In 2005, I…
Bought a car
Left Brooklyn after 10 years
Got an address in Queens
Got laid off
Celebrated my first-ever Father’s Day
Enjoyed watching my wife feted on her first-ever Mother’s Day
Began to tolerate, almost like, some of the White Stripes’ songs
Saw my son take his first steps
Heard my son say “Daddy” for the first time
Went to the movies just a couple times
Took my son to his first Yankees game
Was “taken” by my wife and son to the Yankees game on Father’s Day
Did not attend a funeral
Went to just one wedding
Tested my leadership and creative capabilities on a work project
Went to the gym 29 times (2004 – 168 times; 2003 – 221 times)
Saw my grandmother moved into a nursing home
Bought tickets for, but never went to, a Washington Nationals home game
Took my son to his first swim lesson
Almost had to get rid of my dog
Wrote for Jon Stewart (for the first time since 1991)
Saw the New York Dolls for the first time
Saw X for the first time
Hit the saturation point in my bitter hatred of George W Bush and his administration
Worried when H’s doctor detected a slight heart murmur (He's OK.)
Saw three great documentaries [ 1 / 2 / 3 ]
Got to work on a project with some of the finest people I know
[posted with ecto]
A quick one. With pictures.
It took hours longer and hundreds of dollars more than we thought, but here we are. Forest Hillbillies.
[posted with ecto]
I guess this will always be a special, sentimental time of year for me. One year ago today, we got the call from the adoption agency, telling us we'd been cleared for travel to Korea, for to bring home our baby H. It set into motion a flurry of action and emotion, and Thanksgiving week will never be the same for me. This afternoon, I took some time to go back and read the posts from that week, and I sat crying in my office as I read.
There had been a lot of milestone days in our adoption process -- the day we decided, the day we told our families, our first homestudy meeting, the completion of the paperwork, the arrival of the "referral" with the first photos of H, etc. -- but they were all spread out over many months. There was time to take it all in, to process what was happening. But in those days immediately before and after Thanksgiving 2004, so much happened so fast. It was just a blitzkrieg of info and stimuli and emotions. I'm glad I wrote some things down here, because as I re-read them today, I realized how much I'd forgotten.
One thing that has never slipped my mind is how amazing it was to see my wife become a mother. It was incredible to watch her -- with her great warmth and enormous heart -- manifest a new kind of unconditional love for our son.
And what a year it's been, watching our boy learn and grow. He's the most beautiful boy in the world. A boy so gentle and loving that he repeatedly kisses his stuffed animals' noses, yet so rugged and playfully boyish he hurls his toys at our dog's head. When H finds a way to makes us laugh, by stomp-dancing or making funny sounds, he keeps at it -- what a great sense of humor for a 17-month old.
He's my perfect world.
I didn't intend for this to turn into a love letter to my family. It just did, I guess.
Here are some links to the entries from those days.
Eleven Twenty-Eight 0 Four (From Seoul)
The Day We Met H (From Seoul)
Eleven Thirty 0 Four (From Seoul)
The Day H Made Us A Family (From Seoul)
Listening: "Blue Moon Baby" from Rockinnreelininaucklandnewzealand -- The Cramps.
Yesterday, we three stopped at the Clinton Crossing outlet mall on our way back from Cape Cod. While my wife was in the first store, I hung outside with H, who took his very first ride on one of those coin-operated “rides.” Not understanding that it was meant to be fun FUN (FUN!), he sat expressionless aboard the gyrating rocketship*, pressing a button which activated the “Cool Robotic Voice!”
And yet, he liked it.
But he took much greater pleasure in walking around on the grass. While he stomped around, we were approached by a pair of women -- a 30-something and what was probably her mother. In the tar-beflecked voice of a Benson & Hedges devotee, the older woman said to the other “I''ve always loved Oriental babies.”
Then, to me: “How old is he?”
Me and H just ignored the woman, even as she asked a second and third time. We kept frollicking around on the wet grass.
