Sundays with Stretchy Pants

It’s like Tuesdays with Morrie, without all the wisdom.

Archive for the ‘I have a family of origin’


Notes on my Playlist

I walked down the aisle to These are the Days by Van Morrison. I wanted to walk down the aisle to That’s How Strong My Love is by Otis Redding and have the bridesmaids walk to the Van Morrison, but I was talked out of that by an important member of my groom’s family who told me that some people in the family might not be able to handle hearing a black man sing me down the aisle. This is where we come from and we’re ashamed that we gave in. Here’s the irony: It was so important to us that we walk down to the Otis Redding song, that Bryan actually remembers the wedding happening that way. He told me tonight that he has it embedded so deep in his brain that I walked down the aisle to that particular song, that he has actually told people that that was our wedding song. And yet we caved to the racism. Wow. We were very, very weak when we were 20. That’s just another reason people shouldn’t get married at that age. The primary reason being that you don’t really know what to register for and so you don’t really get a lot of good gifts that are useful for your lifetime and whatnot. Because you’re 20 and you can still eat at The Malt Shop without dire side effects like your pancreas bleeding, and you don’t understand the value of a really good set of knives that you didn’t register for, but a wise old family member bought you anyway, but you took them back and got the cash in order to have more money to spend at the Malt Shop. Because you’re 20. And you know best. *sigh* This post will probably be edited tomorrow.

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Ugh.

I don’t know why my training schedule for the half-marathon is such a bitch to me. For some reason, I have personified it and instead of the personality of a sweet cheerleader-type, it has the personality of a crotchety Catholic nun. I’m not Catholic, but my friend Alle did take me to Catechism a couple of times where I learned my very painful and blistery fate as a child of hell. So in my mind my training schedule looks and sounds like a chunky bitch of a Catechism teacher who is continually reminding me of the painful and blistery fate that awaits me on the day of the half-marathon if I don’t take part in all of the sacraments, er, training runs. I don’t know why I don’t give it the persona of, say, my mom. It would be lots easier if my training schedule drank a lot and ignored me and reminded me every fall about how it was homecoming queen 40 years ago. At least then I would probably be trying to win its affection by over-achieving. But I guess then I would realize that it really doesn’t want me to achieve and it even resents me for trying, so then I would just drop out of the race in hopes that it would love me and then, well, then there’s therapy. *sigh*

Fun stuff: We’re going to West Virginia Thursday for my brother’s wedding and I’m very excited about that because I love him and I love his soon-to-be wife and I love their children. Most of all, I love making fun of West Virginians and I reckon I can get me some chuckles iff’n I go to the five-and-dime and just listen a spell.

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Lady Parts

Breastfeeding is legal? In Public? But, but, there are breasts and feeding involved. Offensive.Ha ha on you, Fossil, Inc. I’m glad that this case went beyond your typical staged nurse-in with media coverage. I’m glad this mom threatened to sue and I’m glad she walked away with a little bit of compensation from Fossil. It does get me wondering, though, if this kind of thing will stop happening any time soon. Every time there is a publicized case like this, I tend to think, “There, now we’re done with that nonsense.” Um, rose-colored glasses anybody? In my many, many years of baring my breasts for the purpose of sustaining life or, quite frankly, to get a kid to just be quiet for a minute, I was never asked to leave anywhere and I never even endured any mean looks or comments (well, except maybe from family and/or friends and/or other people in the privacy of my own and/or their own home, but that’s to be expected. Ahem). And more than half of my breastfeeding years were spent in a very small town where that kind of thing is just not typical. It’s a little bit shocking to me that this particular case happened in a Manhattan show room. I would think a big city would be the last place a breastfeeding mother would have to endure that kind of harrassment. Small towns, excuse me, some small towns are not typically tolerant of people who do things a little bit differently. Maybe that’s the difference. A small town might have its hands full bitching at the librarian for asking if it would be a problem if she put the award-winning book And Tango Makes Three on the shelf*, so they wouldn’t have time to wig out about public breastfeeding. I wonder if there is a master list somewhere that ranks the wig-out worthiness of these offensive things. Maybe I was never harrassed for breastfeeding at, say, the library in my hometown because the people who would have harrassed me were too busy scouring the shelves for gay penquin porn. GASP! “There’s that Aldrich girl breastfeeding one of her toddlers right here in the library! I’m gonna give her a whatfor. Wait, let me look at the list:
1. Gays
2. Protestants
3. Breastfeeding mothers
4. Murderers”

Who knows? Maybe I was saved by that list on more than one occasion.

*Last time I was visiting family, I attended the hometown book club with my very special friend Mechelle and the librarian asked us what we thought about having that book on the shelf. It’s pretty sad that she had to ask, but it’s super extra sad that one mother (speaking for the majority there) said with a shudder, “I wouldn’t want to explain that to my 4 year old!” Irony of ironies, the book we were actually discussing at the book club was Maus. Well, I thought it was ironic anyway and I had lots of trouble restraining myself from drawing comparisons between this mom’s ideology and that of Hitler’s. It was tough, but I held back. I want it noted that I held back even after she implied that the fact that I don’t have a problem with homosexuality is because my mom is, um, more active socially** than her saintly mother. Huh? I know, it was hard for me to follow too. And it was hard for me to not stand up and say, “Oh, you did not just bring my mama into this!” and stuff. That would’ve been very Jerry Springer of me and that is where I draw the line.

**In this case I’m using the phrase “active socially” with a wink and a nudge. I’m not talking about volunteerism and stuff like that. Just wanted to clear that up.

ETA: If this story leaves you with an overwhelming urge to donate a copy of And Tango Makes Three to this library, do not hesitate to contact me and I will get you the info. I’m donating a copy with a bookplate inside that says “In honor of God and The Holy Spirit who, with the help of their surrogate, Mary, were able to become fathers to their beloved baby Jesus. Amen.”

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