I'm So Great: The Rantings of a Jaded Youth

When I grow up, I want to be just like me.

Spoiler Alert: Everything About the Movie Brothers is Infuriating March 20, 2011

I don’t usually write movie reviews because I don’t watch a lot of movies and when I do, I’m generally never impressed or angry enough to want to tell people about it. Brothers, however… Okay, I knew it wasn’t going to be an incestuous Brokeback Mountain with Toby Maguire and Jake Gyllenhaal, but I had hoped for at least a few lingering brotherly hugs. Whatever, you knew I was a perv. The commercials painted this movie to be almost a horror movie, with the suspicious husband coming back from Afghanistan and terrorizing his wife and brother for the affair he suspects. I did not expect a long, rambling drama with petty, unlikeable characters and no fucking end.

The movie kicks off with Toby Maguire, playing Captain Sam Cahill, writing a letter to his wife Natalie Portman (Grace). He is distracted and distant because this is the letter that will be sent out if he dies on his mission in Afghanistan. Okay, strong start. It gets progressively worse from here though. Flash back to Sam and Grace and their happy family. Their younger daughter, Maggie, is a cute and rambunctious five-year-old who loves her daddy. She wants nothing but hugs and playtime. The older daughter, Isabelle, who also looks about five but is apparently old enough to read a giant novel in bed while giving her dad the cold shoulder, is a little darker and remains so throughout the movie. The flashback centers around Sam going to pick up his older brother Tommy, Jake Gyllenhaal, from jail, where he’s been for a number of years, and Sam’s family asking why HE needs to go pick up his screw-up brother. Sam brings Tommy home for the first of several birthdays. This movie has more birthdays that a goddamn Bubba Gump’s. It’s like the writers were looking for an excuse to get the whole family together when really, if the grandparents had been over for dinner, I would not have questioned it at all. So older daughter Isabelle starts off the night by telling Tommy that Mommy doesn’t like him, leaving Grace to sputter and not ever actually say anything because she has the personality of a door knob the whole movie. Then Granddad shows up and scowls at Tommy. This exchange in particular pissed me off.

Tommy (in an attempt to get his dad to stop harping on him for not being Sam): The food’s good.
Granddad: Compared to what?
At this point, if I were Natalie Portman, I would have asked Granddad what his fucking problem with my food was, but like I said, she has the personality of a houseplant.
Tommy: Compared…to…other food…?
Granddad: Prison food?

Tommy then slams his hand on the table, furious, and scares the shit out of older daughter Isabelle, who is sitting next to him. Grandma takes Grandpa into the kitchen to scold him. At some point in the movie, it is revealed that Tommy and Sam’s real mom is dead, which is completely useless in furthering the plot because no mention is ever made about their real mom, who the new woman is or how they feel about her, or any life-altering things that happened because their mom is dead. Good job, you wasted a scene to make the movie more confusing and slow.

Blah blah blah, Sam is back in Afghanistan and suddenly some Marines are at Grace’s door to tell her he’s been killed in a helicopter crash. Tommy comes to Grace’s house later that night to drunkenly return their car which he insists Sam said he could borrow any time he wanted, tell her that the broken tail light was some other ass hole’s fault, and then yell at her for not liking him. She tells him that Sam is dead and he yells at her some more, making himself into an even more unlikeable character.

There IS a surprisingly touching moment when Grace walks into her daughters’ room before the funeral to see that older daughter Isabelle is no longer in her funeral dress. She falls into mother mode and asks the little girl to put it back on. The older daughter replies, face down from the bed, that the dress is uncomfortable and she doesn’t like it. Younger daughter Maggie complains in the half-hearted way of a child who is very, very sad that her dress is itchy and she also doesn’t want to wear it, and Grace has a moment where she is clearly torn between convention and the fact that her two very young daughters have just lost their dad and probably shouldn’t be made to wear itchy, uncomfortable dresses at his funeral. Cut to them in dark, but sensible, sweaters and jeans.

Of course, Granddad is back for the funeral and, while there was no booze at the cemetery and he had to have driven there, Tommy is asking for his keys and telling him he is not fit to drive. This results in a blaming war about who was responsible for Sam’s death in Afghanistan even though there is no way either of them could ever be responsible for him dying in a helicopter crash. Granddad gets a few more jabs in about Tommy being a jobless bum and then walks home. Are you starting to see how long this fucking movie is? The whole movie is set up for Sam to come home and be pissed when the set up should have been quick and the repercussions should have been the long bit.

