But Let Me Ask You This: How Many Sheep Do You Have?
October 12, 2009
When I sat down to write this piece, I had a horrible realization: For someone who thinks of themselves as fairly pesky, I am not a great mischief-maker.
This is left over from childhood, when my chief identifying characteristics were a terror of authority and a compulsive need for approval. Most children, upon being reprimanded for splashing in a puddle at recess, would brush it off, or perhaps stick out their tongue at the playground aid. I wept bitterly and confided in my diary. (I was five, so “my diary” consisted mainly of drawings depicting how happy I’d be if I got a puppy, and how sad I was when snack time was over.)
So, yes: I had some trouble thinking about a topic for today. Finally, I did what I always do when things are too hard and I’m tired of pondering them: I punted to my significant other.
“I need to write a blog post,” I told Sgt Lucky.
“Sounds good,” he said. (He’s very approving.)
“It’s supposed to be about making mischief. But the problem is, I don’t really make mischief, per se.”
He looked at me like perhaps I was drinking. “That is not true at all.”
“No, for serious. Mostly what I do is think up mischief, and leave the actual making to others. That way, I get to giggle about how funny I am and not get in trouble.”
“What about that thing last weekend, when you made fun of the male midwife?”
“Is that really mischief-making, though?”
“I don’t know. It was kind of a dick move.”
Which counts, we’ve both decided. So here you go:
Last weekend, while at a birthday party and well in my cups, I met a friend of a friend who told me that his greatest dream was to become a midwife.
“Are you training to become one?” I asked.
One of my more obnoxious traits is that when people tell me their dreams, I often ask them how far along they are toward achieving them. For instance, in college, a guidance counselor once told me that her greatest dream was to be a sheep farmer. This was supposed to be inspiring, but I forget why. I was probably hung up on the fact that she had just advised me to go into technical writing. (Fun fact: I cannot read, much less write, instructions of any kind.)
“Well, let me ask you this,” I said. “How many sheep do you have?”
Zero, by the way. Zero sheep. Anyway, back to my new friend the nascent male midwife. Let’s call him Jack.
“I just don’t think anyone would go for a male midwife,” he said, glumly. With effort, I restrained myself from singing Hermey the Dentist’s song from Rudolph.
“I’m a little wigged by how nuts everyone is about natural childbirth anyway,” I said. “I mean, half the women I know now give birth in an inflatable pool in their living rooms. They bite down on the dog’s chew toy and do deep breathing. It’s not for me.”
He looked at me in shock. “Well, you wouldn’t take drugs.”
“The hell I wouldn’t, pal. I would take so many drugs. I would take all the drugs. My dream is to schedule the birth and have it induced, so I can get the epidural first and then gas and morphine in alternating cycles. Screw that natural childbirth shit. Screw it, I say. If men gave birth, you’d be able to hire someone to do the dirty work.”
Jack was horrified. “But … it’s bad for the baby,” he said.
“Says who? When my mom was pregnant, your doctor told you not to smoke … so much. It was like AA in Ireland: ‘Just try not to drink … so much.’ If they come up with definitive proof that anesthesia makes your baby retarded, then I’ll think about it. Until then, if the kid is any kin of mine, he’ll thank me for getting the good shit.”
Needless to say, Jack and I did not hit it off. And, to be honest, I felt a little bad later. He was very serious and lovely and I, as usual, could not stop looking for a chance to shoehorn in a joke.
But hey, look at it this way: Perhaps I’ve given him a mission. When he graduates from midwife school, Jack will accept his certificate, look earnestly at his class and say, “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the ignorance of that one drunk girl, way back when.”
It’s not much of a dream. But it’s mine.
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*JennieSMASH is at least 33 years old, but finds that she is often unable to recall her actual age. This either means that she is senile or that she has become enlightened. Probably both. Under her professional alter ego Jen Hubley, she writes about style, shopping, celebrities and other fluffy topics beginning with shuh. She has also written about artificial intelligence, disaster recovery, and the software that enables people to call and email you at all hours of the day and night. Try not to hold that against her. Ms. Smash enjoys wearing flowers on her head, drinking beer, and watching programs with ghosts in them. She sometimes writes about these things on her blog.
“me thinks the lady doth protest too much…”
[...] Anyway. I wrote a thing. Here it is. [...]
“The hell I wouldn’t, pal. I would take so many drugs. I would take all the drugs.”
This just made my morning.
I’m also wondering if we’re not distant cousins.
[...] por unos huevos rancheros. 13 10 2009 Ayer en un momento de ingravidez me puse a leer el último artículo de JennieSmash, aquella editora que viene listada al lado derecho de su pantalla como “Mi primer [...]
Spouting straight-faced lies with the conviction of a Hitler youth is one of my favorite pass times. Great story, Jennie. Thanks for sharing!
…UGH! And that, my friends, is how you post a comment on the wrong posting. Is my brain still on vacation that I’m thinking of comments on a one-story delay?