Bethanie's Brain

So when Ms. Four turned four a month-ish ago, it was princesses all around. Right down to the birthday cake, which this Mama-Lady managed, by some sort of honest-to-gahd, frikkin' miracle, to pull off by herself. Check it out: No, I didn't get this from a store, and no, I didn't really intend for the dress to be quite so Pepto-Bismal, neon pink. And yes, that really is a gen-u-ine Barbie wearing that contraption. A Barbie that I bought of my very own volition with my very own money. Me. The very same Mama-Lady that, for just over three years now, has been actively forbidding all forms of grandmother to purchase Ms. Four any form of Barbie. Why, you ask? Well, duh. Present femi-nazi dogma states that allowing little girls to play with Barbie with warp their poor little innocent brains into thinking they need to be six foot tall, blond, big-boobed, tiny-waisted, unnaturally curvy hipped bimbos. Right? Well, maybe. Unfortunately, the femi-nazis forgot one very importan...

You think barbecue is a verb meaning 'to cook outside'. You think Heinz Ketchup is SPICY. You don't know what a moon pie is. You don't know anyone with two first names (i.e. Jo Bob, Billy Bob). You've never, ever eaten Okra. You eat fried chicken with a knife and fork. You have no idea what a polecat is. Instead of referring to two or more people as 'y'all', you call them 'you guys', even if both of them are women. None of your fur coats are homemade. I clipped the foregoing out of a New England newspaper many, many years ago (I post it here only because it is so yellowed with age I'm afraid I'm going to lose it in the move to the new house because it may disintegrate at any moment). I clipped it because I thought it was funny. I had been in The South once or twice and thought I knew why: I THOUGHT it was making fun of Southerners. Now I'm not so sure. Take the barbecue one, for instance. I didn't know until I moved here three...

Things I’ll miss Playing guess the body part while watching my belly distort itself into configurations that even in my wildest nightmares I could not have thought up. Hiccups. (Hers not mine.) Taking my time crossing the street at the Medical Center where everybody is in a hurry. Everybody but the Pregnant Lady. Nobody dares rush her. The don’t-mess-with-the-Pregnant-Lady-if-you-value-your-life aura I seem to exude. People just do what I tell them. They don’t fuss. They don’t argue. They just do it. The Husband’s occasional participation in kitchen cleaning duties. Without being asked. (Minor miracle, that.) The extra scoop of Spicy Tofu that the ladies in the hospital cafeteria give me after eyeing the belly. The fact that the cafeteria's older cashier gentleman who wears a hairnet and always has a hand-written quotation taped to his register never charges me extra for the extra scoop of Spicy Tofu. Things I won’t miss Waddling and the constant pain that goes with it. G...

So part of a comment (the one by Sarah, a.k.a. the Orangina Angel) on my Deprivation post got me thinking. It’s the part about “in defense of my native state”. I forget, you know, that people actually are born here and like it. (Which is sorta like, really stupid of me, considering I’m married to one. (I will be SO happy when this baby is born and gets done with the whole breast feeding bit and I can have my brain back. In like, 3 to 5 years.)) Anyway, I got to thinking. I don’t hate EVERYTHING about life in Exile. There are some things that aren’t so bad. And some things I actually like. Here they are in no particular order: Spring. The South has the best springs of any place I’ve ever lived. Hands down. No contest. For one thing, it lasts a long time. Early to mid March things start budding out. It starts to warm up, but not too much. Days can be warmish on occasion, but nights are cool and comfortable right up until the end of May (they’re actually not too bad right n...

1,000 words a day, 5 days a week, for the rest of your life. That's what Carolyn See says to do if you want to be a writer. I believe her. Now granted, that system won't work for everyone, but I can see the value in it. Because, of course, the one and only thing that makes you a better writer is writing, more writing and, when you're done with that, sit down and write some more. 1,000 words a day for me represents a quantifiable goal that I can chip away at. Sometimes it all comes out in one session where the words fly out with so little effort I wonder whether I actually wrote them or was channeling some other force. More often the words come in bits and spurts, maybe 100 at a time, and I hit my word count button after every single paragraph to see the progress (which, believe it or not, actually helps). 1,000 words a day also forces me to sit down and at least try, no matter how tired or overworked or stressed out or pregnant I may be feeling. Like now. It was an ea...

I don't know WHAT it is with this child and my bladder, but she is DETERMINED to mash it with her head as much as possible before birth. I mean, it's nifty and everything to watch her knees or feet or elbows or whatever move all over my belly, but SHEESH! I'm working under a deadline here. I have until midnight to fix up that chapter for a volunteer reader and I could REALLY do without the (additional) distraction. Aaaaah! Where are the Depends?!?!