First, I think I need to take a second to address the elephant in the room. And no, I’m not talking about Mitt Romney (though I’ll get back to him in a bit). You know it, I know it, the person who texted me about it yesterday knows it. And as much as I want to, I just can’t ignore it any longer.
Baby Jessica was rescued twenty-five years ago yesterday.
I watched all the coverage back then.
Sat mesmerized by it.
Talked with my family about it.
Cried about it.
Cheered when she was rescued.
And then went on a date.
I am so freakin’ old. In fact, never have I felt more decrepit than at this very moment in time. Practically one foot in the proverbial grave. And I would appreciate it if the news media wouldn’t feel the need to give me these constant, twenty-four- hour reminders, thankyouverymuch.
Okay, now that that is out of the way, on to an even more disturbing topic. Women, hide the children. Men, lock up the pets. This is quite possibly the most disturbing thing I’ve read in awhile. (Deep breath) Here we go:
A ninety-six-year-old man fathered a baby yesterday.
Ninety. Friggin’. Six.
The idea alone begs a serious question.
HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?
I mean, I get the logistics. I get that Abraham did the exact same thing a whole lotta centuries ago. I get that men are built differently than women. I get that for some reason, men can participate in child conception until they breathe their last breath. I get how the whole thing works—I learned all I need to know back in seventh grade health class. It’s just…just.
Who the heck is prescribing his Viagra? What doctor in his (obviously male) right mind thought this was remotely a good idea? To that person, I say this: The idea is totally offensive to future ninety-six-year-old me, so please put away your prescription pad. I do not want any future men in my future nursing home to get any future ideas. Ick.
Yesterday, a neighbor down the street from me decked out their house for Christmas. Complete with flashing lights, a Musak version of Deck the Halls blasting from hidden speakers, and a dog scampering around the yard dressed in a fuzzy Christmas sweater.
Y’all, I was so confused.
I’m still so confused.
There I was, writing away on my front porch, enjoying the muted sounds of a perfect Fall day, planning my kid’s Halloween costumes, thinking about what candy to buy for
them me. And then I was jolted out of my reverie by the sound of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree wafting down the street. The music played the rest of the day. The music also played at night. I think the music just might play around the clock for the next three months.
Like I said, I’m confused.
But the whole display has taught me one thing: This Christmas-loving girl is totally decorating her house for the Fourth of July as soon as we ring in the New Year. The flags. The banners. The giant blow-up Uncle Sam planted in my front yard and shaking in the wind. I can’t wait to show the neighbors. They’re gonna love it.
Finally, did y’all watch the debate Tuesday night? Was anyone as uncomfortable as I was? Did anyone else want to shake both men, send them to their respective corners, and tell them not to take their noses off the wall until they figured out a way to get along? I’ve never seen two grown men fight so much. I’ve never seen two men interrupt so much. I’ve never seen Candy what’s-her-names new hair extensions before. I’ve never seen two men spar so vehemently over some of the tiniest issues.
It isn’t worth it, guys. Can’t we all just get along? I know you’re running for President and stuff, but can’t we play nicer in spite of it?
Here’s an idea that might help—for the next debate, play some soft Christmas music in the background. It’s bound to get you in a pleasant, festive mood. Its working wonders on me and my neighbors, even in mid-October.
Happy Thursday—I’m heading back to my front porch.
Fa La La