.SOMETIMES RAW.

Under the sea, There’ll be no accusations, Just friendly crustaceans, Under the Seeeeeeeeeeeeea! – Homer Simpson

A few weeks ago, I sold my voice to a sea witch to become a human woman. It was an incredible adventure at first. I fell in love! I made new friends. I learned so much about the culture up where they walk, up where they run, up where they stay all day in the sun. And now I politely request to return to the sea because I mean, c’mon, just look around what is happening in the world. I rather live with friendly crustaceans under the sea. Far away from this madness on land.

Yes, I looked at the stuff. It was neat. But now my collection’s officially complete, and I would like to leave the land, please. I no longer want to be part of their world. In what seemed like a lifetime ago, I stared at a fork I thought was a hairbrush and said, “I don’t see how a world that makes such wonderful things… could be bad.” But I didn’t know about all this insanity on land when I said that because I was a fish doing fish things most of the time.

It turns out, life on sand is pretty bleak for folks like myself. Those of you still blithely devoted to floating full-time under the sea may not realize, but on land, if you want offspring, you don’t just release a bunch of eggs into the water and move on with your life. No, those of us who can conceive often endure something called “pregnancy.” Evidently, as a princess, I am expected to go through with this process.

I don’t remember all the details because I passed out cold when the palace doctors first explained it to me, but before everything went dark, I heard them say “vaginal mucus,” “loss of blood,” and ten-centimeter hole.” Later on, in a PTSD flashback, I remembered the phrases “nipple cream,” “mesh underwear,” and “thread to sew up the perineal tears.”.

That’s a lot of gadgets and gizmos my buddy Scuttle never explained to me. I famously bet once that on land, they understand that you don’t reprimand your daughters. Well, turns out, daughter-reprimanding is pretty much all they do up here.

They reprimand daughters in churches! They reprimand daughters in court! They reprimand daughters who go to work! They reprimand daughters who stay home from work after childbirth because of those damn perineal tears! They reprimand sons for acting too much like daughters! They reprimand Black daughters and disabled daughters and fat daughters extra for some reason! They attack daughters in the street and make the daughters go through the aforementioned pregnancy! And they reprimand the daughters for that too! And even in dealing with all of the above, my husband’s maid told me that as a white cisgender conventionally attractive European royal, I have it easier than almost any other group on earth, WHICH JUST MADE ME WANT TO JUMP IN THE OCEAN EVEN MORE! On land, humans deal with climate change, gender issues, LGBTQ+ issues, electricity and gas issues, and one virus that causes the entire world to shut down. Who needs all this?

But here is where it gets really dark. My old choir director Sebastian once told me it is “hotter under the water.” Well, that might be because of something called “climate change.” Remember the filefish family that went extinct? Yeah, that’s because humans are smoking out our oceans, and in a few years, daddy’s underwater opera house will simmer like a fucking Jacuzzi.

So now I have to choose between staying a human woman or returning to my homeland to boil like a wild-caught lobster trapped in a pot of these psychopaths’ making. Having finally been where the people are, I choose to boil. I will do anything. I will sign whatever gold contract this witch gives me. I got my voice back right before my wedding, but I will trade it again – I mean, it is not like they are listening to it up here.

Take me back to the shipwrecks and sharks, where friends like Flounder are true allies who risk their lives for mermaids in danger instead of just yelling at us to “vote harder.” Look, life as a fish was not ideal. My father was hot-tempered, and my mom was long-gone after releasing her eggs. Ursula, rest her soul, put it best: Those of us who wanted better were poor, unfortunate souls without many options. But human women, I am devastated to admit, might be even poorer, even more unfortunate. So I am looking seaward. Give me back my shell-bra. I will live out the rest of my life in – what’s the word? – peace without all these humans.

Oh, have you heard about the new Disney version of Arielle?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UH2knSbIQj0

Thoughts? Opinions? Please share them in the comments below.

I had a chat with a friend yesterday. About kids. About our kids who played Nintendo Switch like there is no tomorrow.

Kids today! They’re always toting their Air Up bottles around like they’re going to die of dehydration. Give me a break. All they’re doing is scrolling through their phones, iPads—how does that even work up a thirst? My generation played outside all day in the blazing hot sun, and we didn’t need any fancy water bottles—we either drank from corrosive, lead-contaminated water fountains or slurped our water straight from a hose. Delicious! We drank that stuff and we loved it. And guess what? We survived. Except for those of us who ended up consuming unsafe levels of mould and frog faeces, and eventually succumbed to fungal infections.

My generation played outside until dark—no checking in on “parental control apps” or whatever nonsense these helicopter parents are using to keep their kids dependent. Nope, it was a different world back then. We rode bikes all day without helmets, and our injuries made us stronger. We weren’t delicate little brainiacs, and we didn’t all get a trophy just for participating in the spelling bee—especially those of us whose bike-accident-related brain damage left us unable to spell our own names. I pity these kids today—we had a magical childhood, at least what we’re able to remember of it.