Cut to Sam, alive. Unfortunately, this is not a big surprise because the commercials already told us that the movie would be about his return after everyone thought he was dead. It’s like when you read the synopsis of a Chuck Palahniuk book and they tell you things that are revealed on the last fucking page. Some people need to learn to tell stories. If I had just thought this movie was about the possible affair between widow and brother, I would have been delighted by the twist of Sam being alive, although not enough that this movie would be good by any stretch of the imagination. Anyways, he’s captured by Afghans and put in a hole with a private he saved from the crash and then video-taped being tortured and later beating the private to death at gunpoint.

While Sam is going through POW hell in Afghanistan, Tommy slowly becomes a part of Grace and the kids’ lives. He starts out as a nuisance, calling Grace up at three in the morning to pay a bar tab that he was going to walk out on and then sleeping at her house because he’s got nowhere else to go. Wanting to do something nice for her, he calls some of his friends to help him redecorate her hideous kitchen. I’m kind of bummed that Ethan Suplee lost about a million pounds and he still always plays the fat dumb guy, but I’d like to think that he refused to be the fat dumb guy who wore brand new pants to paint a kitchen with two little girls in the single-digit age group and for that I salute him. Seriously, who does that? Also, did Natalie Portman write this movie? Every person who comes into her house has to comment about how pretty she is. I know she’s pretty. It’s not like in Drive Angry where they had to set up that in this alternate universe ladies totally dig Nicolas Cage. So Tommy and Grace start off rocky but eventually get to talking and drinking and share a kiss. Grace immediately leaves and nothing more is said, a surprisingly smart move on both their parts. Tommy stays around though and becomes a second father to the girls, becoming very close with older daughter Isabelle, who feels like she is loved less than younger daughter Maggie, but nothing else ever happens between him and Grace.

Suddenly, Sam is back. There is no talk about how he got rescued or what happened. The last third of the movie (the interesting part) happens in a rushed blur. Sam’s back and he’s eerie and he’s cooly asking Tommy if he fucked Grace while Sam was officially dead. At dinner, he is confused about a joke the youngest daughter makes and he won’t let it go, which is evidence that he’s disturbed because little kids never make any fucking sense anyhow.

Then at younger daughter Maggie’s birthday, Tommy shows up with a random girl he met an hour before who completely dominates the conversation (“OMG, Grace is SO pretty.”). Isabelle, who is already pissed that this woman is here taking Uncle Tommy away from her, begins to make a lot of annoying noise while glaring daggers at New Broad. Finally, Sam can’t take it anymore and he lunges across the table and pops the balloon Isabelle is making noise with. Isabelle bursts into tears and rails at her dad for being in Afghanistan for her birthday but coming home for Maggie’s. Everyone is taken aback but she’s a little girl and couldn’t possibly understand how hurtful what she said was, right? Then she yells, “Couldn’t you just stay dead? You’re just mad cause Mom would rather sleep with Uncle Tommy! Mom and Uncle Tommy had sex all the time!” What? This kid is 8 at the oldest. This is just bad writing. What the hell kind of 8-year-old would know that that was the most painful button to push? I’m not saying that 8-year-olds don’t know that sex is around but I’ve never met an 8-year-old who was perceptive enough to know the role that sex plays in adult relationships. If anyone should have planted the seed of doubt into Sam’s head about Tommy and Grace, it should have been Granddad, who had come over early one morning and saw that Tommy had slept over. Isabelle is relatively dark and hurtful for a kid, but Granddad is just the kind of ass hole to draw his own conclusions about Tommy sleeping over and make a snide comment to Sam about it.

Anyhow, little Maggie in her party hat with her untouched birthday cake in front of her asks to leave and Sam takes his family home in furious silence. Back at Granddad’s, Tommy’s lady has split and Tommy says he’s headed to Sam and Grace’s to sort this mess out. Granddad yells at Tommy’s back that it’s none of Tommy’s business and (step-?)Grandma suggests that they should immediately call the police. Impending shit-storm tripled!

Grace tucks the girls in and asks Isabelle why she would say what she said, especially since she knows it’s not true. Isabelle says she doesn’t like Daddy and wishes that Uncle Tommy was her new dad and Maggie agrees. Grace goes downstairs to stare at Sam and not say anything while he completely freaks out and destroys the kitchen Tommy redid, smashing pretty much everything and pulling cabinets off the wall. I love a good destruction scene, so even though I was worried that Sam would eventually turn his rage on Grace and beat her to death with a coffee-maker, I enjoyed the tornado of rage. Of course, just as Sam calms down enough to stop screaming and throwing crap, Tommy walks in cautiously and with his hands where everyone can see them. He very slowly walks up to Sam and very slowly hugs him. Then the police sirens sound.

