pregnant women are smug and you were a teenage loser

-
Although AK and I did couple-ish Valentine stuff on Friday, we spent V-Day proper with our sisters (‘cause we love them too) at Mortified. After hearing people read their diary accounts of teen romance, we concluded: Whether you were a virgin or a whore, a hot cheerleader or a closeted gay boy, the dumper or the dumpee—you were lame. Few thoughts are more comforting.

We also dug the opening musical act, Garfunkel & Oates, whose song “Pregnant Women are Smug”* I’m posting here for your enjoyment:




*Of course, none of the pregnant and recently pregnant women I know are smug. Seriously! My friends are a well-mannered bunch who ask about my book tour even while in the act of nursing a little one. But I do think that as a group—much like roving mall-packs of teenagers and gays at pride parades—pregnant women can be crazier than the sum of their parts. In all cases, it’s probably fair to blame hormones.

Comments

Robin said…
I love this post. Full Disclosure: I'm not pregnant. Happy Valentines Day, you two.
February 16, 2010 at 8:35 PM
Chef Katie said…
I also love this post- and as a semi-recently pregnant woman, yes- we are crazy. every last one of us. it's just a matter of which kind of crazy you happened upon.
February 16, 2010 at 8:57 PM
Sizzle said…
I love Garfunkel and Oates. They crack me up! "to the douche to the douche to the motherfuckin' douche, I thought this was a really cool party now it's just a bunch of ed hardy. . ." HA
February 17, 2010 at 7:15 AM
Cheryl said…
R: But I suspect you've been around one or two pregnant ladies. :-)

CK: I get that anything that takes over your life for a while--whether it's a kid or a PhD or the Peace Corps--is going to make you a little insufferable to outsiders. But those are the same things that will eventually make us interesting, well-rounded people, right? As long as we all come up for air eventually?

S: Yeah, they performed that one too. Fantastic!
February 17, 2010 at 12:54 PM
Claire said…
Now that was a much more entertaining video than the fear inducing terror of chairlifts you left on my blog. ;)

Author, tv writer, etc. Pamie transcribed a bunch of her teen letters recently you might enjoy. I think they start here.
February 17, 2010 at 4:17 PM
Cheryl said…
Wow, Pamie is totally Mortified material. I have a special soft spot for young writers with big pretensions.
February 18, 2010 at 2:28 PM
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

there is more in this world than fear and pee

-
Image
I take a walk and do the exercise my therapist taught me: something I can see, something I can hear, something I can smell, something I can feel, something I can taste. At first I can’t remember the fifth sense, and I worry it’s a sign of a problem with my brain (other than the ones I know about: the ruminations, the anxiety, the sadness that touches down like a tornado). Or it’s lack of coffee. I’m walking to a coffee shop. I like this exercise because it’s also a writing exercise, and I like the words that offer themselves: clicking crow, ladies gathered for cafecito, the sugar and oil of cooking pastries on the breeze . I try to taste my tongue and it feels slightly burnt, which is not a taste, and…is that something I should worry about? Dash is worried about my work trip next week. And angry and sad. He says he’s going to miss me so much that he wants a different mom, one who doesn’t ever have to travel for work. I try to explain how that makes no sense, but doesn’t it actually mak...
Read more

every year contains days, but also

-
Image
Every day contains years, like how yesterday was briefly 1985 and Jenessa's dad was right there, his glasses and strawberry blonde mustache and crew socks, groaning "Ness" about something she said. What she said as we stood in the fog watching our children climb rocks forty years later— my god—is that he was okay for a while after treatment, and then he wasn't, but he refused to talk about it. It's almost next year now. This morning at the kids' museum, I watched my toddler climb a contraption made of fiberglass and fisherman's nets, which dredged up from the seafloor another museum— The Museum of Memory is always open, always dusty— in which my older child pined to ride The Red Bikes on the mini track outside. He was the right size for the low yellow four-wheelers, but the red tricycles had the candy apple sheen of the future. (The Museum of the Future only comes in two flavors, shiny and apocalypse, and sometimes it is closed for repairs.) You probably s...
Read more

seasons of love

-
Image
Everything Cheryl does, she’s totally joking and completely serious.             --AK 2,628,000 minutes 2.6 million moments so dear 2,628,000 minutes How do you measure, measure five years? In new jobs , in boob jobs , in blog posts, in cups of coffee In coffee, more coffee, in coffee, and tea In 2,628,000 minutes How do you measure five extra years? How about love? How about love? How about love? Measure in love Seasons of love 2,628,000 minutes 2.6 million plans gone awry 2,628,000 minutes How do you measure public places I’ve cried ? In grants that I wrote, and novels on the side   Facebook rabbit holes are no source of pride It’s time to kiss Dashaboo Though he’s sticky with jam Let’s celebrate, remember five years Of making people deal with who I am Remember the love Remember the love Remember the love Measure in love Rent rent rent rent reeeee...
Read more