Vinnie Barbarino knows women’s bodies better than Vito Barbieri (but Vinnie ain’t no legislator!)

This week in the journals of GFY, Stupidity On Parade!

Okay, that’s not unusual, there is a lot of stupidity around, and we do like to parade it, but this one still feels like it is in a league all its own.

On February 23, in this year of Cthulhu 2015, Mr.Vito Barbieri, a republican representative in the Idaho legislature (no I can’t bring myself to spell republican with an upper-case R, sue me) raised a serious question during discussion of an abortion bill. He was questioning Dr. Julie Madsen.

The bill in question would ban doctors from prescribing abortion-inducing drugs via video conference, or phone call, thus limiting access to abortion for women in outlying areas. Dr.Madsen was explaining how remote cameras can work in situations such as a colonoscopy, where one would swallow a capsule with a tiny camera that can be operated remotely. This makes sense, because there is actually a connection between the mouth and the colon. It was then that good old VB asked his stunning question, which he later tried to explain away as being rhethorical. He asked Dr.Madsen if the same method could be used for pregnancies. Here is the exact exchange, because you can’t make this stuff up:

Barbieri: “You mentioned the risk of colonoscopy , can that be done by drugs?”

Dr. Julie Madsen: “It cannot be done by drugs. It can, however, be done remotely where you swallow a pill and this pill has a little camera, and it makes its way through your intestines and those images are uploaded to a doctor who’s often thousands of miles away, who then interprets that.”

Barbieri: “Can this same procedure then be done in a pregnancy? Swallowing a camera and helping the doctor determine what the situation is?”

Madsen: “It cannot be done in pregnancy, simply because when you swallow a pill, it would not end up in the vagina.” (Hoots of laughter from the audience)

Barbieri: “Fascinating. That certainly makes sense, doctor.”
His attempt to explain the question away as being rhethorical is hilarious, simply because it is not based in any reality whatsoever. He might as well have asked if it were possible to recruit tiny green spacemen like they have in old Twilight Zone episodes and let them do gynecological exams.

The whole affair raises a slew of questions for me. I have to wonder if Mr.Barbieri believes you can get pregnant by swallowing semen. If that were the case one of the few tried and true birth control methods would be thrown out the window, and all those people who have t-shirts reading “I could have had a brother, but mom swallowed” would have to burn them since they would be meaningless. Although it might open up new possibilities for smuggling, and finally provide a scientific basis for the Linda Lovelace phenomenon, that is to say the plotline in the infamous Deep Throat movie. The storyline goes that her clitoris is located in her throat. In fact, perhaps that’s the sort of resource Mr.Barbieri has used to gather his unique spin on anatomical information.

If there was a direct line from mouth to vagina, I wonder where he thinks the food would go when women eat? No doubt he has an explanation for that as well, and is probably ready to propose legislation for larger feminine protection products in order to help women with the food overflow, since he is so concerned for them and has his finger on the pulse. He’s not sure exactly where the pulse is, but his finger is there.

Of course if there is a direct line from mouth to vagina, there must be a direct line the other way as well, and that conjures up pictures to disturbing to even consider.

But not to worry, there is no act of anatomical terrorism that legislation can’t deal with, though even as I write that I hesitate slightly, should “anatomical terrorism” actually become a concept. One never knows anymore. Hunter S. Thompson used to say when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. He also said, in a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity. If so, Mr. Barbieri you are a special kind of sinner, a sinner in a league all your own. I take special joy in telling you to GFY, because I realize you might actually try.

(Incidentally, when looking Mr.Vito Barbieri up online, I found there is another Mr.Vito Barbieri who is apparently a doctor in Italy. Given the potential affect on his career should anyone attribute Mr.VB’s inane anatomical quote to Dr.VB, I think he should consider a major lawsuit for potential slander and damage. I’ll have my attornies draft a letter to his attornies, with proper references, because no doubt they’ll just think it is a joke at first.)

ENERGY LEECHES

We should listen to others,

Openly, with a good heart.

We should indeed even listen to what they don’t say.

Prepared to hear both praise, and criticism.

But we cannot listen without filters.

We should not be judgemental in a condemning way,

However we must listen critically, understanding of where things are coming from,

Assessing viewpoints, hidden agendas, and not giving undue weight to the input of others.