Sam flips out again and pulls a gun, shrieking at Tommy for calling the police and leaving a barrel impression in Tommy’s cheek. Grace books it up to the girls’ room screaming and tells them to lock their door. Sam ends up outside screaming at the police, nearly kills himself with the gun, and is taken to jail. His one phone call goes to Tommy to say, “You’re my brother.” I guess that was supposed to be a truce moment, but it really could have meant anything the way he deadpanned it.

Cut to Grace visiting Sam in a veteran’s mental hospital. She tells him she’ll leave him if he doesn’t tell her what happened to him in Afghanistan, he spills, movie over. That quickly. No aftermath, no epilogue, nothing. I feel like I could have been at least okay with the movie if there had been some kind of wrap up. I mean, Isabelle just listened to her dad almost kill her mom and then himself because of a lie she told. That’s going to fuck a little kid up, probably for life. And now neither the grandparents nor Sam is sure what went on with Grace and Tommy so even if Sam does get help and get out of the mental hospital, that’ll always be looming over their marriage and their family life. And Tommy never did get a job as far as the movie was concerned so how has he even been surviving? The whole movie was frustrating and then nothing was solved. Don’t watch this movie. Honestly, I’m sorry if you read this whole review.

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Thanks Doll February 9, 2011

So the other day, I opened up a can of worms that I didn’t even realize I had on the dusty garage shelf of my mind. I mentioned on The Facebook- I know, Facebook fights, but I promise I won’t make a habit of Facebook mud-slinging and this post is no exception. So I mentioned that someone at my work had called me sweetheart and that it seemed, and I quote, “like [he was] just ASKING to be cavity searched. And not in the good way.” Immediately, a male friend responded to say that he calls every woman “darling.” I told him that was as bad as “little lady” and a mtf transgender said that she would burst out laughing if someone called her “little lady.”

I’m a pretty laid-back, bubbly person. It takes a lot to offend me. What offends me in even small doses, though, is people assuming that I’m worth less than they are. I see that a lot in my job. Being a security guard means being the person everyone can shit on. I’m an idiot and a rent-a-cop, but I’m the one trusted to stop people’s family and friends and check to see if they’re on a list, then hold them up to give them a pass if they are and call the resident if they aren’t. The residents don’t understand why I’m calling for their mom or their bff when it’s SO obvious I should just let that person in. The guests don’t understand why I have to give them a pass and check it every time they come in. All-around, people feel like my job is a waste of time. Of course I agree, and you bet your ass I’d never move into a gated community, but as long as someone is paranoid enough to want someone outside their house shaking down their friends and family, I get a pretty sweet, steady paycheck. The problem lies in the fact that everyone feels like their time is worth more than mine. If I were a man, this would result in shouting and name-calling. It still does occasionally, but I generally get the Sweetheart Treatment. “Oh hi, sweetie!” *Wave and smile while rolling up window and driving toward the closed gate without slowing down. Realize the gate is closed, slam on breaks, look back at me and point at the gate angrily.*

I understand that I am a woman, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a job to do and, while it’s not much to brag about, I am damn good at my job. People may not see the harm in calling a woman in uniform “sweetie” or “darling,” and if you’re past middle age, I can forgive you for treating the younger world like they’re all your grandchildren, but if you’re middle-aged or younger, you can shove your demeaning “sweetheart”s up your ass. You don’t call a black man “boy” or “negro” because it says, “You are less of a person than I am.” Just because women might not kick your ass for being sexist or racist doesn’t make it okay. And I’m not stupid, no matter how many rich ass holes assume I am. I can tell the difference between “You have a great day, sweetie!” and “It’s been precious talking to you, but I’ve got important male things to attend to so open the damn gate, sweetheart.” I understand that there are differences in tone and inflection and underlying meaning, and I respond differently to differences in each. When it all comes down to it, I probably would have seethed about it for a few minutes and then let it go if I hadn’t gotten what were essentially two male point-of-view responses telling me I was being an over-emotional woman about it. No, I’m not. I’m being a human being about being treated like a lesser person.

As an epilogue to this post, I would like to note that I’m not using my blog to blast my friends, whom I love and had talked to at length about this when it happened. It’s mostly that I don’t get angry very often and when I do, it helps me to explore why certain things make me mad when most other things don’t. Thoughts?