We were fearless—we didn’t hesitate to hop into pickup trucks driven by strange mustachioed men offering us chewing gum. Not only was it full of sugar and devoid of nutritional value, but it also looked just like chewing tobacco, so we got to sit in the back of the pickup and shove it in our faces like little badasses. And guess what? We turned out just fine unless you count the kids who got into the wrong truck and were never heard from again until their faces showed up on our cartons of full-fat chocolate milk or Kinder Riegel Chocolate. Yep, you heard me—we got to look at computer-aged photos of our missing buddies while we drank FULL-FAT CHOCOLATE MILK for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. What kid today gets to have that kind of good old-fashioned fun? And we turned out great! Even our presumed dead friends looked like they turned out fine. Back then, children were seen and not heard, and then occasionally never seen again.

When we misbehaved, we got spanked, and if we got in trouble at school, our parents automatically blamed us and sided with authority figures. Nobody worried about our delicate “feelings” or our “desperate pleas to be heard and believed” or any of that crap. If the teacher said you were bad, you were bad—end of story. And we turned out perfectly fine, except for the crippling hellscape of neuroses and inferiority complexes that have haunted us throughout our lives and now compel us to post lengthy screeds on social media about how fine we turned out!

Sure, life was tough, but we were tougher. There was nothing we loved better than riding in cars without air conditioning, airbags, or seat belts. Hell, we would have loved riding in cars without brakes if we could. Our parents wouldn’t have dreamed of strapping us into our car seats—straps were for spanking, not safety. And yet, we all managed to stay alive—unless you’re the kind of dork who believes all the fancy-schmancy statistics indicating that several thousand of us did not, in fact, stay alive.

And if you are that kind of dork, I don’t know what to tell you. Go drink some Vitamin Water while wearing your helmet, I guess. It’s a dog-eat-dog world (in fact, our dogs loved when we fed them other dogs, none of this “dog bakery” crap). Only the strongest and most able to click “share” will survive!

This is kind of a book recommendation but only kind of. I’ve read Goodnight Moon almost every night for two years straight to my son when he was tiny.  It’s a wonderful book which my son enjoyed. But here are some of my issues with the bedroom depicted in it.

1.  The Size of the Bedroom

This bedroom is enormous.  There is no one, I think, who has not noticed this.  As someone who has lived in apartments only slightly larger than “a little toy house,” it’s mildly vexing that this bedroom is the size of a banquet hall in Downton Abbey.

2. The Little Toy house.

This little toy house would rent out for $2500 a month in Manhattan (not including utilities)

This is not that little of a toy house.  Not only could the rabbit easily fit inside the “little toy house”, but the little toy house also has working electricity.  Why are these rabbits so civilized?  Is this some f**ked up Watership Down sequel???

3. This Just-Discovered Transcript of a Conversation had by the Interior Decorators

The colour scheme we are going for is “exploded paint factory.”

“So what colour have we decided on for the upstairs child’s bedroom?”

“Which child’s bedroom?”

“The enormous one.  The one with the expansive tomato-coloured floor.”

“I was thinking for that room maybe a dark green?”

“Really?  Dark green?  You don’t think maybe dark green walls with a tomato-coloured floor is a bit much?”

“No, it’ll look amazing.  We can break up the monotony of the colour with some dark green and yellow striped curtains.”

“That’s an amazing idea.  On non-matching red and yellow spearhead curtain rods?  Do you think a tiger skin rug would be overkill?”

“For a young child’s room?  No.  Not at all.  ”  

4. This Bookshelf

“For tonight would you rather read “Hop on Pop” or the entire Encyclopedia Britannica?”

Why are these books so thick?  This is a child’s bedroom, not a law library.  Unless this rabbit is defending a doctoral thesis, there’s no need for him to own every non-fiction hardcover from Law Publishing.

5. The Idea That Anyone Would Keep a Comb and a Brush and a Bowl Full of Oatmeal on the Same Table

Almost as appealing as a nail clipper next to a plate of sunny-side-up eggs.

I’m right now trying to picture a situation in which I would place my unwashed hairbrush next to a bowl of cream of wheat and even the idea of it is turning my stomach.

Oh, you’re eating a bowl of warm cereal?  How do you take it?  With milk, cinnamon and dozens of soggy, long white hairs?

*Vomits onto neatly stacked fireplace logs*

6. The World’s Smallest Most Useless Clothesline

Somewhere a personal organizer is having an aneurysm from this thing.