Now forget, for a moment, that the proper word is “Asian.” I understand some people still haven't gotten the memo on that one.
But... Who says such a thing anyway?
How many of the following sound OK?
a) I've always loved black babies.
b) Aw, Puerto Rican babies are so damn cute.
c) Jew babies -- so loveable, am I right?
Sticking Point pal SOC is a genius. He said: “Maybe you should've said, 'That's too bad because Oriental babies have never liked you.'”
* I've read Freud. Don't bother sharing your analysis.
First, sorry. It's been real tough to find time to post lately. There was a lot happening in the Sticking Point world last week. It was unreal. And this weekend I finally found the time to get some stuff down here that I wanted to share with you all, but Time Warner Cable of Brooklyn failed to supply internet service for some reason.
I bet you got tired of seeing that Liz Phair entry every day, huh? Hopefully, this will make up for my recent Inter-negligence. Why don't I pick some topics out of the handy Moleskine notebook and see what sticks to the webpage?
Earphones Hey. You. Yeah, you. When you are out and about, and you're suddenly stopped by a reporter from NY1 or WABC to give your opinion on something for the television camera, take your friggin' earphones out of your ears. You look like an idiot mutant.
"Mr. Mom" This is the name of a movie that came out about 30 years ago. It's time for lazy newspaper/magazine editors, TV reporters, and idiots-at-large to stop using this term to describe simply any man who spends time with and/or cares for his child. He's called "Dad."
Aqueduct Right on for David Terry (Aqueduct). He makes great, interesting music with hooks that end up in your head for weeks. (Like "Dinner Mints.") And now, he's got one of his songs ("Hardcore Days & Softcore Nights") on a Jaguar commercial that seems to be on TV every sixteen seconds. Check out Aqueduct's Pistols at Dawn EP on Barsuk.
Babysitter With Mrs. Sticking Point hired to work on a three-month project, we had to scramble to find the right babysitter / nanny person to care for H all day. And then, we had to adjust to the fact that his safety and happiness were in the hands of a total stranger. Yow. The very moment that "Mission: Babysitter" transformed from concept into reality, I felt like I'd been hit in the solar plexus by a bus. Man, it was hard, last Monday, to walk away from my son and toward the train station, as Madam Vee stolled him in the direction of the playground. One good thing came out of that day: I was able to think up 163 more items for my list of Ways a 14-Month Old Can Be Gravely Injured Before 7PM.
Now, a week later, I can report that Madam Vee is even warmer and more intuitive than she seemed when my wife interviewed her, and little H is doing well in her care. But I'm still a wreck.
Supermarket Smell Went for groceries yesterday, and had a great sense memory. In the local Key Food, I caught a whiff of a smell that I remembered from when I was a 16-year old working in my neighborhood Shopwell store. On Saturday mornings we had to show up extra early, at about 5:30 AM, to unload the contents of two enormous delivery trucks. The entire store would be filled with the scent of fresh-out-of-the-oven breads and rolls wafting out of the Baked Goods department. I caught a slight hint of this aroma the other day, and it brought me back. It was comforting. As, I guess, the smell of warm bread would be.
Bonus fact: Because labor laws required it, after unloading the trucks, we teenagers and early 20-somethings were allowed an extended lunch break. (About two or two-and-a-half-hours.) The whole gang of us would grab a bunch of food and head down to the Stadium for a few innings of the Yankees' game. (This being the victory-challenged early 80s, there were about 40,000 good seats still available after game time.) We'd stay for about 90 minutes, then head back to the store to pack out our aisles. (Mine was aisle 3: cereal.)
