I am not coping well with the news lately. And honestly, I probably shouldn't be allowed to watch the news. Not in my delicate condition.
During my last pregnancy the entire economy crashed. At the time I worked at a high net worth wealth management firm (exactly what it sounds like), and pretty much every morning for a week in September 2008 we had "emergency" all-staff meetings that went like this:
"Well, Bank ABC has gone under, but please assure your clients that Banks DEF, GHI, and JKL are still fine and cannot possibly go under."
"Well, Bank DEF was just bought by bank GHI, but please assure your clients that Bank JKL is still fine."
"Well..."
"Um..."
"Oh, crap."
And so on.
I ended up on bed rest three weeks before my due date because one day at work I lost the abilities to speak and to see. Literally. The day my replacement came in to train for my maternity leave I sounded like a stroke victim and kept bumping into things. I didn't even think to call my doctor about it until my husband - who has no medical training - said that losing vision and speech is not normal in the 9th month of pregnancy. I was all ready to tell him what a nervous nelly he is, but the nurse on the phone sent me to the labor & delivery ER and the doctor told me to go home and stay there. That sure showed my stupid husband!
This time around there is no need to force myself to endure the slings and arrows of this cold, cruel world and endanger both myself and my fetus by doing stupid things like paying attention to the world outside my little life. Besides, there are natural disasters beyond my control happening here in New York, and the 10-year anniversary of September 11th just passed, which, even with my news-blackout I can't avoid because we LIVE in New York City and because I was here on September 11, 2001. And, my neighborhood is currently being terrorized by at least four would-be rapists, which I can't avoid even if I want to because I have to pass by the enormous NYPD double-wide parked on my route to my son's preschool.
So, some things I can't avoid, but most things I can. I've told my friends and family that from now until I am 6 months post-partum I do not want to hear about anything going on in the world unless it involves me directly, and not in a New Agey, hippie, Mother Earthy, "We are all part of the interconnectedness of Life and the Universe, and when a mosquito dies in Australia all our hearts die a little inside" kind of way. I mean a direct way, like, "Michelle Obama is hosting a dinner party and wants advice on a good budget wine from a fellow mom, so she needs your cell number, MEREDITH LOPEZ," kind of way.
That, I can handle.
Anything involving politics, the economy, natural disasters in places that are not New York City, wars in foreign countries, and so on, I cannot handle. For the sake of my baby, I'm not even going to try. I can't have booze to take the edge off, I'm no longer on anti-depressants, and every time I tear up it induces vomiting. I have zero release for my stresses, plus a 3-year old who thinks that I force him to nap as a way of ruining his life, a husband who works late most nights, and at least two pinched nerves in my back. And did I mention no booze, pills, or even crying to make myself feel better?
The other day when we had our friends and their kids over for a playdate, and the husband started talking politics with my husband, I just sort of spaced out and thought about this instead:
And really, what does the rest of the world need from a pregnant, tired, achey woman anyway? Do I control the world's economy? (Though, with the timing of my pregnancies, it looks like my womb might... I promise, no more kids after this, lest we all end up in bread lines again.) Can I avert natural disasters? (Answer: not yet, but give me time.)
So, I'm on a news hiatus until well into 2012, at which time I am sure there will be world peace, no hunger or disease, and the economy will be fixed. Right?
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Saturday, October 8, 2011
A Very Special Juban Princeling Photo of the Week: 10/8/11
October 8, 2008:
October 8, 2011:
Happy birthday, little man. May all your hopes and dreams come true. May you live a life of integrity and truth. May you be respected and admired. And may you never forget that Mommy loves you most of all.
And yes, you can have cookies for breakfast today.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
The Paris Museum Experience
Not Paris, France.
The other Paris.
The drunk, annoying one who used to haunt the celebrity gossip rags.
The other night I went to the Museum of Sex, alone, as you do. Yes, that's a real thing. New York has everything! Our McDonald'ses even deliver!
So, I went to the Museum of Sex, alone, while pregnant, because they currently have an exhibit I wanted to see about the history of sex in the movies, both inside the mainstream and outside. I'm a BA in Cinema Studies, and my senior thesis was on the relationship between American culture and Hollywood movies, so this was right up my alley, no pun intended.
Also, I thought it would be funny to walk around a Museum of Sex with my baby bump, no partner with me, and no ring on my finger. (I've developed a metal allergy with this pregnancy. It's a thing.) When he was still cooking in my baby oven, my son the Juban Princeling got to go to the last home opener at the old Yankee Stadium; this baby got to go to the Museum of Sex. I'm nothing if not fair.
But no one noticed me, because everyone at the Museum of Sex is too self-conscious to pay attention to what anyone else is doing.
