Grabapple.net

Cleaning out some old non-working links, which made me click on everything in my blogroll to test it.

While doing so, I discovered that Nina Paley’s site is both a blog and includes some amazing images from her upcoming animated film Sita Sings the Blues, a retelling of the Ramayana.

Stills here.
Clips here.

It look gorgeous and funny…I wish she didn’t think it was going to take 2.5 more years to complete, but I dropped a little donation to her in hopes of speeding that up.

Good animation is so rare, and good animation by and/or about women doubly so.

(begin rant)
With the kidling on the way, I’ve been taking the time to watch some of what’s out there animation-wise, and I have to say that the good-to-crap ratio is still way too low. Dragonball Z is probably the worst excuse for a cartoon show ever made, and I’m including the Scrappy Doo era of Scooby Doo in that list. It’s that bad and boring, and violent and sexist to boot, which, to give Scrappy his due, he never was. Sure it’s of the “toy-commercial” genre of animation, but next to it, old Transformers episodes look like Kurosawa.

I’ve yet to be impressed by any Japanese animation that I’ve seen, story-wise; the stuff that makes it onto Cartoon Network is all battles and bad puns and stupid weepy/oversexualized yet childlike female characters. And not much better male ones. Its saving grace appears to be sheer strangeness and bizarreness, (and some nice backgrounds) which is good for a few minutes (as in Spirited Away) but can’t carry the whole episode or film.

American animation isn’t faring much better, with a few exceptions. There’s more and more computer-generated animation out there, and even at it’s cutest, like The Backyardigans, I find the overly-smooth surfaces and gliding movement of CGI animation disturbing and plastic. Too close to the Uncanny Valley. The only place it works is on Rolie Polie Olie, which is about a family of robots living on a robot planet. For the most part, CGI suits the setting.

Robot Chicken is brilliant, and shows like Aqua Teen Hungerforce and The Brak Show wonderfully surreal, but completely adult. And the animation stinks on all three, which is part of their point. So I’m not sure they do much to change the equation. I’ll also leave out The Simpsons (dying) and Family Guy (crap) for that reason. Even if they were better, they’re not so much for little ones.

Actually, the best stuff for kids right now appears to be more live action or claymation type than animated, although I’ll come out right now and say the characters on Boobah still looks like nothing so much as rainbow-colored dancing testicles. (link requires Flash).

(/rant)

Ok, I was talking about Nina Paley. Go there now and check out her work, and that of some of the other women artists in my blogroll. They’re doing some great and funny stuff that’s a joy to look at, and will hopefully push all memories of Scrappy Doo right out of your head.

urgh.

All last month, my boss was all “hey, you should do some work at home days!” And I couldn’t because I had too many deadlines. All this week, I’ve been thinking, “One more project to go, and then I can do a work at home day!” I was rushing through my Important Project today to get it out early, so I could be home tomorrow working on my Much Less Pressing Project. I write my boss about it. He says: “Oh. You can’t do work at home days on Fridays or Mondays.”

FUCK that SHIT. I mean, either I’m working or I’m not. If you don’t think people actually work during work at home days, but are messing around, why have them? If you are willing to believe they’re working, why act as though it’s really a vacation day? And if I do come back on Monday with my work not done, can you not yell at me? I mean, the proof is in the pudding, no? I’m not 14 years old. If I were really not getting my work done, fire my ass. Don’t make up some stupid juvenile rule about working at home near a weekend, because you think I don’t have the self-discipline to get it done when I say I will.

Oh, and getting that project out early? Not happenin’ now, buster. Thanks for shooting my motivation all to hell.

I think this may be the most courageous, horrible, wonderful birth story I’ve ever read. I hope to god mine is better, but if it wasn’t, I’d wish to be half as courageous as she was.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Our cat is very suspicious of me, and more bitchy than usual,* all of a sudden. I just went to the kitchen and felt someone staring at me; I look over and she’s looking at me with narrowed eyes. I’ve caught her doing that several times in the last few weeks. She also hisses at me more than normal when I approach, and is even less likely to let me pet her without running away or putting her butt towards me (which is how she deals with petting from despised persons like myself).

She knows: Something is Up. And she thinks it’s something she Will Not Approve Of.

Well, she’s right about that. I can’t imagine that she would approve of a tiny, hairless, wailing, drooling, pooping human being invading her space. I don’t know how she knows something is up, unless cats notice things like huge bellies. Maybe I smell different.

I kind of enjoy torturing her mentally in this way, I have to say. She is going to be so pissed when she finds out what all this is about.