When we do so, when we are overly concerned with those negative voices,

We end up giving away our power to them. They become like energy leeches, sapping us of our inner strength.

Be aware, and don’t give away your power.

Pay parity…

…or unfair disparity?

Poor, poor men. Honestly, I have no idea how they manage to live through conversation upon conversation about pay parity. It has to be tedious and frustrating, listening to us shrill women moan about the measly cents on the dollar we earn. It is so very gracious of the men to listen and provide broad shoulders for support. From my perspective, nothing soothes me more than a man telling me to relax about this grievous injustice. Wait. That’s not true. Ideally, I would be most pacified by a broad shouldered man telling me to relax about the 77 cents on the dollar I earn while pushing my head towards his dick so I may fellate him. Yes. That’s the good stuff, indeed.

Oh? You mean you’re tired of this dialogue? You think it’s been done to death, do you? Are you intimating that I’m beating a dead horse? Really? I agree that I have written about this very subject before. I agree that it is most unfortunate that I’m writing about it again, four years later, with zero movement towards eliminating this inequity. It must be tough having to go through life dealing with this verbal pollution when you’re trying to enjoy mindless entertainment such as The Oscars and you’re confronted with the harsh reality of what those of us with internal plumbing deal with on a daily basis. Genuinely tough. I should have more compassion but as it stands, I can only offer up 77% of the full 100%. After all, that’s the disparity in my paycheck. You pay me a 1:1, I’ll consider giving you a 1:1 but only after the same amount of time has passed. You need to appreciate my struggle.

From my vantage point, the most frustrating thing about pay disparity is my output – my final product. After many years of toiling away in procurement, I transitioned to consulting (I’m sooooo talented, I get paid to tell people how to do their jobs). Now, instead of logging hours in an office and interfacing with suppliers and clinical staff, I hide in my house, interacting with Excel, three cats, one dog and a fish. My product is an Excel monument to Rube Goldberg detailing the numerous ways hospitals can reduce spend via cost savings and utilization measures. If you removed any traces of my name from my work and either printed it or forwarded it via email – the end user would have no idea if it had been slapped together by a man or a woman, let alone a human being. It could have very well been calculated by those million monkeys (they are everywhere these days) and their pesky typewriters (although, those monkeys would have to be pretty fucking smart and the typewriters certainly wouldn’t cut it in the modern era). Nonetheless, there is no way of knowing which gender did the work.

So, if there is no way of knowing which gender did the work – how and why would there be a difference in how the employee is compensated? Yet, the probability for disparity is there. Oh hell, it’s not a probability. It’s definite.

Now, I’m not saying this is the case with my organization. I’m certainly not saying this to be a sycophant, either. After you spend x-many years in the workforce and acquire a skillset along with some wisdom, you do have certain luxuries extended to you. If you’re not in a particular hurry to land a job, you do have the good fortune of being selective about what sort of organization you choose to work for. I’m considerably persnickety in this regard. Look for an organization that values diversity and you’re less likely to be on the 77:100 end of the scale. That said, it’s not necessarily a guarantee that you’ll be 100:100, though.

As I said earlier, women haven’t made much progress with pay parity. For some fucked up reason, no one seems to have a sense of urgency about this issue. Bills are being rejected. Women go to the polls each election cycle and continue to vote against their own interests again and again and again. Younger women are so far removed from the struggle for equality that they think Affirmative Action is largely unnecessary. Telling them that I’m older than Title IX barely resonates because they have no fucking idea what Title IX even is. As you find yourself continuing the fight, you end up spending half the time educating the next generation about the need for the battle in the first place. Herding cats yields a better outcome.

During The Oscars, Patricia Arquette decided to use her acceptance speech for a different cause. She felt it was important to remind us that things are still very much wrong; that women are still very much getting the short end of the stick. And, instead of being on the receiving end of “Can I get an Amen, Sista!” people are doing what people do best: they are taking her to the toolshed. How dare she ruin a mental night off from reality? How dare she challenge people with the truth? How dare she put fancy ideas in our lady brains? It’s bad enough that we left the kitchen and stopped making sammiches and babies. Now, we women are being reminded that we’re not paid equally and :gasps: heaven forbid we actually do something about that! The gall!

