Romanticizing Domesticity

Reading Man Repeller's book Seeking Love, Finding Overalls  (pleasantly surprised by the sincerity and intelligence of the sentimentality in comparison to her adjective-heavy blog prose) and Watching Sex and the City from season 1 has me craving comfort and meaning in earthly objects versus to the dull emptiness I feel when staring into the bottomless galactic chasm that swallows us.

To feel a thrill from picking up a well-crafted (if perhaps impractical for the dog-shit/salt seasoned streets of New York) shoe from Bergdorf's or Miu Miu.  To have your mom inquire that you shop for clothes and make jewelry and read about jewelry and bake cakes like it's your job (because it kind of is). To create for fun, how awesome is that? It's like license to be a kid.

Why

Why do I kept getting asked if I'm returning to my homeland whenever I say I'm visiting whatever country in Asia? No...I'm just going for vacation...

Why do religious people sometimes seem to be the most sinful? Using religion as reason for..anything.  "The pilgrimage sites were quick to capitalize on the sometimes massive visitations.  In essence, they advertised the miraculous benefits that pilgrims might realize by visiting their towns, and reaped the economic rewards" I, a "heathen," would never do that.  and even if I did, I wouldn't try to hide behind the lame excuse of religion.  And this is why I distrust organized religion.  I want to walk up to a one of these so-called Christians one day and say " You sir, are sinful!" And wait patiently as they condemn me to hell with a range of synonyms and euphemisms so vast that Roget would be beaming.

Why do Oreos taste so good even though they're basically made from crap? Yes, a warm, chewy homemade cookie is divine but can it replace the  sandwich of crackly meagerness and chemical shortening filling that is The Oreo?

Why is it cool to be one of the guys, but totally not to be one of the girls?

a real character

I have a professor, who, though eager to please, always manages to press the wrong buttons. He's a people pleaser, but with a Castronian sense of how the people should be pleased.   In appearance, he is equal parts Roald Dahl character (perhaps a mix of Charlie Bucket and BFG--the Quentin Blake illustrations), the quintessential pasty pointed face that's perpetually flushed from either embarrassment or repressed rage that flourishes in the pages of British children's novels.  Gabe from the Office in nervous lankiness, Bill Nye the Science Guy with his neatly parted waves of amber grain as repressed as his anger.  If he were a Modern Family character, he would be Mitchell.  The bad cop that always wants to be the fun parent and desperately asserts it by exclaiming, "I AM easy-going, dammit!" while his face flushes once more and he punctuates the statement with a bang of his fist.

you've been dooced.

There's the old-new age mantra, if you don't like it, don't read it.  Which was real big on dooce; the first time I stumbled onto the site the latest post was a routine exposure of all the gutless hatemail she receives,  passages from letters hung out to dry so that the internet public could shake their heads and throw tomatoes.  The writing felt biting and sardonic which was a sharp contrast to the colorful but pc design blogs I was principally reading. which I suppose was interesting to me at the time because this wasn't just a grown up lady's words, this was a mom.  Even though I have cousins her age, she just seemed like a real adult. And though the hatemail was as if written by a very angry and disapproving nine year old, her own writing was bitter and deadpan (albeit in a cool way), it made me wonder who exactly was the crazy one.  But she seemed so cool, with her cropped pixie cut and sharp chin, as vicious as her words.  I could totally see her as one of those women that I so would love to be friends with but probably not in person, but eager to please and ready to agree with her every word.

i began to predict the familiar structure of the posts, the hyperboles and metaphors with unexpected comparisons became expected and calculable.   With each excited capitalization and exclamation point it was as if a friend was clutching anxiously at your arm before the big reveal and then...nothing. Blurry punchlines and underwhelming revelations.

It seemed inevitable. Once you become a mom, and as long as you don't want child protection services being called on you, your humor inevitably becomes vanilla (not that there's anything wrong with it).  Even the "dude I'm still edgy and like radiohead and write a metaphor about a toilet involving an oozing pimple" is oh so momish.

And then the ads.  The giant banners stretched across the top of the page, blocks of eyesores that competed with the photos themselves.  Sure they're trying to make a living out of this blog, but it began to seem like a corporate attempt at family friendly with lines here and there about poop, sex, and lack of hygiene as if to say "hey hey, I'm still the same." But you're not.

Once you're making a living off the blog, running ads on it,  doesn't the whole read or leave thing  I'll write what I want to write and do what i want to do I don't care what you think thank you very much become (kind of) null?  Like selling your soul to the devil or reality tv.

Don't take this as a sayanora though.  I'll surely be stalking/checking out what's up just as often.  Like The Office, it may be more mellow these days with most attempts at humor obviously trying too hard, I just gotta know what happens next.