Aaron Small So, the Yankees have spent most of the season struggling to find consistent (-ly effective) starting pitching. Aaron Small bounces around from organization to organization before becoming the Yankees "mystery meat" #5 starter, and providing some magical consistency to the tune of 3-0, 2.67 e.r.a. in four starts. He pitched effectively against powerful Angels, White Sox, and Rangers lineups. Jaret Wright re-enters the Yanks' non-rotating rotation tonight and Small rides the bullpen pine. And that's wrong. Of course, the argument can be made that prior to this season, Small hadn't started a game since 1996. But the fact is, he's provided the team with quality starts every time, while Jaret Wright sucked before he went on the DL. Plus, I feel like Wright's stuff could be great in relief -- he could fill that flexible role that Ramiro Mendoza held down in the primo years. Joe Torre pisses me off. Jaret Wright starts tonight vs. the D-Rays. Let's see if he's got the stuff to make it through that lineup. Although it's not the most fearsome bunch of hitters in the majors, they come into the game with a team batting average of .276... the same as the Yanks.
One other thing; Aaron's middle name is James. Why this guy is not going with "A.J. Small" is beyond me. THAT's a baseball name, for god's sake.
Yankees 1Bmen Has anyone else noticed that the last three Yankees first-basemen have worn uniform numbers 23, 24, and 25?
Hard Rock Cafe I think the fact that the gift shop of the new Times Square HRC was opened a couple months before the restaurant itself speaks volumes about the franchise. Plus, who the hell are these a-holes, walking out of there with $25 t-shirts from a restaurant that has yet to crack the seal on a single bottle of ketchup? What, exactly, is that a souvenir of?
Listening: "Come Back Baby" from Jefferson Airplane Loves You by Jefferson Airplane
Thirteen-month-old H has been doing a weird thing lately. When he's playing quietly by himself, he'll pick up a toy or ball or book, bring it over his head and drop it behind his neck. It looks exactly as if he were depositing it into an imaginary backpack. Odd.
Today's shuffle served up a stridently mediocre Friday 10.
01 Walking Contradiction - Green Day: For some reason, this song (and this album) reminds me of sitting in a London flat, alone and bored out of my skull. I know the reason, I'm just not going into it now. Great start to a Friday 10. Yea! I like Green Day. Prior to American Idiot, their songs get in, do their business, and get out of the way.
02 Teenage - Fallen Angels: From the great great Punk Archives comp on Jungle. It's out on Cleopatra Records, too, I think. Fallen Angels is a shitty name. I think every half-assed garage band in the neighborhood I grew up was called Fallen Angel or Destiny or Badass. How
much little time do those guys spend on those band names? If you, or anyone you know is forming a band and needs a name, email me. I've got a legal pad full of hot-snot monikers, just waiting to get heat-pressed onto your black t-shirts and kick drum. Anyhow... This Fallen Angels was formed in the mid-80s by Knox from the Vibrators with most of the guys from Hanoi Rocks. By the time they released the "Teenage" single, though, I think it was Knox with a handful of other chaps. The Jungle Records site has some info here.
03 We Know The Night - Replacements: From the "previously unreleased" half of that Replacements compilation that came out in 1997. That's not the best place to start if you're just discovering the band. Most of these "unreleased" tracks were easy to find as b-sides anyway, and quite frankly - they're not the band's best moments. (Apart from "Date To Church" with Tom Waits and "Beer For Breakfast.") The greatest hits half of the disc is alright, but you'd be better served by hearing those songs in the context of the original LPs, especially Tim, Let It Be, and Hootenanny. Especially Tim.
04 Canary - Liz Phair: When she sings "I jump when you circle the cherry," what does she mean? Seriously. If anyone knows, tell me. Phair's first three records are bulletproof in my book. I dig 'em, I still listen to 'em, and I make no apologies. I saw her touring off the last record -- the halfway decent collection of pop songs that everyone hated -- and it was pretty sad. I think she was going through a sort of midlife crisis, where maybe she was trying to behave a bit like some of these young'uns onstage. She playing an acoustic show here in NY on Monday night. I'm looking forward to it and hoping she's a little more comfortable in her own skin these days.