The issue isn’t a woman using her acceptance speech at an awards ceremony to push a political issue. The issue certainly isn’t about a “Hollywood Liberal” telling Middle-America how to live. The issue is what it has always been – disparate pay for equivalent output. No individual with outdoor plumbing would tolerate that shit. Why should we? And to those who think this is an acceptable practice because we choose different career paths, take time off to breed or are less skilled at negotiating, I should like to ask you, in the most courteous manner possible, to go fuck yourself as uncomfortably as you possibly can. Alternatively, go fuck yourself but only allow yourself to climax at a 77:100.

Go Fuck Yourself Weekly: Tampons and other non-essential, luxury items.

Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman. For realz. Did you know that we pay extra for shit? Such as getting our hair done, and clothing, and hygiene products in pink packaging with the words, “For Women” written on them. Why do clothing companies, hair stylists, and manufacturers of bullshit “For Women” products charge women more? Well, because they can. So they do. They know that we will pay more money for a woman’s product even though it’s the same exact thing as the men’s formula, just with a “feminine” scent added to it. What can I say? We’re idiots. We totally buy into the gendered marketing phenomenon because, ooh…this deodorant is strong enough for a man, but made for a woman. I feel so special.

I would characterize cucumber-avocado shower gel as a somewhat luxurious, non-essential item. After all, you could always use regular soap and save money. However, there are some products that women definitely need in a very essential, and very non-luxurious kind of way. I’m of course referring to menstruation peripherals (thanks, Russ), otherwise known as feminine hygiene products. These are some of the most essential products required by anyone with a functioning uterus. Getting one’s period is not a unique, nor a luxurious experience. Therefore, why on earth are tampons and similar products classified as “non-essential, luxury items” by HM Revenue and Customs in the UK? This classification means they are subject to VAT, a luxury tax that’s not added to completely non-luxurious, and absolutely essential items like edible sugar flowers. After all, everyone buys edible sugar flowers every time they go grocery shopping, right? They are as essential as crocodile meat and alcoholic jellies (I mean…Jello Shots! Hello!!), both of which are also not subject to VAT.

But for some reason, tampons are. Granted, it’s a reduced VAT. It used to be 17.5% but it was dropped to 5% in 2000. I just don’t understand the reasoning behind the idea that tampons are luxurious and non-essential. They are required by every single female with a functioning reproductive system. Once again, we’re being charged extra just because we’re women.

By the way, you know what else is subject to the 5% VAT? Children’s car seats. Apparently the HMRC also considers these to be non-essential and luxurious. I thought parents were required by law to use them, but what do I know?

:stammers:

Suspend the prose. Suspend the creative process. All I can do is get on my soap box (well…box of soap containing bottles of CeraVe) and just look at the world with disbelief. And shock. And disgust because I’m usually disgusted by humanity.

Hyper Cacher happened. I started thinking humanity doesn’t deserve religion because we don’t play well with it.

Shortly thereafter, the 70th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz happened. My feelings about that aren’t any different than any Jew (practicing or non) or any human being with a soul and a shred of decency.

In response to these things, I found myself rooting through my massive piles of jewelry (because all Jews have tons of gold at their disposal – not just sewn in the hems of their clothes) and plucked out a necklace with the Magen David charm and put it on. Not because I’m a religious Jew but to send a message that I am a Jew, that this Jew is not going anywhere and that this Jew made another Jew who will likely breed at some point. My father, also not observant, had started wearing his Magen David a while ago. Maybe it’s our way of telling the bigots to fuck off? Neither my father nor I are random people. We’re deliberate people and, chances are, if we’re doing something – our actions have meaning; we’re sending a message.

For reasons which have no place in this post, I crawled into bed very early last night, pulled the blankets over my head and avoided reality. I also spent a good amount of time unplugged yesterday. It was a Mommy-Milkface Day. I did not see the news until I woke up. And, before we go any further, because I’m so awesome and American news is anything but, most of my sources for news are foreign.

From Haaretz:

Danish police shoot and kill suspect in fatal attacks on synagogue, cafe

One dead in Copenhagen synagogue shooting, hours after man killed at free speech event; Danish PM condemns ‘cynical act of terror,’ says: ‘When the Jewish community is attacked, all of Denmark is attack.’

(…moar…)

The shooting at the synagogue in Copenhagen (one of my most favorite places on Earth) wasn’t the only one. The precursor was a shooting at a free speech event.

