six weeks...

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