05 Citadel - Rolling Stones: Their Satanic Majesties Request is unfairly compared to that famous Beatles album all the time. People shit on it. Tosh! TSMR is a little droning at moments, but has some great songs. This is one of them. The riff on this track could smack the parking summons book right out of Rita's "lovely" hand. I love this album. "Sing This All Together"? "2000 Man"? "She's A Rainbow"? Come on! Even Bill Wyman's got a great vocal on "In Another Land" that offsets Jagger's harmony on the bridge ("Then I a-woke...") perfectly.
06 Car Fantasy - Pussy Galore: Didn't I get Pussy Galore on last week's Friday 10? Yup. Another great Jon Spencer song; it's on the Corpse Love anthology.
07 Psychotherapy - Ramones: In 1983, I used to bum rides home from hockey practice from my pal Tommy Reczek. He had a Camaro -- of course -- with the most trebly-sounding car stereo you'll ever hear. We would listen to Subterranean Jungle on 11 -- of course -- the whole way home. This album, End of the Century, and Pleasant Dreams are all great records that came out in my early teen years; my rock and roll wheelhouse. I could feel a sense of entitlement to a band that had already been making amazing music when I was only 8.
Thank God the Ramones happened, you know?
08 12:51 - The Strokes: My iPod loves this song. I usually listen to the machine on shuffle, and this comes on all the time.
09 Caroline - Harry Nilsson: Another artist I heard on last week's Friday 10. Straight Outta Bushwick. Harmless, half-interesting factoid: Early in Nilsson's career, Little Richard told him, "My! You sing good for a white boy!"
10 Pirate Love - The Heartbreakers: From the classic L.A.M.F. album. Thunders was unreal. I am such a fan. I don't care to hear the stories about his junkiedom though, but unfortunately, they seem to precede the music. I saw him once, in March 89, when he opened for the Replacements at New York's Beacon Theatre. Later, he joined them for the encore and they did "Round and Round" and "Born To Lose."
DIY: Put your mp3 player or digital jukebox on "shuffle all songs." Type the first 10 songs you hear in the comments section below.
iPod Dummy photo found at iPod Lounge.
I found this questionnaire/template on Incarcerated Uterus. Though things like this are phenomenally narcissistic and scary to me, they're also right in my anal-retentive, OCD wheelhouse, so I'll play.
Warning: the following contains graphic examples of solipsism, unmitigated self-absorption, and unchecked ego. DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU.
Ten Years Ago: I was going back and forth to London, writing promos for western movies* airing on Saudi satellite TV. I was in great leg-shape, racing mountain bikes competitively. (Best finish: 9th at a race called the "Jack Rabbit Run" in Connecticut.) I was a contributing writer for a comedian who had his own weekly live show on cable. I don't remember much about 1995, really, except I wasn't very happy and I began listening to Green Day.
* That's not Westerns, the genre, but western, as in movies made by studios in that hemisphere. Stuff like this.
Five Years Ago: I was a newlywed. My wife and I lived in an enormous apartment in Brooklyn: two floors, one-and-a-half baths, two living rooms, huge master bedroom, office, two wet bars, built-in bookshelves, and a private rooftop deck. Our landlord ran and edited a socialist magazine and (true to his politics) charged us MUCH LESS rent than he could have.
It was from that rooftop deck that I watched the horrifying scene on 9/11. I saw people falling or jumping, watched the facade peel off with a sick sound a split second before the first tower collapsed... and that vantage point still frames my nightmares. For days after, we gathered up victims' personal effects (calendar pages, business cards) that had blown across the East River and onto our deck.
(The socialist landlord came to his capitalist senses in 2002, when his accountant/lawyer told him he was bleeding money and informed him how much he could get for our apartment. When the S.L. proposed an 18% rent hike, Mrs. Sticking Point and I bailed. To Boerum Hell.)
One Year Ago: My wife and I were fresh off the home study portion of the adoption process, and were days away from getting even more fingerprints done for INS. We were working on a project together, and though we watched it get scaled back from a million-dollar-live-from-Vegas-event to a puny ENG clip show, I was having a blast collaborating with her again. I was enjoying the old Pussy Ranch weblog. The Sticking Point itself looked like this.