From The Guardian:

Jens Madsen said the killer may have been “inspired by militant Islamist propaganda issued by IS [Islamic State] and other terror organisations”, but it was not yet known whether he had travelled to Iraq or Syria before the attacks.

(…moar…)

Honestly, I have no words for this. None. I cannot even describe my emotions.

The shit…it needs to stop and it needs to stop now.

Exasperation, irritation…

…frustration.

Lacking a punching bag and the requisite energy to jab the punching bag, I need to find an appropriate substitute. I’m going to assign blame to my hair. Yesterday, I went for the periodical untangling of the rat’s nest and shearing of the fleece. As hairdressers are wont to do, mine straightened the curls. I don’t care for this, as a rule, but she actually makes it look like something other than newsreader hair so I keep my gob shut and let her attack me with the flat iron. Now I have a headache because trying to keep the mess out of my eyes is a Herculean effort. The hair – it knows not what to do. It just wants to hang…straight…in my face. Now, don’t get me wrong, I usually keep the hair wild and longish so I can hide behind it but I do this of my own volition. I AM IN CONTROL – not the fucking hair. This is me. Right now.

Contributing to my positively shitty mood is my struggle with a stupid essay I have been trying to write for five or six (sive) weeks now. Oh yes, I crow about how wonderful it is to limit myself to essays. I say “Why yes, real writers of books and things, if I get bored or if a concept refuses to come together, I can just bin the shit and move on to the next because I am awesome, lazy and lacking in discipline.” The sad, pathetic truth is that I might find myself reworking something to the point of madness. Barking madness. Madness that results in stuffing cookies in my face and retreating to my bed to snuggle two stuffed bunnies and whichever cat decides to grace me with his or her presence (lately, it’s been Annabel – the kitty that is so muscular and solid, it feels like a cinder block is crushing your legs). It is as ridiculous as it sounds, especially given the pajamas that I’m wearing when I engage in this behavior.

My undoing, my descent into rambling lunacy came at the hands of an upgrade. Miss Thang actually got off her ass and renewed the domain and upgraded the website early this year. The upgrade has given me power and nothing is more intoxicating to Kang than power (ok…maybe a foreign accent emanating from a handsome man or a quality Belgian beer). Knowing that my involvement with style sheets and CSS results in bad things, I refrained from going anywhere near that mess. No one wants to help unfuck whatever fuckups I make while coding. People would sooner try to figure out my parents’ A/V rig than sort out what I call coding and that’s saying quite a lot because the A/V rig cum home entertainment system is a hot fucking mess of a nightmare.

But I’m genuinely irritated because I ~~might~~ have OCD tendencies.

Depending on the device and/or platform I use to access the site, the justification is off. I make adjustments for tablets and it skews the view for computers. I make adjustments for computers and tablets and mobile devices suffer. The alignment looks a lot like my son’s handwriting did in the beginning of the school year (or my husband’s current penmanship). I look at the analytics and the device mix is 50/50 so no matter my decision, I’m going make sweet, sweet fuckery love to one segment of the wittew audience we have. And, yes, I might just be like the average male who is driving a car and finds himself lost; I’m not going to ask for directions or guidance. I’m going to drive in circles until the tears flow freely and the tank is empty. Which is where I am now – on a park bench, stroking myself (not in that way, you disgusting pervert) and telling myself I’m pretty and I have value to someone, somewhere (likely only my parents or my kid).

Right now, the Emotional Traffic Light Engagement essay (see – even the concept sounds clunky) is back in the draft bin for the millionth time, paragraphs are askew in some posts and my sack of fucks to give is very small and lacking depth (Dock just loves that line).

Round Robin Exercise

A refresher for those who have been following since the days of Kang World and an explanation for those who are t3h n00bz.

For a short while, we used to pick a theme and everyone would write something within that. Usually it was some version of longform because I cannot poem. Seriously, I cannot even write a haiku – I’m that fucking useless in this regard. But we did this and it was challenging and fun. Please don’t ask me to unearth the archives because I cannot be arsed to code, migrate or resurrect the dead. My skillz are mad but they are limited.

Anyhow, while we’re introducing some new things: Go Fuck Yourself Weekly (double entendre intended), we’re going to bring back some old things. The Round Robin is one but it may not be permanent.

