Why I’m not really an adult.

Twice a week, Henry and I go to a pretend pre-school called “Terrific Twos!” Actually, I think it might be called “Terrific Two’s!” (Bad apostrophe. BAD.) When I signed him (and by extension, me) up for this, I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was what two women in the neighborhood told me--that it was a fun way to spend a couple of mornings. The class description in the brochure didn’t sound promising. Alongside other courses, such as cooking (“Watch your wee one learn to chop and dice—safely, of course!”) and art (“Explore different media with your toddler—and have fun, to boot!”), the “Terrific Twos!” description was decidedly frosty, with only a few lines on teaching the toddler to “negotiate transitions” and “manage group interactions” as well as “deal with separation issues.” No mention of arts and crafts, exercise, singing, or human warmth of any kind. I pictured a bare, windowless room, the children huddled in a corner, a woman wearing a severe bun and a unitard (Why a unitard, you ask? Why not?) barking orders. “Henry, hand this ragged doll to Emma. Emma, return the ragged doll to Henry. Good. Here is a nutrition pellet. Now I will leave. Then I will return. Do not cry. Or else.” But hey! Wouldn’t that be a good story for the blog! And we needed something to get us out of this vermin-infested dust trap, so I forked over the cash.

Turns out there are snacks and Play-Doh and hugs a-plenty, and the teacher wears her bun very loose and is warm and amiable, although way too young. Not too young for the kids—too young for me. Also too cute. Henry and five other kids play in a small room, while the mothers try not to hover too close even though there’s nowhere else to go; we also try to come up with something to say to each other, and usually fail. Then we all go downstairs to the gym, which is a couple of playschool slides on some gym mats in an auditorium, and Henry goes apeshit for ten minutes. Then we sit in a circle and sing idiot songs for idiots. Or, I guess, children’s songs for children, if you want to get technical about it. All I know is, we already take a music class, and that class has songs I can stand to hear, and a teacher who can sing, and really hot parents who make me feel less than hot, but at least they’re easy on the eyes. And, let me not be modest about it, I’m a singer. I can belt a tune, my friends. I got me the training. I could get operatic on their asses, if I chose to do so. So the whiny half-hearted off-key “Wheels on the Bus” each week—it hurts, is what I’m saying. But then comes “Where is Thumbkin?” and also the reason I’m not an adult. Because I seriously have never sung that song past the thumb, so when the teacher trilled, “Where is Pointer?” and started the next verse with her index finger, all I could think is “Oh my god she’s going to do the middle finger and her middle finger is going to be pointing at us OH MY GOD” and, indeed, she sang “Where is Tallman?”, with her middle finger right out there, and no one cracked a smile. Of course.

No one except me, I mean. I laughed. Out loud. And now every time we sing it, I start to laugh when my middle finger starts to make the trip from behind my back to the entire class. I can’t help it. Tallman! Ha!

Anyway, that was my point.

And I've seen pooping!

Here’s a strange fact about New Yorkers you may not know, if’n you don’t live here: people here think it's acceptable to clip their nails on the subway. I wish I knew why. I wish I could give a passable excuse for the people from all walks of life I see clipping away, letting their nail bits fly with abandon all over the train, skittering across the train’s floor, probably landing in someone else’s sandals, that person screaming WHY GOD WHY while God can only shake his head and weep in horror.

It’s not like nail clipping is the worst thing I’ve seen on the subway; I’ve witnessed exhibitionism and self-mutilation and private acts of love and some intensely distasteful grooming routines, but those were all performed by people with serious mental problems. No excuses are needed for those people. Abandoned by the system, they have been given implicit leave by the City of New York to go ahead and frottage* themselves against a subway pole. Go ahead! We just won’t ever touch that pole again!

But the nail clipping, people. Nail clipping. I’ve seen makeup applied, creams slathered on, nail polish removed—I watched a woman curl her eyelashes on a bus—and while I would never condone such behavior, I at least sort of get why (okay, except the creams, especially the smelly creams). But nail clipping? Can’t it wait? Do you want to impress your fellow passengers with your grooming habits? Does the idea of standing over a trash can or a sink while clipping fill you with despair? Are you hoping to meet someone who loves the feel of freshly clipped nails raked across his/her back? Do you not get that the clip-clip-clip sound rings throughout the entire car, that it’s like a siren announcing that you get off on littering MTA property with your dead skin?

I’ve had enough. Next time I see someone clipping their nails, I’m going to ... well. I'm going to give them such a look.