Yesterday: It was my morning to "sleep in," which means my wife got up with H. I scored an extra 45 minutes before they came in and woke me up. I got to work around my usual time. A pal at the office joked that my hair had "extra body." My man Jake made the awesome recommendation that I put some of the 150-300 less-important CDs in my collection into binders. That way I could regain some much-needed space for the good stuff. As it is right now, our ceiling-to-floor CD shelving system is creeping down our 15-foot hallway and into the bedroom. We had no internet connections when I arrived home; the telephone service tech at Time Warner Cable gave me some bad advice, which I followed, even though I knew it was bad advice. Next, our wireless network was entirely lost. After about a half hour of pissing, moaning, and mild panic as I fiddled with all the settings, it returned. It was one of those freakish computer-related things that sometimes fix themselves. (See also: "TV reception, it fixed itself!")
Today: It was my morning to get up with H. After his bottle, he sat next to me on the couch watching Sesame Street. He sat still for almost eight whole minutes! I loved it when he began laughing at something Ernie was doing; H giggled, then looked up at me, as if to say, "Isn't that funny?" I love when he shares stuff like that with me. I came in to work 20 minutes earlier than usual to find that the celebrity-related project failure I'd been sweating overnight was not as bad as I thought. The star is pissed at his publicist and pissed at his movie studio, but may still consider the project I'm working on. For lunch, I ignored recent blood test results (my "bad" cholesterol is a tad high) and had my usual -- double turkey burger on a kaiser roll -- anyway. Then I found this questionnaire on Incarcerated Uterus.
Five Snacks I Enjoy: Cashews and/or pistachios. Ben & Jerry's Karamel Sutra ice cream (but only because they no longer make Concession Obsession). Tuna on a kaiser with extra mayo (it IS a snack!). Chocolate chip cookies from the cafeteria at work. Pirate's Booty. That was a struggle. I'm really not a "snacker." I've only had two of those items in the past three months.
I Know Most Lyrics By These Five Bands: The Clash, Replacements, Rolling Stones, Rilo Kiley, Luna.
Five Things I Would Do With $1,000,000: Buy a house in Cooperstown, NY. Set up college funds for my son and my nieces and nephew. Open a small music store. Install a batting cage at the house in Cooperstown. Get these. (I never said these were the first five things I'd do.)
Five Bad Habits I Have: Just five? Audible gas. Pausing to acknowledge said gas. Short attention span means I often ask, "Wait, could you start over?" Inflexible when it comes to sticking to a plan. Surliness.
Five Things I Really Like Doing: Staying at home. Listening to music. Working out. Reading. Counting things. (Do I sound like a party or what?!)
Five Things I Would Never Wear: denim shorts, any novelty T-shirt, penny loafers, a vest, underwear.
Five TV Shows I Like: The Office (U.S. version), 30 Days, Scrubs, Newsradio, NY1 News All Morning.
Five Movies I Like: Apocalypse Now, Dog Day Afternoon, Yojimbo, Magnolia, The Good Girl.
Five Famous People I Would Like To Meet: (and hopefully, they Google themselves and will make this happen.) Keith Morris, David Cross, Norman Mailer, David Johansen, Chuck D.
Five Biggest (Current) Joys: Waking up with my family, the look on H's face when I enter his nursery in the morning, walking around my amazing neighborhood, H's laugh, playing with H and his new foamy Yankees ball.
Five Favorite Toys: iPod, FutureSonics EM3s, Audacity software, iBook, the foamy Yankees ball I bought H in Cape Cod.
I knew it would be like this. I always had the words to describe what it would be like, but I couldn’t possibly fathom the feeling that comes with being H’s father.
Last November, one of my colleagues became a friend when, days before I left for Korea, he sat in my office telling me how wonderful fatherhood is, and sharing with me the feelings he experienced upon becoming a father. He assured me that I was up to the responsibility and doled out a wealth of day-to-day advice. It meant so much to me. Here was a guy welcoming me into a club that he himself was obviously pleased to be a part of.