Brian Kurcaba of West Virginia made a horrendous comment about rape, unplanned pregnancy and abortion this week. Automatically, we decided he was going to be nominated for GFYW. As I started to work through some ideas, I realized I wanted to tell a story. Kitten has a story, too. Actually, a lot of people have a story to tell. These stories are about sexual abuse (any form). The mere thought of condensing these stories just doesn’t sit well with me. It didn’t sit well with her or another RMer, either. After some discussion about how best to approach this topic, keep it isolated from the rest of the site due to the content, be sensitive to others and work with the limitations of WordPress, we decided it would be best if we put the Round Robin in a page (you can see it at the tippy-top, next to About) and have our posts as subs, just as our bios are. For whatever reason, I decided to spew first. Just in one of those wormholes today.

This is not funny content. It’s not supposed to be funny content. The content is deeply personal, graphic and potentially upsetting. You’re not going to be able to unsee this, folks. We ask that you take the time to read the Round Robin detail and respect the rules of engagement. We ask that you read the detail in advance of reading the pages as they are published. We’re not going to push them en masse. From my perspective, not only does one have to be willing to write the story – they have to be willing to hit publish and deal with everything that comes with hitting publish.

So that is what is brewing today.

In a few hours or a few days, the snark will be back. The snark never leaves. It does like a nap now and then, though. And the poets, they’re still here, as well. Well, they’re actually outside building their first snowman or shoveling snow or complaining about snow or thinking about getting the fuck away from snow. Whatever. Normality is just around the corner, y’all.

Random Misanthrope’s…

….Go Fuck Yourself Weekly!!!

Since my return from my self-imposed exile, I have refrained from scribbling about politics because, at this point, it’s pretty much like shooting fish in a barrel. It’s effortless skewering requiring little thought – these idiots write the material themselves. All we need to do is read any old newspaper (note: NOT BLOG. A blog is not a legitimate news source, you right winged asshats. Neither is a newsletter from your local “I have a throbbing hard-on for the 2^nd Amendment” gun club.) and it’s all there in its glory. Be it from Palin, LePage (a personal favorite of mine), Chris “Governor Sammiches” Christie or Rand Paul – it is an infinite font of stupid. Thus, I have been reluctant to dispense of the stink-eye because *everyone* is doing that and Kang is not a joiner. Kang is a trendsetter. Remember that. ಠ_ಠ

Until today.

Until I had some inspiration. Or…several sources of inspiration.

Aside from my daily devouring of various LIEberal (tut tut tut) media websites, I also troll for memes and keep a reasonable cache of them for quick and easy reference. I do this because, sadly, my humor is not far removed from that of a 12 year old boy or the average 4chan user. The more ridiculous the meme the better, too. For instance – take any children’s show, slap adult language on top of it and I’ll keel over with laughter. It has become the visual version of the “what do you call a guy with no arms and no legs?” jokes that, for whatever reason, bring forth a laughter induced asthma attack. Not only am I a cheap date, I’m easily amused by dad jokes and shit.

Between the reading of the news and the trolling of the memes, I thought “Hmmm…it’s been years since we have done any sort of writing exercises. The last time I had posted any asshole du jour spleen vents was back when Kang World was still Kang World – 2008, mebbe? What if I tried a serial? Do I have the attention span and stamina for that?” Welp – let’s find out. And let’s give it a catchy title, too. How about: “Random Misanthrope’s Go Fuck Yourself Weekly?” A nice lilt. No irritating alliteration. Includes the word “fuck.” Ok, possible. I might get bored and change things if I find it’s not succinct enough. Or, I might get bored and forget about it altogether (the more likely of the two possibilities). But let’s just amuse the strange lady and let her have her moment, shall we?

The inaugural installment of Random Misanthrope’s Go Fuck Yourself Weekly is dedicated to the junior senator from my current state (how I miss living in a Commonwealth. It sounds much more dignified.), Thom Tillis.

Thom Tillis. Think about this for a second. Thom. Thom with an h. This annoys me. This annoys me almost as much as Toms who spell their names with the letter ö. No, assholes, your names are not pronounced “Teum” so, for fuck’s sake, stop using a letter that has no place in American English. Just stop it. And to you, Senator Tillis…learn to spell. You’re making us Southerners look bad.