 

Twins January 13, 2011

I have a twin named Ashley. When I tell people I have a twin, the reaction is generally along the lines of, “There’s another one of you out there somewhere?!” Not exactly. We were born on the same day, but we’re fraternal twins. We are very obviously different people. As babies, we were easy to tell apart even in the same outfit. I was completely bald for a bit and she had lots of brown hair right out of the womb. It was more obvious when I grew bright blonde hair and she got glasses. Something about the word “twins” turns people’s brains off though. Ashley and I were in class together for three years when we started school. Our three kindergarten teachers (it was a strange set-up) basically refused to learn our names. We were refered to as, “OH LOOK, HERE COME THE TWINS! WHICH ONE’S WHICH?! I CAN’T EVEN TELL YOU GIRLS APART!” I can’t understand that at all. Not only did we look completely different, but we also acted completely different. Even at that age, we were different people. I could only assume that they were all too lazy to learn which name went where.

As proof of what I’m saying, here are some photos of us as children.

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Oh wait, that’s just me. But I can’t think of another reason to show this picture and I was clearly the coolest kid ever.

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That’s my twin in the back there. Notice how she’s holding a lizard and I’m apparently a 6 year old hussy. Completely different personalities!

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And of course, in the same soccer uniform. MY GOD IT’S UNCANNY HOW ALIKE WE LOOK.

When a new principal came to our school as we were entering third grade, she demanded that all twins be split up into different classes. At the time, I couldn’t understand why it mattered, although I was glad that I wasn’t going to have someone copying off my homework anymore. Now though, I really appreciate her splitting us up. It not only forced people to see us as separate people with different strengths and weaknesses, but also made me and Ashley make our own friends and operate more independantly of each other. It’s easy to count on one person to be there as a companion to the exclusion of all others and as twins, we learned from birth that there would always be another person to confide in and play with. Taking us our of our comfort zones helped us grow as people.

By the time I hit high school, Ashley had been held back a grade and we had our own bffs to hang out with at school and on the weekends. It completely threw me, therefore, when my Ceramics teacher approached Ashley during lunch to yell at her for cutting class all the time (which I never had but it’s a really long, stressful story about sickness). Up until then, I figured my teachers and extended family were just never sure which name was assigned to which kid. Surely they could tell us apart? It’s not like the only difference is a couple of moles in different places. We’re not even the same height or shape! Also, and I hate to bring it up even though it’s really funny, Ashley didn’t shower for about ten years. She had this very carefully cultivated ungodly reek. We were both of the black t-shirt persuasion in high school, but I had much better hygiene and I brushed my hair and I was pretty put out that my teacher (who I’ll never forgive for not being Paul Dinello) couldn’t smell the difference.

Once again, this is Ashley.
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And here we are together all growed up.
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Flossing December 13, 2010

So I’ve recently taken up flossing. Recently as in a couple months ago when my bee eff came home from the dentist and told me he had to go back for a sort-of painful procedure called root planing because his gums were full of plaque. My sister Ashley also recently had to have this procedure done because of a bout of trench mouth that gave her early-onset gingivitis and she wasn’t raving about it either. Ashley’s terrible medical problems are weird and unlikely enough to fill their own post though. (“When they put me under to take out my gall-bladder, it was like ice-water going through my veins and I was so cold but I couldn’t get a blanket inside me.”) The point is, root planing does not sound like something I want to go through so I began to floss.

I had never quite understood the point of flossing until I started doing it with adult eyes. I was morbidly fascinated as I watched the floss pull out bits that my toothbrush couldn’t hope to touch in its most satisfying toothbrush dreams. When I get around to finding a dentist on my new insurance, he’s not going to be able to CONTAIN his erection upon seeing my clean, clean teeth! Now I can feel when I need to floss and I feel better for doing it. All around, flossing wasn’t too bad or too time-consuming.

That is, until I cheaped out at Target and bought their Target brand floss because it was 10 cents less than the brand I had originally gotten. “Only 79 cents for the same amount of floss? What a deal!” I WON’T BE FOOLED AGAIN. This floss is the worst thing ever invented. It’s advertised as Mintastic!, which was part of the reason why I thought it would be funny to buy it. Buying things because they’re vaguely amusing to me has proved to be a terrible idea in the past and now, but I continue to do it because I don’t learn. “Mintastic!” apparently means covered in grainy sugar-crystal-esque sweetness. In addition to the unsavory texture problem, when I attempt to run the floss between my teeth, it splinters and breaks, leaving behind impossible-to-extricate floss bits. Now a normal person would throw this shitty floss away, but I DID pay 79 cents for it, so I feel like I need to use it up before I buy another reel of floss. I also kept that Neutrogena facial scrub that I hated so much. It’s just sitting in my linen closet like a ticking time bomb.

