Friday Bits
Driving this week, I saw a white SUV with writing scrawled over its back window with white paint, or soap, or something. BOYCOTT ARIZONA, it said. I was surprised and pleased to see such a message. If I had any dealings with Arizona, I would certainly be severing them now. But the next part gave me pause: SUPPORT DRUG DEALERS, MURDERERS, AND CRIMINALS. What a strange invitation, I thought, and how strangely it contradicts the other imploration. Then I realized that this person was attempting a kind of cause and effect: “IF you boycott Arizona, THEN you’ll be supporting drug dealers, etc.” Why, pray tell, are right-wingers so terribly, terribly bad at grammar?
In line at a shop today, the woman behind us remarked on how cute Lucia was. “I miss that age. Mine’s a monster!” she said in a near-shout. “A monster!” “Well, she can be a monster at times,” I said with a smile, trying to follow the gracious-mama script. “Mine’s five, and he drives me nuts!” she said. Then she said it again: “Mine’s five, and he drives me nuts!” She spoke in a high-pitched, false-sounding voice that might have either been for Lucia’s benefit or her actual voice. I couldn’t tell. I inched further up in the line as the woman continued her strange cackling.
When I was at the check-out counter, the cashier spent a few moments extolling Lucia’s cuteness and trying her best to get Lucia to smile. Although Lucia almost constantly smiles at home—whole-face grins, crinkled eyes, the works—she is a quiet, serious, appraising baby in public, resistant to smiling even with the most strident of coaxing. She gave the cashier—bleach-blond highlights, too-tight t-shirt with bra visible underneath, long fake nails—a serious, nay, judging gaze. “What’s that look?” the cashier said suddenly, defensively, frowning at Lucia. “Oh, she’s just shy around strangers,” I murmured. Back outside, I told Lucia, as I always do, that she doesn’t have to smile at anyone she doesn’t want to.
In line at a shop today, the woman behind us remarked on how cute Lucia was. “I miss that age. Mine’s a monster!” she said in a near-shout. “A monster!” “Well, she can be a monster at times,” I said with a smile, trying to follow the gracious-mama script. “Mine’s five, and he drives me nuts!” she said. Then she said it again: “Mine’s five, and he drives me nuts!” She spoke in a high-pitched, false-sounding voice that might have either been for Lucia’s benefit or her actual voice. I couldn’t tell. I inched further up in the line as the woman continued her strange cackling.
When I was at the check-out counter, the cashier spent a few moments extolling Lucia’s cuteness and trying her best to get Lucia to smile. Although Lucia almost constantly smiles at home—whole-face grins, crinkled eyes, the works—she is a quiet, serious, appraising baby in public, resistant to smiling even with the most strident of coaxing. She gave the cashier—bleach-blond highlights, too-tight t-shirt with bra visible underneath, long fake nails—a serious, nay, judging gaze. “What’s that look?” the cashier said suddenly, defensively, frowning at Lucia. “Oh, she’s just shy around strangers,” I murmured. Back outside, I told Lucia, as I always do, that she doesn’t have to smile at anyone she doesn’t want to.
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