Once upon a time, Pa Tillis and Ma Tillis birthed a baby in Jacksonville, FL, America (see…he’s not even from here. Wait…most of us aren’t. Never mind.). Being born a white male in the United States, this lad was destined for great things and a life of marginal leisure. After frittering about at two universities (1/2 the amount of colleges attended by Sarah Palin), he managed to obtain his sheepskin at the tender age of 36. According to Wikipedia, the source of all things correct and valid, Senator Tillis’ life of public service began shortly after moving to suburban Charlotte and serving on the park board for his town (Leslie Knope or Leslie NOPE). After serving as town commissioner for two years and getting a taste of that sweet, sweet nectar that is power, Tillis set his eyes on a higher branch of government, The State House of Representatives.

Really? Who the fuck cares. The guy is our junior senator because the evil Koch brothers bought an election and threw an otherwise competent and exceedingly moderate senator out on her ass (Sorry, Kay. I tried. I really tried.).

Yesterday (see how interested I am in the body politic these days), Thom-with-an-h makes some noise news. This bastion of Conservative Values® thinks that people who work in the food service industry should be freed of the yoke of socialist oppression and have the freedom to decide whether or not to wash their own damn hands (soap optional) after throwing mud, as our Founding Fathers intended. I guess that’s reducing the stranglehold of the nanny state? But…he does feel that a sign should be posted (so, would that not be a form of…regulation????). Ultimately, Senathor Thillis feels the Frhee Marketh will remedy the situation and the businesses that don’t make their employees engage in appropriate hygiene practices will go under. That’s great, Thom. What happens in the interim when one of the poorly paid line cooks comes back from his trip to the potty with a ½ wiped ass and unclean paws and gives everyone an extra serving of E. Coli with their barbecue? Please refrain from saying the market will take care of that. It won’t. Now shut up and sit down before I make you sit in a corner or something.

So, for the man who thinks that public health is a non-issue, the man who thinks excrement the perfect flavor enhancer for any meal – all I have to say is “Congratulations for being the first in a line of an esteemed many!” or until I get bored with the concept of Random Misanthrope’s Go Fuck Yourself Weekly.

Hugs and kisses
/Kang

BODY HICCUPS / KROPPENS HICKA

(I got an early Christmas surprise recently, a heartattack on Dec.18th. This piece is a reflection on that. I wrote it in Swedish first, then reworked it in English, so am including both versions here.)

BODY HICCUPS

My body stopped for a moment,
A hiccup it was,
A temporary pause,
Cause for concern,
My heart took a wrong turn,
Condition far from sound,
But it was my soul I found,
That ran and hid in the shadow,
Because it didn’t know,
What mattered anymore,
Shaken to the core,
As if all that is me,
Character, personality,
Stumbled behind,
Unable to find,
It’s footing anew,
After what it’d gone through,
But eventually, I begin to see,
My soul edging towards its recovery,
But slowly,
Ever so slowly.

KROPPENS HICKA

Kroppen stannade en stund,
En hicka,
Tillfälligt spricka,
Tillståndet långt från sund,
Men själen blev skrämmde,
Bestämde gömma sig i en skugga,
Osäkert om vad gällde nu,
Visst inte om det dugga,
Som att vem jag är,
Det hela mig,
Snubblade bakom,
Men äntligen det återhämta sig,
Dock så småningom.

A very middle class…

…sort of afternoon.

Let me start by saying that I have an extreme disdain for A Southern Season on the weekend. For the years that I worked at the hospital, I was able to skitter over to A Southern Season during lunch, snap up what was necessary and get the fuck out without having to deal with the doddering, old people trawling for free samples. I was able to avoid overhearing the annoying conversations between Bitsy and Tweety about their quilted handbags and their grandchildren. I didn’t have to dig down deep within myself to find the restraint necessary to avoid grabbing a Wüsthof knife and driving it through the heart of a Junior League member lamenting about how hard it is to find good help these days. Also, I didn’t have to play dodge the portable oxygen tank. As I have said previously, that is the must have accessory for a majority of the clientele.