I guess the point reiterated is that I don’t learn. Also, if you have a choice between Oral B and Target brand, for God’s sake get the Oral B.

 

An Introverted Ramble and Some Love for my Nana December 9, 2010

Hey guys, I’m sorry that I’ve been away for so long and that my updates have been so sporadic. I always hate reading these kind of posts, but I know it’s sometimes necessary to tell people you’re not dead. It’s been a busy couple months and I’ve been in my own head for a lot of it having something of an existential crisis, which I finally recognized yesterday.

Every year my nana, Lee Fontana*, gathers up Christmas presents for kids involved in the Police Activies League (P.A.L.) and yesterday she had her annual party for all the contributors, which ends with the Hemet and San Jacinto policemen carting away all the presents covering every square inch of her living room. Now when I think of some old woman giving presents to kids she doesn’t know, I just assume she’s loaded and has nothing better to do with her money. I can’t help it. I mean, who else would be able to do something like that? My nana, however, is 75, lives on a fixed income from social security, and lives out in Hemet, Ca so she can make ends meet. In order to get this endeavor organized in time for Christmas, she starts asking people for money and presents in August and doesn’t stop until December. She goes to restaurants, stores, and people to literally beg for her cause. Every year she swears she’ll never do it again because it’s so much hard work, and every year she realizes that she’s the only one who is willing to put that kind of effort into kids she doesn’t know; that if she stopped going out there and squeezing corporations and generous people for as much as they’re willing to give and then also giving to the cause as much as she herself can afford, these kids will not have even the three Christmas presents each that she can give them.

It’s inspiring to see this five-foot-tall, perpetually-frazzled Jewish woman going out there and doing something for her community, and I wish I had something I was as passionate about. Watching her talk with and shovel pizza into the entire Hemet Police force as if they were her michevous sons made me ache for the same kind of familiarity. I feel like we’re getting closer to it than we were a few years ago, but the distance and the years lost make it a slow process. It was hard to keep in touch with my dad’s parents for the years I wasn’t speaking to him and even once I had started again. My Grandpa Polo’s recent death made me realize that I had him around my whole life and I barely knew anything about him. Now I have my other grandparents in my life again and they’ve been reaching out to me and I don’t know how long they’ll be around to reach out. It made me realize that I’m an adult now and it’s my responsibility to meet them half-way and get to know them and rebuild my relationship with them while they’re still around. None of my four remaining grandparents seem like they’re ready to go, but neither did my Grandpa Polo. That said, I have learned more about my grandparents in the past year than I have my entire life and I’m grateful for that.

Alternately, watching Nana’s passion for her cause made me realize that I’m not doing much with my life. I know I’m only 23 and I have time to figure out what I want to do, but I feel like I hold back because I’m lazy and easily-distracted and, when it all comes down to it, I worry about failing. I don’t want to put everything I have into something and then be shattered when it collapses in on itself. I worry that subconsciously I feel like even if my endeavors don’t go up in flames, I shouldn’t devote my whole ass to them because I will very quickly get bored with any one thing I’m doing, thus dousing my flame before it even gets started. It’s hard for me to talk about my misgivings about myself though. I’ve spent so much time presenting a strong, confident image to the world that I’ve become that image. I think if I dwell too much on my worries, I’ll become those too.

So for the new year, I need to make more time for my family; for my dad’s family because of the time we’ve spent apart, and for my mom’s family because my work has been preventing me from joining in on holidays and get-togethers. I also need to make more time to put my whole self into everything I do because I’ve always been a firm believer in the idea that everything you do should be your best work. Everything you put your name on should be worthy of your name. No more holding back.

*I wanted to note that the only places my Nana is on the internet are her slightly dusty myspace and facebook pages. I’ve linked her myspace above because she can at least work that one. If you’d like to get ahold of her to donate for next year, you can e-mail her at Leesbug@netscape.com. She’d really appreciate the help. Please don’t spam her.

 

Fuck Your Car November 10, 2010

This is an open letter to the guy in the new Mercedes-Benz I had the pleasure of driving near on the way to work.

