Watching UFC makes me feel queasy. It's basically Average Joes, that like to make each other bleed, ushered into a cage and let loose at each other with big chunks of cash at stake. Right? For me, as a female, there is nothing appealing about it - muscles are nice yeah, but cauliflower ears are the equivalent of 2 crossed eyes and an incredible overbite.
But at least there's an honesty to it all. In both organized fighting and good old fashioned bar brawls, men will always trump women. When we hate each other, it's never simply articulated in a way where we're laying on top of each other with legs intertwined and one arm bent back behind the other, bleeding into each other's mouths. No, we rip each other apart, head to toe, internally, while smiling.
Example A: Hell hath no fury like a woman, who has been waiting in line for a long while, watching another woman scurry over to a new cashier opening. Today I saw a new Mom (who clearly hasn't become a nobler being since exuding a child out her crotch) almost get pummeled by a saucy middle-aged woman with a cold sore and NOTHIN' to lose. I think life would be easier for chicks if we could just lean over, lightly wave and say "hey, HEY, f-ck you, your weird ass freckles, your ugly kid and your sh-tty manners." Oh, the relief.
In other news, Stella is still really REALLY obsessed with herself. We joke that it's her Pop's vanity coming out her pores, but I think all kids her age adore a mirrored reflection the same. I guess you'd have to tell me - does your kid demand to "wooo-atch!" every goddamn night? Meaning she wants to plop down on my lap and watch videos and pictures of herself on a slideshow on my phone. Forever. On repeat. While squirming with absolute glee at how much she amazes herself.
Hours spent in the hallway in front of our bedroom door, practicing dramatic monologues, dancing, and making quick business calls on her battered and splattered iTouch.
The liquor cabinet in the kitchen serves two purposes: storing delicious beverages for the adults in her life AND providing another reflective surface for her to perform for. She'll stop mid-sentence, dramatically sit down and just stare at her face. Lay on her belly and watch herself read books. Twirl in dresses and skirts and arch her back for a better view of her butt. The kid is in love with loving herself. I'm actually totally okay with this. As part of a gender that finds sick delight in hating ourselves, a little self-love is a good, nay great thing. When she's old enought to try and kick Pops out of the bathroom to fix her hair, then, we'll have a problem. Until then, keep on keeping on, you preening peacock.
New favourite thing: While teaching her the ABC's, I throw up an Xzibit "X" when we get to that amazing letter. These kids - sponges. Forget colours - next week we'll teach her the entire Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme song.