When Monika first proposed that we join forces to create the world’s most awesome blog, I was elated. We were several hours into the gin-and-tonic tornado known as “girls night”, and we were pretty confident we had just uncovered some hidden, and deeply meaningful, message in the latest episode of Girls. This, of course, was the much discussed “42 year-old doctor” episode. But, while everyone else was busy questioning the likelihood of such an encounter, or the appropriateness of a midriff-baring, silk romper, we were much more concerned with the absence of Hannah’s purse. (No purse? Really? You’re just walking around for 2 days with nowhere to keep your keys or lip gloss? Bull-shizzz!) We were convinced that there was no way that a mind as great as Lena Dunham’s would make such a glaring omission accidentally. Surely, somewhere, buried in the mystery of the missing purse was some terrific insight into the feminist cause. And if we could only find it… well, shit, that would make one hell of a blog post.
Of course, one should alway be skeptical of any proposals made when copious amounts of alcohol are involved. Did Monika really want to collaborate with me on a blog? Would she be overcome with regret as soon as she saw my first post – centering, no doubt, on something terribly mundane, like Martha Stewart’s latest cupcake recipe or my one-year-old daughters using a spoon for the first time? If she really wanted this collaboration, why had I not even heard of this blog until she was 6 drinks into the evening? No… I would be a good friend and I wouldn’t mention it again…
Until Laura. Fucking Laura. A few days later and Laura starts posting on Facebook that SHE is starting a new co-blog with her besties and “IT’S GOING TO BE THE BEST BLOG EVER!!!!”. Like. Hell. It. Is. There is no way that I’m going to let Laura be both blonder than me and a better blogger than me.
So, Monika – Let’s do this!
Here I go… blogging in… 3… 2… 1…
There is one tiny problem. I have nothing even remotely interesting to talk about. As a new mom, I virtually never leave the house and most of my conversations concern the various sounds that animals make.
Quite seriously, the highlight of my week is usually my expedition to the Cavendish Mall IGA. It used to actually be kind of a low-point, what with the long lines and the yentas, but lately the fishmonger has been telling me that I’m beautiful and it’s doing wonders for my self-esteem.
Today he called me a “seahorse”. He said it in french though, so it sounded better. Une cheval de mer. Actually that sounds way worse, but I know he meant it as a compliment because he sort of gestured at my body in a suggestive manner when he said it. I know, I know, I know.. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Dinah! That’s totally sexist and creepy! A woman should be able to peruse the tilapia without being called a SEAHORSE!” And you’re probably right. But, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me feel special. Let’s be honest, I didn’t put on lipstick this morning to not be called a seahorse, y’know what I mean? These days, compliments are so few and far between that I’ll take what I can get. Besides, if all that is standing between my children and the choicest piece of organic salmon is a flattering (dare I say, hippocampe-esque) pair of yoga pants, wouldn’t I be eschewing my duties as a mother if I didn’t oblige? If you really think about it, flirting with the fishmonger is just good parenting.
And if there is one thing I know, it’s good parenting.
And that, ^ right there, is a blog post. Your move, Laura.