One thing he said, almost jokingly, has never left my mind – not even for a day. “It’s not about you anymore.” To the uninformed, that might sound flip; it may even resonate with a backhanded selfishness. That day, I took it as playful admonishment. I know much better now what my friend meant. It isn’t all about me. And I’m better off because of that. Fatherhood has given my life purpose like nothing else ever has. I’ve given up the superficiality of my old daily concerns, and in return I’ve discovered what my life is all about. Nice trade.
Twelve days ago, H kissed me for the first time as I left for work. I jumped for joy. (You have read “jumped for joy” hundreds of times in your life. But how many times has the writer meant it literally? I do. I thrust both arms in the air and got about three or four inches of air under my shoes.) I spent the rest of the day floating on a cloud. (OK, that one’s figurative.)
The nights when he sounds the alarm at 2, 3 o’clock in the morning are brutal. I jump off the bed startled, and shuffle, half-awake into his room. (Along the way, every time, I bang chin or shoulder against our bedpost. Every time!) Often, insomnia has only moments before eased its grip and allowed me to start drifting off.
Those nights, I just want to get him quiet and get myself back to sleep before I end up wide awake for hours. As I take the steps toward his room, I’m bitter. Frustrated. Pissed.
But the instant I walk in and see him, see him needing me, all that goes away and I want to lift him out of the crib and into my arms. I want to keep him up for the rest of the night, talking to him while he climbs me like a jungle gym. I just want to be with my son.
After four consecutive Father’s Days that I’ve had to bear either despondent, dejected, depressed, or numb, the fact that H is here and has given me my very first Father’s Day (mine!) is a huge gift.
On this day, I think of my father, how he taught so passively. He was never the type to sit next to me and give me life lessons. He never even taught me to shave. But every time I find myself doing the right thing as a husband and father, I recognize my dad’s actions.
I think of friends of mine who are struggling to become fathers; I recognize the hurt in their eyes and want to somehow, in some way, let them know that I see they are right for the job. In my own way, I pray they get the chance soon.
I think of friends like J., who is ohsoclose to meeting the daughter he will adopt; the girl in China who is about to make a Brooklyn family’s dreams spring to life. I look at J. He has no idea what it’s going to feel like. I want to tell him it’s not about you anymore.
And I just want to be with my son. For as long as he can tolerate his old man. I love that little boy so much.
Me and My Dad - David Weinstone. (Music For Aardvarks and Other Mammals)
To save bandwidth please download the file to your computer by (Windows) right-clicking on the song link, and clicking “Save Target As,” or (Mac) CTRL-clicking and selecting “Save Link As.”
Our living room houses quite a large collection of records. Vinyl. The collection is about 1,500 strong, from AC/DC's Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap (the Aussie import, thank you) to ZZ Top's Eliminator, plus 12“ singles, soundtracks, and comps. Almost ALL of it is within arm's reach of your average one-year-old.
Our ABOVE average (again, thank you) one-year-old recently decided to make his first musical selection. Usually, the record shelving is just a starting point for one of H's amateur walks across the living room floor. (He took his first steps on Mother's Day. The kid's got a showman's flair for the dramatic.) But one day last week, he stared at the records, reached in, and pulled one out.
Alice / Floorshow / Phantom / 1969 - Sisters of Mercy. (French import)
[posted with ecto]
The Brooklyn Family Sticking Point happened upon a one-block-long "flea market" yesterday. (Here.) That phrase gets quotation marks because all this thing really amounted to was a series of personal stoop sales* strung together in a daisy chain of folding tables stacked with crap.
