Browsing Posts published in September, 2011

From time to time I receive lovely notes from readers. Always encouraging but most importantly, they suggest I’m not alone in this day-to-day challenge of being a stay-at-home Mom which is what makes this journey so worthwhile.

Conversely, I am inundated with nonsensical garbage that I must opt to either delete or “mark as spam” prior to being made public and as of late this series of deletions has taken up more of my chocolate almond eating time than I would like.

Still, I’m thankful people are reading (even though I’m aware the spammers aren’t actually reading anything) so I take my time and look at each comment thoroughly before deciding to recycle or allow it to post.

Very often I will receive the same note from at least a hundred different web addresses so I know this is linked to a spam artist. The message is always positive, sometimes pushing a product they are trying to sell and always, ALWAYS filled with spelling and grammatical errors, suggesting to me perhaps I am being spammed by a computer being manipulated by overall wearing monkeys.

For example, Thanks for a very interesting site. What else could I get that kind of info written in such an ideal means? I have a project that I am simply now running on, and I have been on the look out for such info dawg.

You put the lime in the cocnout and drink the article up.

If not for your writing this topic could be very convoluted and obiluqe.

Holy sihnzit, this is so cool thank you.

I owe you bgiggity

Me and this article, stiting in a tree, L-E-A-R-N-I-N-G!

Not bad at all flelas and gallas. Thanks.

I still smile at the lime in the coconut.

We saved a turtle from dying on the road the other day after what we think must have been a car accident.

We still don’t understand how a car could mistake a turtle for anything other than a turtle and wonder why the car couldn’t have swerved to avoid him.

In this case, the vehicle, no license plate provided as the turtle wasn’t quick enough to react and write down the numbers, left this poor little painted turtle on the road, bleeding from the top of the shell and unable to make his way to safety….and by safety, I mean the field where we dumped the python.

Greg, along with desperate pleas from two of our kids and one who merely wanted to yell “turtle!” at it, carried it to the side of our neighbour’s yard and walked away.

I guess we thought the turtle would find his final resting place there rather than being struck over and over until there was a painted turtle pancake in front of the houses and the neighbourhood kids were scarred for life.

The next day, we checked on the turtle and while he hadn’t moved, he wasn’t dead. He (or she but for purposes of this story, I’ll continue to use “he” despite the heavy red and yellow shell make-up) seemed to be able to move his head and one leg but the other might have been paralyzed or he was the world’s best faker and drawing a lot of sympathy from his human audience.

We brought him home and placed him in the culvert at the front of our house and read about what turtles like to eat.

The kids spent some time in the afternoon with a neighbour finding things to feed him and stumbled upon a one eyed tree frog.

The eight year old neighbour explained to our kids that the tree frog ate his own eye because he couldn’t find any other food but assured them it would grow back in six years. This seemed unlikely to me but I allowed the kids to believe it because it was told with authority from someone claiming to have read a book about tree frogs and I had only read one book in the past year about a girl with a dragon tattoo with no mention of anything eating its own eyeballs, I was in no position to argue.

Watching my kids feeding a bug to a turtle and bits of cucumber has rejuvenated my belief in the benefits of roadside assistance.

Ellie told me she was okay feeding the bug to the turtle even though the bug had to die because the turtle was the “needer” of the two animals. If the bug was more “needer” she would have fed the turtle to the bug but that wouldn’t have made any sense. Indeed. Especially because I thought she was saying “neater” for the longest time and until I realized she meant the needier of the two, I continued to look down at the ground and shake my head in sadness for this poor turtle’s suffering and my lack of understanding our conversation.

Greg has asked (twice) if he can bring it inside to keep it safe from both the elements and a turtle-eating-bug until we can take it to the conservation authority tomorrow.

And he thinks he’s going to be able to turn down persistent pleas for a dog?

I guess we have picture day early in the school year to give everyone time to save up for “sibling picture day,” “grade 2 graduation picture day,” “Terry Fox run photo finish” (race results pending) and of course re-takes for each of these. I know by June we’ll have a framer and perhaps a little money back in the bank.

I knew I had to tread lightly this morning, careful not to try to tell the girls what to wear for picture day or they would leave the house in mismatched scuba diving outfits just to spite me.

Hanna was my first battle. For her grade three picture, she insisted on wearing what she wore in her grade two picture. While the dress still fit, I looked at her and nodded, taking my time trying not to say the wrong thing that might instigate a twenty-minute,  tear-filled plea about why her picture day dress from last year hadn’t fulfilled its picture day destiny if it missed out on this ripe opportunity to be photographed. This could send her straight to the tickle-trunk for an offensive series of feather boas.

I had Ellie in the corner witnessing our exchange and wanting to be the pleaser announced, “Mom, why don’t you pick my outfit, I’ll wear anything.” Ahhh, sigh. “I don’t care what I wear, as long as I can have three braids at the sides and a ponytail coming out the back. Sigh reversed.

Hanna opted for a high, single, side ponytail with a black flower clipped to the middle. There I was in the middle of a Robert Munsch book with only a couple of minutes before the bus arrived.

Me (aware of the time on the clock): Hanna, why don’t you choose a different dress for today’s picture so we will be able to tell your grade two and grade three pictures apart?

Hanna: You’ll know what grade I’m in from how tall I am in the class picture.