Heh.

*Usual is “pretty bitchy.” She really only likes Matt, and tolerates other people, men mostly. I am the human of last resort; the only time she was ever affectionate towards me was when she’d been home alone for a week when I showed up. She’s lived with me for nearly 8 years, and her opinion has never improved. I’ve always been a cat person too, and owned several who got along with me just fine. Matt always apologizes for her, and I tell him, look, this is a creature with a brain the size of a peach pit. She lacks opposable thumbs and poops in a box. Her low opinion of me isn’t exactly devastating.

Now that work has slowed down and not much is going on in my regular life (only a few things left to do for the baby), I find myself sort of lost. I can’t really concentrate on tasks. I leave sandwich fixings open on the counter as I wander away. There’s nothing right in front of me that I must do right this second, and instead of finding ways of being productive, I just sort of surf the internet and watch TV.

I can’t even read things that require deep thinking for long. Politics, history, feminism, or religion are out. Instead I read and re-read the birth stories in Spiritual Midwifery and then go google more birth stories online. I’m pretty much as prepped for this test as I can be at this point (despite a few more childbirth classes to go) so I don’t feel any urgency. Just a sort of drifty restlessness. I have missed having a car so much these last few months, because I’m in just the right mood for long, pointless drives to nowhere, perhaps with the occasional stop for a Sonic cherry limeade (oh, man, that would taste so good!). I would go walking in our neighborhood, but there are always lots of people out on the sidewalks, and I just don’t want to be around people while I wander, if that makes any sense.

I don’t have the nesting instinct thing yet that pregnant women are supposed to have. I get little bursts of organizing zeal, and move a few things around, and then decide it’s time for another nap.

I guess this is all normal. I’m not used to having my brain check out on me on any regular basis, though; usually it’s the opposite problem, too many thoughts pouring out too fast for me to grab. Now it’s all slow and easy; thoughts just sort of amble into my head and mosey back out again. Or never show up at all. Maybe for my brain, pregnancy hormones resemble nothing so much as a nice deep bong hit. Though I have yet to start saying “It’s all good” or start wearing hemp ponchos.

Since I’ve been about the cranky for a while.

NY Times story about doulas. Pointing out what a postive effect they can have on births and early baby care for young or poor mothers. Tres awesome.

Our doula is super nice, but a little…earnest and serious. I always have this urge to make earnest people laugh. This may mean I am trying to crack jokes at her while in labor. Perhaps I should have hired a comedian/doula. I may have to make her promise to laugh at my jokes or I won’t be able to relax.

Another NY Times story about a successful county effort to raise the grades of students…by integrating them using income, not race. We need more of this kind of thing–putting kids in schools where they can learn how to dream for better things. Funny how much difference that seems to make.

It’s been a banner week for Unexpected Conversations With Strangers.

On my way out of the Duane Reade, the greeter says, “Have a nice day! Don’t be giving birth today!”

Hey dude, for all you know I’m two weeks overdue and dying to give birth. Lay off me.

In the elevator, a lady with a shaven head and a dashiki demands of me “What do you want?”

“What?” I answer. She’s staring at my stomach so I make a guess at what she’s asking. “I’m due November 1st.”

“No. What do you want? Boy or girl?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say somewhat snappishly, “we’re having a boy.” The door opens on my floor.

“Blessings on you!” she calls after me cheerily.

In the CVS (I spend lots of time in drugstores, apparently) I ask “Is the register open?”

“Well of course the register’s open for you and the baby!” smiles the cashier. “I know you’ll be in here soon with that baby just crying and carrying on!”

I don’t even know what that means. Why is she saying this??

Another day, same CVS, the pharmacist calls out as I walk by “One or two in there?”

“Just one.”

“OHHHHH,” she says, eyes big.

Jeezus, people. I am NOT THAT HUGE.

On my way to Taco Bell for my grease fix, I’m crossing the street.

A young, maybe high, maybe just REALLY friendly guy says, “You about to go any day now?”

“Yes, soon,” I reply, watching him warily. Is he a con man, or is he going to ask me for money? Because I really can’t conceive of any other reason why he’s talking to me in the middle of the street.

“Twins or just one?”

“Um, one.” What, again? Dammit!

“Well, you know the mamas just gotta eat what the baby wants; all those cravings for things you never eat are just for the baby!”As I edge away warily, he calls out “Good luck!”

“Um, thanks.” I wonder what that last part was about. Was he trying to backtrack cause he thought the twins remark implied I was fat?