I have long maintained that there should be certain hours set aside for those of us who need to shop for actual groceries so we can get in and out without any irritation. Call me bougie all you want but there are certain food stuffs that I can only get there or I can pay 50 trillion dollars in shipping to some weird internet shop specializing in French salami and Kalles kaviar (not that I would dare eat that shit). Also, blame my father for this. He was the one who foisted this upon me. I was perfectly fine with a diet of Pop-Tarts and scorched meat (my stepfather, my lovely, learned stepfather…my wonderful stepfather who should not be permitted to touch meat at all) until I moved in with my father. Then my life turned into “eat like a proper European and like it or starve.” Also, have some wine with dinner…even if you’re only 9 (ok…even if you’re only 17).

On Christmas, I made a horrible discovery. We had one jar of lingonsylt (lingon berries) remaining. There is an Ikea in Charlotte but it’s an Ikea…in Charlotte. People go there as a tourist destination. Anyone who needs to get in, get lingonsylt and get the fuck out does not have the time to waste driving two hours only to deal with drop-jawed morons stumbling and bumbling through a low grade furniture store, massacring the names of Scandinavian towns. Also, there are no meetings for work scheduled in Charlotte in the near future so I have no actual reason to go to Charlotte. Further complicating my life is the obliteration of Ericsson’s footprint in RTP (thank goodness I left Ericsson for the current job). Finding Swedish anything at the regular grocery store is no longer a possibility. No more Ballerina cookies. No more Felix anything. My choices for acquiring Swedish foods are now limited to Ikea, the internet, begging for parcels from my friends or going to A Southern Season (or ASS as my husband calls it). I make köttbullar (Swedish meatballs or shitballs, if you’re my husband) often enough that we must have a reasonable inventory of lingonsylt. Köttbullar without lingonsylt is like college without beer – why bother?

So, I break the news that Milkface is going to have to run a marginally uninteresting errand with Mommy today. He was in his fort in the living room and stayed silent in hope that I would forget that I had a child. I lured him out with the promise of a handsome reward/threat of death. It never ceases to amaze me that the child who is never tired always seems to come down with chronic fatigue syndrome whenever it’s time to get dressed to run an errand. I manage to get his limp body into clothes, bundle him up and stuff him in the car. Then he forces me to listen to Avril Latrine (yeah…Avril Latrine. When you have to listen to Avril Lavigne over and over and over again until your ears bleed, she becomes Avril Latrine. And believe me, this is one time I find myself wishing my hearing impairment is way worse than it actually is, too.) ½ way up I-40. The child, he’s good. He’s already mastered the art of manipulation from his conniving, scheming and evil mother.

We get to ASS, walk through the doors and Milky inhales. He immediately recognizes the smell of happiness. The smell that brings much joy and harmony to the house. The smell that represents comfort, sanity and security because Mommy isn’t losing her shit over something inconsequential: coffee. Milky is intrigued. Milky is comforted. Milky is willing to push the cart and cooperate. We head over to the jam aisle and start our search for lingonsylt. There were four jars. We scooped up three. I always feel guilty taking the entire stock of whatever in the event that there is someone else who is having an emergency. I would hate to be the asshole that caused distress because I took everything (see, I am considerate!). Then I noticed the rows and rows of French jams Dock and I fell in love with while on one of our trench hiking holidays so I placed a few of those in the cart. After that – marmalade because my father loves marmalade. Examining the cart, I’m thinking we have the equivalent of Milky’s freshman year of college tuition in jam and decide it’s time to move along. But where to next? We satisfied the need: lingonsylt. We obtained the want: jam. Oooooh…bread! Must have bread for all this glorious jam. To the bakery, we go. And now, my ambivalent sloth of a child is getting into the experience. After a brief discussion, we decide brioche would be better than several croissant so we get a loaf of that. I think that may have cost more than my boots.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Milky drifting towards the left to the case with the desserts. Of course. There are two King cakes in the case and Milky loves anything that is sparkly and purple. The whining begins in earnest. Lower lip protrudes, eyes well with crocodile tears but I manage to convince him to hold off for a minute. What Milky doesn’t realize is that ASS has a candy section that is something to behold. And this is where things get a little weird and where I fail to understand how the brain of a five year old functions at times because five year olds glom on to some really weird shit.