Dear Ass Hole,

I am not impressed by your expensive car. It doesn’t matter how much you paid for it, you still do not own the road. All the laws of traffic still apply to you, meaning that when you change lanes erratically to be the first person to the red light, you use your turn signals; when turn lanes are labeled, you must turn into the corresponding turn lane, NOT rush to the least crowded one and turn into whichever one you need afterwards; and crosswalks are for pedestrians, not the middle of your car, you fucking idiot. You have more money than God apparently. Buy some damn driving lessons.

Stephanie

P.S. No, sir, I will not race your brand new car in my 1996 Isuzu Rodeo. I hope you saw me stick my tongue out at you as I passed you for the fortieth time in ten minutes though.

 

The Great Pregnancy Scare of Oh-Ten September 10, 2010

So I’ve been missing since September 4th because I have been literally terrified about the possibility of being pregnant. SPOILER ALERT: I usually don’t talk about periods, but as they are an intregal part of the story, I will be talking about them. If you don’t like hearing about them, you’d be better off skipping this one. Those of you who are still here, let me tell you a tale.

It all started when I came in to work last week. Well, actually, it sort of all started when I first started working at this new post. My boss is an alpha female and my period therefore immediately synched with hers. I was seriously two weeks early my first month here. Thanks a lot, Denise. So since then (and since I don’t keep very good track of my periods), I’ve had a pretty good indicator of when I’d need to start packing precautionary supplies and wearing my giant, stretchy, stain-annihilating, Lane Bryant underwear by when she’s angry about her period. So back to the fakey beginning, even though you probably know where this is going by now. I walked in to work a little over a week ago and Denise mentioned her period in the midst of an Everyone-Is-Dumb tirade, the kind which I have given often in this job.

I didn’t think much about it at the time, but a few days later, I still hadn’t started my period and the idea of being late wiggled its way into my head. Don’t panic, I thought to myself. Wait a week and then take a pregnancy test. It’s probably nothing. Then my stomach started acting up. I thought about asking someone who’d had a baby before what it was like the first month, but I didn’t want to make anyone freak out before I was sure. I needed a drink desperately…fuck!

What the hell am I going to do with a baby? I couldn’t stop thinking about how we would pay for it. I’ve never liked the idea of carrying a baby with me for nine months and then giving it up, but I don’t think I could kill it either. It wasn’t until I was faced with the idea of actually having a baby that my position on aborting a baby came clear. This will probably piss some people off, but even that young, that is a child and to abort it is definitely killing a child. I don’t care if other people do it. To each her own. I know couldn’t live with myself if I had killed that baby though. Abortion was out of the question then and giving it up after all the time and effort of living with and birthing it would tear me apart, so, for me, prevention and raising a baby are the only options and I may have fucked up the prevention.

A couple days after I had resolved to wait a week and get a test, I still had no period, so I told my boyfriend about my concerns and he gave me hugs and told me we’d figure it out no matter what happened.

Have you ever looked into prices of pregnancy tests? Seriously, if you’re not paying for birth control or condoms, you’re probably not going to pay $20 for a pregnancy test either. I shopped around though and I ended up on EarlyPregnancyTests.com, a site whose main purpose is to help people conceive. Their pregnancy tests were only $2.25 each and they’re supposed to tell you if you’re pregnant before you even miss your first period. I didn’t do much research because I was incredibly worried and in a bit of a fog, but I bought them and they were going to come in about when my “No Panicking Week” was up. After I’d already placed the order, I remembered that this site wanted people to get pregnant. Uh oh… I could just see my gay (as in homosexual) dad going out to get the mail and picking up a baby blue package with “GOOD LUCK ON HAVING YOUR BABY!!!!!! :DDD” emblazoned on it. I hoped they would be more discreet.

So for two more days, I wandered around in various states of panic and righteous zeal about how I would raise my own kid. I was a wreck some hours and completely cool and calm others.

Then Wednesday, while me and Ernie were doin’ it, WHAM. Period.

Stephanie: Hah! This calls for a drink!

Ernie: Finish first, THEN drinks.

Stephanie: I like your style!

So I had an incredibly strong rum and coke at three in the morning and went out the next day to buy a gigantic steak (which is going on three days feeding us) for an incredibly relieved I’m Not Pregnant Celebratory Dinner.

I probably could have raised a kid, but I’m not sure I’m ready to give up spending my money irresponsibly and having sex whenever I feel like it, which is why I’m getting an IUD implanted as soon as humanly possible and not taking it out until me and Ernie can feed ourselves comfortably (giant celebratory steaks aside). And yes, Ernie, you have every right to be just a bit disappointed that there is no baby coming, but you know there’s plenty of time for that later. I’m not going anywhere.