Pregnancy just makes some people nervous, I guess. They feel the need to comment. I don’t really mind, but it is so very random, the things people say to you.

At the same time, it can be kind of sweet the number of smiles you get. People are just happy to see pregnant ladies. Perhaps it’s simply that we’re so comical, with the waddling. Also, nothing is less threatening than a pregnant woman. We can’t possibly hurt anyone. Like a puppy, people think we’re kind of cute and cuddly.

I’ve not yet run across any that want to put their hands on me, for which I’m grateful. I would not be able to be gracious to strangers wanting to rub me like a good-luck Buddha, as I have heard sometimes happens. I get a lot of stares though, as I roll down the sidewalk like a one-woman parade float. I’m a curiosity. And I do get out a lot, belly and all–maybe more than a lot of pregnant ladies do? I’m not sure.

But I can feel the speculative glances; sympathy from older women; curiosity and a little fear from younger ones. Curiosity and embarrassment from men, oddly enough. Maybe pregnant ladies make them think of S-E-X or something.

In which case, they need to get over themselves. And then give me their seat on the train.

The pregnant lady would like to kindly tell everyone to go fuck themselves if they want something from her. Between the pinched nerves that make her right leg hurt no matter what, the backache, the fatigue, and the overall feeling like she’d been beaten with a hot sack of nickels, she really doesn’t care about your pain or your work deadlines.

Thank you.

I really miss beer.

Time grows shorter for me to be a Not-the-Mama. At the moment I’m blogging from my work-at-home computer (thanks Boss!), a nifty Mac Mini that computes circles around my elderly but respectable IBM laptop. I’m rocking in my new glider that arrived this week, bought in the probably vain hope of keeping little Herkimer from screaming instead of sleeping when we get him home. And also because we did not have one comfortable chair in this whole damn apartment, and my pregnant ass was getting cranky about it. Our futon is the worst offender, as it reclines at a particularly acute angle, which means I flail about and grunt like a like a stranded manatee whenever I need to get up from it. Which is about every 30 minutes because that’s how often I need to pee. Because a 4-pound baby is dancing on my damn bladder.

Manatee-like certainly describes my state these days. My boss keeps encouraging me to work from home once a week or so now that my computer is set up. I was puzzled by his generosity until I realized that he’s probably just terrified my water will break while I’m still in the office. Everyone says “you’re so BIG!” and their eyes get wide. I’ve got 6 more weeks to go, though, so I’m not expecting the baby to make an appearance just yet. I want him good and fully cooked. Also, there are no refunds for childbirth classes you miss, and I want to get the remaining 4 in, cause we paid extra for the hippy-granola classes, dammit.

I get asked all the time “how are you doing?” and you know, I’m not doing too bad. I have bad moments of being woozy or overheated, or um, having “insufficient gastrointestinal motility”, ahem, but on the whole I do pretty well. I don’t hate being pregnant. I’m not ecstatic about it either; I miss my formerly slim ankles. I miss not waddling. I miss not going to the bathroom 20 times a day. I find the baby’s kicks and punches (often both at the same time) reassuring, but I will prefer having him on the outside, where I can dodge them, instead of wondering just how many foot jabs my spleen can take.

Matt is easing into his rolé as Le Dad, although now it’s more Le Manservant de Pregnanté Femme. He sets his alarm on his cell phone to remind me to eat my spinach each night (folic acid!) and drink my raspberry leaf tea (softens the cervix! I told him, I’m not sure I want it softened; this kid’s so active, maybe it’ll make him come out too soon. But so the midwife commandeth, and so we do). Matt had the uplifting experience of watching a Birth Video at our class last night, and did quite well. Considering that even I found it a little uncomfortable, not for blood and gore (not much of that actually) but just at all the people putting their hands on and in the woman’s lady business for various reasons. I know they’re good reasons, but it bugged me; I wanted to tell them to leave the poor woman alone and let her push!

Afterward, one of my classmates mentioned that she was uncomfortable at being naked in front of strangers at birth. But I told Matt, once it starts in earnest at the hospital, I doubt I’ll care much. Some women keep as many clothes as possible on, some go all-out nekkid. I figure, you know, once your vagina has a big spotlight on it (and a baby coming out of it), modesty has long gone bye-bye. Taking your shirt off at that point, if you want to, is pretty much anticlimatic. Nobody there is going to be shocked by your boobs.

I’m taking some warm fuzzy socks though. Hospitals are always so damn cold.