On our way to candy land, we cruise by my mother’s concept of heaven: cookware and cutlery. Rows upon rows of knives (which she may or may not wield when I arrive home with another tattoo; not unlike the first time I came home with a tattoo when she waved a chef’s knife at me and was certainly not smiling) twinkling beneath the lights strategically placed to showcase the wares. Shelf upon shelf of Le Creuset cookware and bakeware. Milkface notes the lack of purple cookware and wonders if Bubbe can do anything about that (note to mom: I’m totally serious). A table display of Scanpans are taunting me. Then my weird kid fixates on a pie bird. Of course he reaches for it (what five year old wouldn’t grab something fragile) and demands to know what it is, what it does and, of course, can he have it. I explain why pie birds are used and that Mommy isn’t big on baking pies but this is irrelevant. Milky now wants a pie bird. Oh…and the pie bird should be made by Le Creuset (properly pronounced) and preferably red or purple (because purple is his favorite color and red is the favorite color of his bestie). Somehow, I’m now finding myself in a lamentation reserved for an Op/Ed piece in The Guardian about Middle Class Shame. This is all very confusing. Especially given the fact that I look like something that has been pulled out of a shower drain and dressed in a Ponyville Public Library shirt, jeans and ratty cowgirl boots.

I finally manage to lure the child to the candy section and watch what every parent dreams of, even if they’re unwilling to admit it, a face awash in joy at the sight of endless candy and impending tooth decay. As is Milky’s wont, he stands still and processes all that he sees before diving in. Then the “May I have…” begins. At first, I restrain him much to his chagrin. I don’t want him loading up the cart with the first thing he sees or stuff he can get anywhere (supply chain toady represent – we do not buy M&Ms at an exorbitant markup). I want him to explore a bit. I want him to have the full kid-in-the-candy-store experience. We cruise the aisles looking at all the things. He recognizes the goodies Uncle Magnus brings him from Sweden. He sees lollipops with insects in them. Then he finds the good stuff…the stuff of infinite possibilities…the bulk candy: jelly beans, chocolate of endless varieties, gummy this and gummy that, licorice, gumballs, jawbreakers. Then it’s time to really blow his mind, I put on one of those non-latex gloves, grab a handful of empty bags and tell him he can have whatever he wants. Who has two thumbs and is mom of the year? This train wreck. And load up the bags we did. The staff smiled. The other patrons sneered. Let them. My kid and I were having a moment, dammit.

Even after we had cleaned out a good bit of the gummy inventory, Milky still had his mind on the bakery and the pie bird. And, because I have done a stellar job of spoiling the child rotten, I suspected that there was going to be an addition to what was already in the cart. I managed to distract Milkface from the pie bird by taunting him with stinky cheese. Then we negotiated a deal – there would be no King cake coming home (it was large, it’s not yet Mardi Gras and I don’t care for holiday creep as it is) but Milky could have petit fours or an individual cake. He chose sponge cake with strawberry mousse. And somewhere, the bougie brigade agreed to overlook the fromage foul, grant me a pass on the pile of gummy goodness in the cart and allow me to keep my tastefully muted membership card granting me access to the most exclusive of food and beverage markets provided Milkface partake of ethically sourced foie gras by the end of February.

Once that was all said and done, we left ASS and walked through the remaining shops of University Mall (all four of them – maybe five?) where Milky was additionally rewarded with his first pieces of art glass because a cultured lad is never young enough to start building his own collection. He selected a plane, a turtle, a heart and an octopus (or maybe I chose that for myself?).

And as I sit here, with Scooby Doo (might I say – I really dislike Scooby Doo) in the background, I’m having a hard time figuring out if today is 2015 and Milky’s childhood or if it’s 1976 and my childhood. My parents saw nothing wrong with taking me to a gourmet grocery store and feeding me food that grown-ups eat. They didn’t see anything wrong with allowing an outrageous indulgence now and then. If there was something random and weird that I wanted and I was well behaved, I could, conceivably, have been rewarded with the random and weird object. Today, it appears that I gave Milky a little of what was given to me – a little bit of the weird, magical, offbeat childhood that I had that a lot of kids didn’t necessarily experience. While I may make fun of myself for the excess, I’m also quite proud to pass along the some of the kookiness. And, maybe there will come a day when Milky is flying solo with a kid of his own, doing the same nonsensical, silly things while thinking about the day that his goofball of a mom did the same with him. Parenting may feel like a series of really long and really frustrating days but the reality of the situation is that it is a very narrow allocation of time. The ultimate goal is to raise kids to be self-sufficient and self-actualized adults. But…who is to say that the process can’t be fun, too?