T. S. Elliot

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Eavesdropping…

Anytime more then six months ago…

Mrs. eSquared: [coming through the door with lots of bags from the mall] “Hi babe…”

Me: [although initially panicked, I realize Mrs. E2 only borrows clothes from the shops. She’ll return them all within three weeks, and check-out another bunch] “Hey pal. Whatchagotthere?

Mrs. E2: “Oh… a little of this, and a little of that.”

Me: [turning back to the Xbox game I currently SUCK at] “Ah, that’s cool. DIE YOU S.O.B.”

About 15 minutes pass…

Mrs. E2 [modeling her latest black turtle-neck, or black slacks] “Well… what do you think?

Me: [pausing the hopelessness that is the game I’m playing] “Oh… nice.”

Mrs. E2: [her face falling into a frown] “You hate it.”

Me: [in my high and defensive Mrs. E2 has learned not to trust] “No… they’re fine… really.”

We spend the next ten minutes convincing her that she shouldn’t take the slacks back… which she takes back anyway in a couple of weeks.

Now… let’s turn the tables a bit.

Anytime more then six months ago…

Me: [coming through the door with a bag from the mall] “Hi babe…”

Mrs. eSquared: [panicked] “Hey pal. Whatchagotthere?

Me: “Oh… a little of this, and a little of that.”

Mrs. eSquared: [turning back to the book she is currently studying] “Hummm.”


Me: [taking a moment to inhale the sweet smell of new electronic equipment as I open the box - tittering with excitement] “Well… what do you think?

Mrs. eSquared: [applying the memorized equations and algorithms she learned to calculate an item’s cost by the size and color of the box ] “Oh… nice.”

Me: [my face falling into a frown] “You hate it.”

Mrs. eSquared: [transparent in her apathy] “No… they’re fine… really.”

She spends the next ten minutes convincing me that I should take the thing back.


… and the tables come full circle.

Anytime in the last six months…

Mrs. eSquared: [coming through the door with lots of bags from the mall] “Hi babe…”

Me: [although initially panicked, I realize Mrs. E2 only borrows clothes from the shops. She’ll return them all within three weeks, and check-out another bunch] “Hey pal. Whatchagotthere?

Mrs. E2: “Oh… a little of this, and a little of that.”

Me: [turning back to the Xbox game I currently SUCK at] “Ah, that’s cool. DIE YOU S.O.B.”

About 15 minutes pass…

Mrs. E2 [parading the baby clothes she just got] “Well… what do you think?

Me: [pausing the hopelessness that is the game I’m playing, and growing dizzy looking at all the little suits, oneziez, shorts, pants, shirts and hats (yes, hats) arranged on the table] “Oh… that one has a cute carrot on it… nice.”

Mrs. E2: [her face falling into a frown] “You hate them.”

Me: [in my high and defensive Mrs. E2 has learned not to trust] “No… they’re fine… really.”

We spend the next ten minutes convincing her that we will never need to wash baby clothes. We’ll simply use them once, and throw them out. We’ve run out of room to store them… now, we’ve filled garbage sacks (clean ones) with all the clothes our egglet has.

Names & Labels… Labels & Names…

Baby Pink arrived the other day. No, not in that way… she is still snug inside Mrs. eSquared. What I mean is, anyone who looks can see her. Even some distance away, it’s evident that she has arrived, kicking, nudging, elbowing and bumping.

Mrs. E2 was determined to hide Baby Pink at her place of employment until the New Year. Fortunately, she has the last couple of weeks of 2006 off. Once Mrs. E2 was done working for the year, *WHAP* she got big.

She went back to work this week with an obvious change from the last time her colleagues saw her. Why do people (women especially) get all excited when they see a pregnant woman? Is pregnancy a special initiation into a club that men and women that haven’t experienced childbirth just aren’t invited to?

You know you’ve seen it… some lady losing it when she sees a pregnant woman: someone in the line at the bank, coffee place or supermarket; a complete stranger.

First, the questions:

Secret Club Member: (screeching as she hunkers down and runs over with her hand out to touch the belly) “Oooohhhaaaaahhhheeeeeehh… Look what you’ve been up to!”

Unwitting Pregnant Woman: “Wha!”

SCM: (sporting wide eyes and a crazed smile) “When aaaaaaaare yoooooou duuuuue?”

UPW: (a bit dazed, and taken aback with a strange woman touching her belly) “April,” she squeaks.

SCM: (rubbing UPW’s belly in circles and lowering her voice for the illusion of confidence) “Do you know what it is yet?”

UPW: (resisting the urge to say “human,” or “none or your business.”) “We’re having a girl,” as she narrows her eyes.

SCM: (feeling the excitement of another potential club member) “Ahhh… what’s her name?

UPW: (concealing the urge to break her hand off at the wrist) “Well… we like Jada.”

SCM: (her smile cascades into a frown and she knits here eyebrows together) “Humpfgh. That’s an interesting name.”

(Long, silent pause)

SCM: (puffing out a breath) “I once knew a crack-whore named Jada. What other names have you thought of?”

There are many amazing things about such interchanges, primarily, the complete lack of interest in the woman herself. If the ‘conversation’ is allowed to continue, the Secret Club Member glazes over and regales the Unwitting Pregnant Woman with tales of how wonderful pregnancy is, or how awful her 46 hours of labor were.

WTF?!?