Nips, Lips, Hips, ‘N Fingertips











{February 22, 2006}   Meet my robot brain

Okay, it’s time I introduce you to a quintessential part of me that my partner and I lovingly refer to as my “robot brain”. It is the analytical, hypercritical, always trying to find fault in everything part of my brain that most likely evolved quickly and more completely than most during my shall we say troubled and brief childhood.

My robot brain is the alarm that goes off in the event of any discrepancies in anything I do, eat, feel, say, think or write. It alerts me to things I have forgotten every.single.time. I leave the house. It tells me when I have forgotten toiletries that I rarely even use when we are in the next state on a roadtrip (see, it doesn’t know what is important and what’s not- it’s up to the big me to act as a filter for the information). “Too late to turn back now!” my partner has told it ad nauseum. Sometimes I try not to let my robot brain alerts slip past my lips. I know that I don’t need my Lansinoh or Smooshie’s teething tablets or whatever and that anyway, they can be purchased at Walgreen’s since they are now pretty much on every fucking corner in the US. But my robot brain doesn’t care. It will cause me to blurt out “sippy cups” in the middle of an otherwise stimulating roadtrip conversation. This usually has the disastrous effect of giving the person I am talking with the impression that rather than listening to them I was thinking about sippy cups or teething tablets- which is rarely the case. My robot brain is like a computer spyware program that is always running in the background. It monitors everything and is always ticking its way through various lists of things to do, things to remember, things to say, things not to say…or rehashing conversations I had years ago and papers I wrote in college. I am totally serious!

Some people get on mind-altering medication for less (and I have in the past myself, in an attempt to quiet my robot brain and a cast of other characters mostly including my family members), but I have since accepted it as a part of Me. Luckily, so has my partner.

So my robot brain pointed out (when I was trying to sleep) that the title of my blog would be so much more perfect (perfection, that’s always the goal isn’t it?!) if I replaced the word tits with nips.

“But it won’t have that feminazi, glossy magazine, gutsy feel I was aiming for!” I cried.

     “Change tits to nips, ” droned my robot brain.  

“But it wasn’t what I came up with on my own!” I lamented.

      “Change tits to nips.”

“But I didn’t ask you to proofread my fucking title!” I yelled out.

      “Change tits to nips.”

Alas, while I hate to cow-tow* to the robot brain, it most likely will not rest until I make this change. The manifesto that I issued the other day (din’t know I issued a manifesto, didja? See “Why the Provocative Title?”) still stands, as does the spirit of my blog. *I know, it’s kowtow- it was a jokey milk reference that perhaps only Hathor would get (www.hathorthecowgoddess.com)

And I had typed a bunch of other witty stuff that somehow didn’t make it (I think I accidentally clicked on Path at some point? Is it out there somewhere on a different path? That would be cool!) so this is it for today folks. Cailou or however the hell you spell it is over and it is time for what we like to call “homepreschool”. It is unschooling at its best, and structured playtime at its worst. We make a craft, color or paint, listen to music, roll around on the exercise balls, put together puzzles, play trains, read, put on plays, pretend grocery store and kitchen, ands sometimes draw on the fireplace with chalk.

“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain one once he grows up.” -Pablo Picasso



et cetera