Do you know what people aren't too self-conscious to do? Call to each other across the room to come over and see something and then giggle about it like 12-year olds. (Who are not allowed into the museum.)
The exhibit I saw, "Action," included a brief summary of each era of cinema and what kind of moral code was in place at the time regarding how moviemakers were forced to deal with the issue of sex. (From the 1930s to 1968, during the time of the "Hays Code," you could not show "white slave trade" or miscegenation, which is just dumb, or scenes of "real child birth," because that is so sexy, I guess.) It was actually quite interesting, and if there are any other cinema students out there who have seen the exhibit, I wouldn't mind getting into a super nerdy discussion about it.
Part of the exhibit covers sex in modern day films, including the popularity in the past 10 or 15 years of the celebrity sex tape. This part of the exhibit included the showing of Paris H.'s infamous sex tape (I'm not using her entire name because I don't want this post popping up on searches for her). And this group of 6 or 7 young men could NOT tear themselves away from it, calling each other over, loudly talking about it, and generally acting like a bunch of morons. Like, haven't you guys seen this already? And, can't you go home and watch it in private, and not, say, when you are blocking the path for me to get through to the other part of the exhibit?
Listen.
I know when I go to a museum called The Museum of Sex, there are going to be idiots there who just want to be titillated, who think that the museum is some sort of giant, walk-on porn set. And, yeah, the exhibits do show a lot of graphic photos and videos to get the point across. (Part of the "Action" exhibit showed some of the old "stag" films from the early 1900s.) But it's also a museum, not a 1970s Times Square peep show.
Eh, what did I expect on a Saturday evening?
As I left through the gift shop, I was almost inspired to do a bit of impromptu performance art: picking up one of the condoms for sale, looking at it sadly while rubbing my baby bump meaningfully, and then sighing dramatically and shaking my head. But I chickened out. I'm not a performance artist. I'm just a film nerd.
The other Paris.
The drunk, annoying one who used to haunt the celebrity gossip rags.
The other night I went to the Museum of Sex, alone, as you do. Yes, that's a real thing. New York has everything! Our McDonald'ses even deliver!
So, I went to the Museum of Sex, alone, while pregnant, because they currently have an exhibit I wanted to see about the history of sex in the movies, both inside the mainstream and outside. I'm a BA in Cinema Studies, and my senior thesis was on the relationship between American culture and Hollywood movies, so this was right up my alley, no pun intended.
Also, I thought it would be funny to walk around a Museum of Sex with my baby bump, no partner with me, and no ring on my finger. (I've developed a metal allergy with this pregnancy. It's a thing.) When he was still cooking in my baby oven, my son the Juban Princeling got to go to the last home opener at the old Yankee Stadium; this baby got to go to the Museum of Sex. I'm nothing if not fair.
But no one noticed me, because everyone at the Museum of Sex is too self-conscious to pay attention to what anyone else is doing.
Do you know what people aren't too self-conscious to do? Call to each other across the room to come over and see something and then giggle about it like 12-year olds. (Who are not allowed into the museum.)
The exhibit I saw, "Action," included a brief summary of each era of cinema and what kind of moral code was in place at the time regarding how moviemakers were forced to deal with the issue of sex. (From the 1930s to 1968, during the time of the "Hays Code," you could not show "white slave trade" or miscegenation, which is just dumb, or scenes of "real child birth," because that is so sexy, I guess.) It was actually quite interesting, and if there are any other cinema students out there who have seen the exhibit, I wouldn't mind getting into a super nerdy discussion about it.
Part of the exhibit covers sex in modern day films, including the popularity in the past 10 or 15 years of the celebrity sex tape. This part of the exhibit included the showing of Paris H.'s infamous sex tape (I'm not using her entire name because I don't want this post popping up on searches for her). And this group of 6 or 7 young men could NOT tear themselves away from it, calling each other over, loudly talking about it, and generally acting like a bunch of morons. Like, haven't you guys seen this already? And, can't you go home and watch it in private, and not, say, when you are blocking the path for me to get through to the other part of the exhibit?
Listen.
I know when I go to a museum called The Museum of Sex, there are going to be idiots there who just want to be titillated, who think that the museum is some sort of giant, walk-on porn set. And, yeah, the exhibits do show a lot of graphic photos and videos to get the point across. (Part of the "Action" exhibit showed some of the old "stag" films from the early 1900s.) But it's also a museum, not a 1970s Times Square peep show.
Eh, what did I expect on a Saturday evening?
As I left through the gift shop, I was almost inspired to do a bit of impromptu performance art: picking up one of the condoms for sale, looking at it sadly while rubbing my baby bump meaningfully, and then sighing dramatically and shaking my head. But I chickened out. I'm not a performance artist. I'm just a film nerd.
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