Blithe

Pete requested a less girly desktop “with some monster eyes on it.” He’s much cuter in the larger version; the screenshot doesn’t show the fun details.

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He was a fun monster to make; I enjoyed spending an afternoon with him and his furry, furry, fur.

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Dear world,

How are you? I’m fine, here. I was just writing to tell you that your suspicions are correct. I am a moron. It is something I try to hide by reading a lot and making obscure references to “deep” things that the laity don’t get, but of course I’m still stupid. That’s ok. I’ve decided to embrace my incompetence. “Go with it” as the kids say.

I’m realizing, I’m not the only incognito moron on the planet. There are many of us swilling coffee from a brand-name foam cup, complaining loudly about the impoverishment of the gene pool, all while our vehicles are parked sideways without permit across three handicapped spaces, and our spouses/mates are out flying along the freeways in massive SUV’s, changing lanes without a backward, or sideways, or rearview glance. See what I mean there?

Maybe this is what comes of prolific breeding, of humans being born without a solid logical reason for existence. I heard once (from a prodigiously gifted, well-lauded moron) that a baby is born every second. Why? Well, that’s the question, isn’t it. I think it’s because we really, really like humping, and after all the humping comes babies, and have you seen our babies? SO cute, world. You should get one for yourself.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know, world, that I’m coming to terms with it. Being a moron is never something I aspired to be, but, I guess it’s like Paris Hilton: you live with it. I hope you’re doing fine, out there. Say hi to the sun for me.

a play in three acts, written in colloquial fashion.

EXT: SUNNY LAWN IN THE COUNTRY - DAY.

Ladies of various ages and hairstyles mill around a table laden with gifts, cake, and dainty cups filled with pastel mints and peanuts. A banner reading “BABY SHOWER” flaps happily in the breeze. The expectant mother, for whom the banner waves, introduces members of her own family to members of the family she married into, as well as various friends who have arrived to share in her joy and delicious party cake.

Act I: Morning sickness.

A woman in her late 40’s approaches the expectant mother and asks if she has felt “the sickness,” to which the young woman replies, “Yes, but I’m trying not to complain because I’ve been praying for this baby for a long time. I should be happy to be sick.”

“Oh, they say it’s a sign your body is working right, if you’re sick like that. It must be a relief to have the sickness,” the older woman proclaims, and then says loudly to her nearby daughter-in-law, “J, you didn’t have the sickness when you had that miscarriage, did you?”

J, in her mortification, blushes pink and mumbles, “No, I didn’t.” The other party guests stare at her. A somber geek within the vicinity inwardly writhes, fights the urge to jump up and dance the funky chicken, something - anything - to get them to stop looking at the poor girl.

“Oh, well, that just proves it there. If you’re sick, it’s a sign your body is doing its work.” The conversation carries on. J slinks off, quietly. She probably didn’t want everyone to know, like that - to have her personal pain flaunted so casually at a baby shower for someone else.

Act II: Age matters.

More party guests arrive. The expectant mother pauses a moment to talk with the geek, who is the cousin of her husband. They are around the same age - late 20’s, and 30. As they are talking, another middle-aged woman approaches, and she and the expectant mother embrace. It is apparent that this woman is not a relation, but a friend from the new mother’s former ward (church.) Pleasant greetings are exchanged. The middle-aged woman then waves an airy hand at the 30-year old geek.

“So, is this your mother - aunt…?”

The expectant mother stumbles over her words, her eyes wide with horror that the woman has just made such a blatant faux pas. She corrects the woman, saying, no, this is my cousin, we’re the same age. Before thinking, the appalled geek lets slip a poisonous conjecture.

“Are you always this rude, or are you having an inspired day?” she says to the middle-aged woman.

Middle-aged woman, thoroughly affronted, mumbles something about how the expectant mother and the geek look alike, and hurries away. The geek, humiliated, looks at her cousin-in-law as if to say, “Can you believe that woman?” She finds no solace, however, as the expectant mother winces with embarrassment. The geek now feels like a real viper for having said those things at her cousin’s baby shower, on top of feeling extremely, horribly ugly.