Alongside the obligatory picture frames, salt shakers, shot glasses, and copies of Life, people in my neighborhood will sell their moldy old shoes (without soles!) for a dollar. They'll sell their old socks ("gently worn!"), three for a dollar. Books with pages dangling out. Single gloves, missing their match. Umbrella handles. Prescription eyeglasses. "Leftover" Flintstones chewable multivitamins. All this junk-drawer detritus is hauled to the curb and tagged at 50 cents, or a buck or two. Because the people in my neighborhood will sit outside their $3 million brownstone homes** on a scalding day in June to make 50 cents from a "Golden Retrievers!" calendar. From 2002.
Mrs. Sticking Point was bored/depressed/freaked out after just 6 minutes, so she and baby H headed off in the direction of the neighborhood toy store. I hung back with the beagle, and looked for the guy on this block who'd be selling records and CDs.
When I approached his table, he told me, "Everything's a quarter now, because it's gettin' fuckin' hot, and I'm tired of standin' out here." He had a lot of cool stuff, and I walked away with a bag full of goodies for less that the cost of a slice and a Coke. The best gets were this Ruts double disc (.50), this 14-year old Ramones trib comp (.25), this Bomp records comp (.25), and this Devo VHS tape. I first saw it on USA's Night Flight program when I was about twelve years old, back in my family's pre-VCR days (when you had to pay attention to what you were watching). The version I got yesterday for a quarter is the 1979, even-longer-out-of-print edition in the enormous black Warner Home Video box. On the Amazon marketplace, it's being sold as a "collectible" for $270. (Or 1,080 times more than I paid.)
The live stuff, and the video clips for "Come Back Jonee" and "Secret Agent Man," are worth every penny.
Listening: "Something That I Said" from Live and Loud by The Ruts.
* Called "Garage Sales" in neighborhoods with, uh... garages.
** Please note that I do not own, nor live in, such a home. Wife, child, beagle, and I share a 1000 square-foot rental apartment. (With some mod cons!)
“...and they don't want baby girls, so they give them away.... That's the way they do it over there.... How could you just get rid of something so important? ... That's why I wouldn't do well in China.”
Thus spake the ignorant she-beast on the Utica Avenue-bound #3 train yesterday. Me and S. and H. were on our way down to BAM for the big Dan Zanes homecoming ballyhoo. I was standing against the door, at the helm of H's stroller, when she started spouting her bullshit.
She was talking to a child, one who must have asked “Why doesn't that boy look like his mommy and daddy?” or “Why was he adopted?” Understandable questions from a member of the under-10 set. But the ignorant she-beast had to share her answers EXTRA! LOUD! Probably to prove how look at me “progressive” she is.
But the eedjit had so much wrong. To begin with, she was mistaking my Korean son for a Chinese daughter. She was mistaking her own half-assed misinformation for an actual understanding of the sociopolitical and societal factors that have led to the preponderance of girls being adopted out of China.
But her most egregious mistake was thinking that families formed through adoption want to listen to total strangers discuss them.
I got... pissed.
Once my wife and I realized what the i.s-b. was talking about, I said, in a stage whisper, “What the fuck kind of conversation is that?!” Standing next to me, a young man who was about to step off at the next station, smirked. Even he knew she was an assclown.
I wanted to say something to her. I wanted to say, listen -- you've only got a half-assed grasp of what you're talking about, so maybe you shouldn't be the one explaining it. Beyond that, you are either rude or ignorant for talking so loud about me and my family. Fuck you.
I didn't say any of that. Instead, (in another stage whisper) I said, “I don't want to hear any more of this ignorant bitch” and wheeled H's stroller a few yards away.
Since then, I've been going back and forth on this: I should have said something to her / I'm glad I didn't. But I know that as H grows older and begins to understand these things and starts to overhear conversations like this, how his mom and dad react is going to play a huge role in his growth and self-image.
[posted with ecto]
And the team's famed "aura and mystique" must have rubbed off on the boy, because he chose yesterday, his mom's first Mother's Day, to take his first-ever actual steps. He walked.
One second he was slamming his palms on his aunt's coffee table, and moments later he was four steps away from it.
Nicely done, H.