I lived in New York City for almost a decade and I’m very big into “intelligent use of space,” and the fact that this much floor space is taken up by a free-standing clothesline that’s being used to dry ONE pair of socks and ONE pair of mittens makes me grind my teeth.  Mount it on the wall, idiots!  The people at IKEA would have a seizure if they looked at this room.  Also, isn’t there a laundry room or something?  Just put it in there.

7.   Continued…

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

“So what colour do you think for the child’s bed?”

“I was thinking like a tomato-ish red colour?”

“You remember the floor’s a tomato-ish red colour.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t think that’s a lot of red for a child’s bedroom?  We don’t want it to look like the Amityville Horror kill room or anything.”

“You don’t trust me?  I’ve been decorating children’s bedrooms for almost twenty years.”

“No, I trust you, I trust you.  So you want to do all the furniture in red?”

“Are you out of your f**king mind?  Of course not.  For the rest of the furniture, I was thinking something sophisticated, like a mustard yellow.”

“For everything??  All the furniture?”

“All the furniture.”

“Even the little toy house?”

“Are you seriously asking me this?  No. Of course not. The little toy house should be red.”

8. The Dangerously Non-childproofed Fireplace

Also, nothing says “child’s bedroom” like an expensive mantelpiece clock bordered by Cookie Monster-blue funeral urns.

Look, I’m not a crazy stickler for safety or anything but shouldn’t there at least be a screen between the roaring open flame and the rest of the nursery?  Also, can we talk about how the heating situation is going to play out?  You’re going to use an old-fashioned fireplace to heat a room the size of an elementary school gymnasium when the room has zero radiators and two enormous single-paned windows?  Have fun!  You’ll be totally fine with that thin green blanket you’ve thrown over the kid’s legs!

9. The Totally Ignored Existential Mouse

As casual about their infestations as they are exacting about their interior design.

Anyone notice this guy?  What sort of mouse just hangs out in the middle of the carpet in an enormous open room within spitting distance of two cats?  Clearly, this illustrator has never had an apartment with mice because real mice creep along the edges of rooms, usually in the dark, along baseboards and under furniture, occasionally chewing through the walls. Given his devil-may-care attitude, this mouse is obviously lucid in a way we cannot understand.

10. The idea that a child this young (rabbit or human) would need a black office telephone by his bedside.

“Goodnight, Technologically-out-of-date-telephone”

Who’s calling, his financial adviser? Why would someone this age need a telephone unless it’s to call the woman across the vast expanse of his bedroom to ask her to stop whispering, “Hush.”

11.  This Picture of Bears in a Couples Therapy Session

“So you say your mother was…. protective?”

Husband Bear:  We’ve started fighting more since our son was born.  I feel like she resents me.  I feel like every little thing turns into an argument.”

Wife Bear:  “How could I not resent you?  We have a newborn and you’re off eating salmon in a PBS documentary while I’m stuck at home 24/7.

Husband Bear: “Don’t start, Janet!  That documentary was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!”

Therapist Bear:  You sound angry.

Husband Bear:  Brilliant observation!  It took you eight years of graduate school to figure that out?

Therapist Bear:  Let’s all take a deep breath.  In, two three, out, two three…

(They are all silent for several seconds)

Wife Bear:  Also, a tomato red floor seems like a really bold choice for a psychologist’s office, doesn’t it?

Husband Bear:  God, you are so CRITICAL OF EVERYTHING.

Wife Bear:  Ugh.  My mother told me not to marry a grizzly.

*Husband Storms out.  Wife sobs quietly.  Psychologist quietly questions whether he was wise in going with the blue walls and mustard yellow office furniture.*

 12.  And in closing…

“Are we about done decorating this apocalypse of a bedroom?”

“Ok, so the mustard-coloured bookcase came in. I had them install it in the corner and fill it with large, antique books. ”

“Great, so now all we’re waiting on is the round side table, the rocking chair and the freakishly enormous nightstand.”

“So wait, that’s it on the furniture?  It’s a big room, isn’t there going to be a lot of unused space?  Or are we filling that with toys?”

“Actually I was thinking for toys let’s keep it minimal.  I’m thinking maybe one elephant, one giraffe and then the uncomfortably pink naked dolls on the bookshelf.”

“You don’t think maybe he could use a few more toys?  It’s such a huge room and it feels so empty and formal.  You’re sure his parents are going to be ok with it?”

“Will his parents be ok with it?  Did I not graduate at the top of my class with a degree in interior design?”

“I know, I just—”

“Have I not been designing rooms for the past twenty years?

“No, I know!  I just thought—”

“How about when I want your opinion I ask for it.”

“Arrggghhh.  I’m…I’m sorry I spoke up.”  (struggles between wanting to storm out in anger and being grateful for this apprenticeship, which he knows is a big deal.

This book is awesome though. Purchase it. Your child will love it. Recommended age: 1-3 years old.