Act III: Baby games.

Pink yarn is passed around, produced out of nowhere by the previously tortured J, who seems now to have recovered and is smiling. “Ok, take the yarn, and measure what you think will fit around the mother’s belly,” she says, handing the yarn and scissors to the geek. “If you’re the closest, you’ll win a prize.”

The geek has no idea. None. She hastily cuts a piece of string, drapes it around her neck, and passes. Later, two of the geek’s aunts come to sit near her. Their string lengths are much shorter.

“Oh no,” the geek says. “I’ve made mine too long.” She is genuinely concerned. Her aunts laugh.
“My string is going to be the longest,” she laments. “She’ll be all offended. She looks cute with a pregnant belly, I don’t want her to be offended.” The aunts laugh again.

“Ok, where are those scissors? I’m just going to cut some off…”

To her great consternation, the scissors have mysteriously disappeared.

A jar is handed to the geek, along with a pen and a stack of pink notecards. “Write a message or some kind of advice, and put it in the jar,” the geek’s cousin B says. “I know you’ll write something good - you’re really creative like that.”

Geek, yarn still in hand, wind gently battering a helium balloon against her head, feels beside herself. Advice? Like, real, applicable, heartfelt things? The geek has not given good advice to anyone since… never, now that she has a chance to think about it. Minutes pass. Seconds tick away. Other guests eye her anxiously, as if to say, “hurry up and say what you’re going to say, Hemingway, so that I can write my dazzling witticisms in a practiced, archival-quality hand.” The geek frets, thinking, these are things that will be put in the baby’s book of memories for EVER. Oh god, she thinks. This is what I get for living a life of cynicism.

Meanwhile, the yarn has made the rounds, and every person has had a chance to estimate the new mother’s belly girth. Cousin B produces the exact measurement, and begins comparing lengths. Geek slumps in her chair, as her length is measured - and it is, indeed, about 6 inches too long. Her aunts and all surrounding laugh. Hilarity has reached its climax; they hold up the geek’s string for all to see. The expectant mother’s expression is unreadable.

“Mom, how close were you?” A cousin asks. The geek’s aunt replies, “I didn’t win, mine was too long - but it wasn’t as long as the geek’s!” HA HA ha ha ha. Ha ha. It is too funny; so funny, the geek wishes she could just die right now and not have to face the utter funnyness of this moment.

Denouement

Gifts are opened, cake is eaten. Mercifully, the party ends. The geek’s husband arrives to pick her up. “Are you ok, honey?” he asks. “You look a little pale.”

The geek takes one last look at the dispersing shower party, and climbs into the car. “I’ll tell you about it on the way home. Step on it, hon. Don’t stop for red lights.”

Exuent.

One time in Sunday school, when I was about, oh, five or six, my teacher decided to tell us about Moses and the Jews wandering in the desert and what they ate during that time (and God’s test, and their subsequent failure, which made for the moral lesson, an obligatory part, seeing as how we were in church.) For those following along at home, this would be centering on Exodus 16. (King James version)

If you haven’t read it, please allow me to recap:
The Jews bitch out Moses because they’re starving, and it was his idea to head into the desert with no provisions, afterall. Moses appeases the hungry mob by supplicating on their behalf. Jeeehovah hears, and then rains special bread down, but with the caveat that they only take what they need for a day, so that God can test his chosen people to see if they can follow directions. Aside from whether or not they do as God asks, the people are completely weirded out by the appearance of this special bread, which is small, flat, and round, and therein lay the crux of that long-ago lesson.

To illustrate what the small, flat, round bread would look like, my teacher had taken a slice of crust-less Wonder bread and smashed it flat. She showed it to us, smiling, winking, suggesting that if we used our imaginations hard enough, it just might smell like coriander and honey and the hem of God’s robes.

This made such a huge impression on me. I went home from that Sunday school lesson thinking, “This is right. This is it. God eats special bread.” My mom found me at the kitchen table smashing the shit out of a piece of Wonder bread, and when she asked, “What are you doing?” I said, “I’m making God bread.”

In my private moments, I have mushed my bread ever since.