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*Apparently this isn’t a verb. Until I made it one, just now.

Shirts on, America!

By the imaginary power vested in me by the United States of America, I hereby declare Saturday, July 24th, to be National Put Your Shirt On Day.

This day is directed at men everywhere. Ladies, you can remove your shirts with abandon, although—do I have to say it?—even in states where it’s legal for women to sun our boobs in the park, we tend not to.

Or maybe you do. In which case, huzzah! Send pictures!

Where was I? Ah, yes.

WHEREAS men everywhere--the six-packed and the ones with the bellies hanging to their knees; the ones sunning their pelts of back hair and the others who clearly wax their entire upper body; the bony-shouldered and the fat-necked; the overly tanned and the pasty-white—apparently have no problem exposing their upper bodies to the general public;

WHEREAS they seem to think they look damn sexy, strutting their naked chests about, tucking their damp, sweaty t-shirts into a back pocket;

WHEREAS, and I don’t care how good a body you have, such a sight is desperately unsexy;

WHEREAS they have no ability to discern where it is appropriate to be topless (the beach, the privacy of your own home) and where it’s so, so wrong (the subway, the drugstore, in front of me);

WHEREAS I never, ever again want to accidentally brush up against the sweaty contours of some stranger’s back-fat because he doesn’t have the decency to keep a healthy distance away from other people (much less put his shirt on);

We, the disgusted, shall use July 24th to spread the word: PUT YOUR SHIRT ON.

To celebrate Put Your Shirt On day, any time we see a topless man parading his chest-hairs down the avenue, we shall point to him and shout, “PUT YOUR SHIRT ON!” He might take offense, true—but on the other hand, you might engage him in a fruitful dialogue about the unattractiveness of the unshirted. Maybe he’ll learn a little something. Maybe he’ll grow. Maybe he’ll PUT HIS DAMN SHIRT ON.

This Saturday, across this mighty land, there will be heard triumphant cries of Put Your Shirt On. And the Shirts shall be Put On. And it will be good.

Who’s with me?

An Alice comes in many guises.

I am beset with work (the paying kind, not the baby kind), which is good, of course, except that I have neglected my poor little infant blog, and if I can’t take care of a 4-month-old blog, how can I ever expect to take care of a child?

Speaking of which!

I dislike it when people say, “I’m not sure if I’m going to have a baby, because, you know, I can’t even take care of a plant.” Because 1) one does not generally have the depth of feeling for a plant that one is biologically compelled to have for one’s offspring, and 2) a baby is not a plant, only more so. They’re actually sort of different from plants. Get out your biology textbook, put it side by side with your horticulture textbook, and study for a while. I’ll be here waiting.

And now I supply an anecdote!

(What do you think of these segues? I’m working on creating the most awkward segues imaginable.)

(You know what’s a great word? Segue.)

Saturday morning. The doorbell rings. It’s a large and merry band of religious proselytizers! They implore my kind, yet Jewish, husband to accept Jesus, but he politely demurs. Then they stand outside our window and jabber at each other about Jesus, and how great it is to love Jesus, and oh, Jesus Jesus Jesus, if he were there right then they’d want to give him a GREAT BIG HUG because they love him THAT MUCH. Now, seeing as how they’re leaning against our window and talking so loudly they might as well come on in, pour themselves some coffee, and wrench our unholy bagels right out of our blasphemous hands, I have the nerve to ask them if they might leave. I heretically lean toward the window and godlessly ask, “Do you think you could walk away now?”

“We’re doing the Lord’s work!” one of the proselytizers exclaims. “We’re here in Christ!”

“That’s swell. But it’s time to be somewhere else in Christ,” I say (more or less; it was probably something less clever than that. But this is my blog! Here I can be clever! Hello!).

At that, there is huffing and muttering among the group, but they eventually shuffle away—about five inches. That’s five inches more than Christ would have wanted!

A few minutes later, I’m leaving my apartment, off for a few hours of (undevout) freedom from the (heathen) child, when I pass the group of proselytizers (notice how I’m subtly not mentioning their religion, so as not to alienate any readers who might share that particular faith! Do you love me? You do!), who are now standing in the middle of the sidewalk, DOING THE LORD’S WORK by blocking everyone’s path, when the woman I had verbally tussled with grabs one of the child-proselytizers by the shoulders, turns him toward me, and said, “A satan comes in many guises.”

Does anyone know what "a satan" is? I am, of course, intimately familiar with Satan, but "a" Satan? What, I'm not good enough to be the real thing? Jesus.