Ellie: Mommy, the dress you picked for me…..I love it…..I like it……it’s…..it’s just that you can’t tell if it’s a dress or a shirt and a skirt and for picture day, I need to wear a dress. A dress that looks just like a dress.

Me: That is a dress Ellie.

Ellie: Yes but you can’t tell because of the belt. Pick something else.

Chloe emerged wearing a life jacket, one of her big sister’s bike helmets over her Elmo t-shirt, sandals, permanent marker stripes on both arms and a bath-robe. Finally, someone that’s ready to start this day.

Along came the tights.

I really have to be at my wrestling weight to work with kids and tights. It takes every ounce of my sanity not to start screaming, tearing them into tiny pieces and wearing them like a rooster cap for the rest of the day to prove to the neighbours I have gone completely off the deep end.

Tights are the enemy not just to my kids but most kids. I too remember feeling as though I would never be able to feel comfortable in them. They would bunch around the ankle on one side and my thigh on the other making me feel over-heated and lopsided all day. The thin ones would have a colour block of dark purple on one calf and would be nearly transparent on the other.

My kids lose their cool before the tights have even made it over their toes and mistakenly spend most of their efforts around the toe and heel area when instead they should just get them on and work from the bottom up to smooth out the kinks.

Tights would be a great workshop for an anger management class. They teach patience, precision, sometimes teamwork and those who fail, have a quick DIY burglar mask at the ready.

I guess my efforts on the girl’s hair was for naught as the elastic I had spent the better part of ten minutes wrapping around the side of Hanna’s head had been torn out (in some places at the root) and her hair was dishevelled and down by the time she appeared on the driveway to hop on the picture day school bus.

See you in a couple weeks for round one of re-takes Life Touch Photography. I should probably book the sibling ticket in advance.

When the phone rings after 10pm and I’m sleeping soundly at a totally realistic bedtime for totally normal people, a couple of things race through my mind.

The first is what day is it? This one usually depends on how deep into my slumber I have fallen but can go so far as wondering what season it is, what year and whether or not I’m late for a University exam or if I’ve messed up someone’s dinner order while waitressing.

The second is, do I have an appropriate, clean, ready-to-wear outfit for the funeral of the person I’m about to be told has died suddenly. Why else would anyone think it was okay to call after 10pm?

Our phone rang last night at 10:52pm and you guessed it, it was basketball related. I should have guessed.

The woman on the other end of the phone introduced herself and at first I wasn’t sure if I should pretend to have been awake to a) make her feel less guilty and b) make myself seem way cooler or if I should play up the groggy card to send a message to be spread the world over, “BASKETBALL REGISTRATION CONFIRMATION CALLS CAN WAIT UNTIL MORNING!”

I don’t know where to begin with this one but Marla who probably works full time during the day and is undertaking a volunteer position with this nutty, disorganized basketball league is likely just trying to get done what she can during the hours she has available and I find that commendable. I wonder if at any point she looked at the clock on her microwave and thought, “hmmm, 10:52pm, that’s cutting it close but it’s not yet 11pm so, ring ring.”

I would prefer it obviously if she could call at say 8pm to confirm that Liz Hastings is in fact registered for Rookie Girls basketball. For starters, Liz Hastings isn’t registered for anything except a season’s pass at the sleep clinic. Hanna is registered, she’s been to a practice and an email sent to Leah (me) and then to Tina (also me) confirmed that Chloe (Hanna) would be playing basketball on Saturdays. I thought we had sorted this all out.

The next person to phone me in the middle of the night and by middle of the night I mean after 10pm will receive a basketball through their window. Unless of course it’s to tell me someone has died at which time you will be forgiven and I’ll be at the dry cleaners.

An episode of Modern Family played out in our house this week and Greg/Phil has no idea why I/Claire became annoyed.

We are in the process of applying for a permit to put in a pool and have been working closely with the eager pool guy to push the paperwork forward so we can have some of the work done before winter.

We thought this would be a quick submission turnaround process but on week three, we’re no closer than we were day one at getting things approved.

Some of the questions asked have been relevant to our plans, though, eager pool guy and others have suggested they have never in the history of eagerly digging holes for pools had to be so detailed and specific on this application. I think the last rejection was because we didn’t have the exact temperature of the earth’s core the day the foundation of our house was poured. I was 1.5 degrees too high but apparently we need precision when it comes to the exact position of my future lounge chairs.

None of this application nonsense has anything to do with what irked me this week but it is pool related.

When we began talking about putting in a pool, I mentioned to Greg we should watch for some deals this fall (RIGHT NOW!) on poolside furniture. Knowing/predicting/hoping we would have a pool partially dug before Christmas and completed by spring we would be swimming by next summer and would want somewhere to sit.

I realized it wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have because it meant spending money above and beyond that which was specifically assigned to water, a deep end and steps but I knew it would make more sense to take advantage of one of the many 50% off, yearend clearance sales that have accidently popped up on my computer screen as of late.

Greg suggested we should hold off until spring as this was a big project to undertake and would be costly. I agreed, let’s wait.

But again the sales popped up and again it seemed ludicrous not to at least price things out, place a call or two and put the idea back on the woven, aluminum table that if we’re going to buy something anyway, wouldn’t it make more sense to buy it at a discount and store it for the winter.

I was met with another polite “I think we should wait,” so I dropped the issue entirely knowing I would be forever annoyed with the over-priced lounger, complaining that it would be a lot more comfortable with a price tag written in red marker with a big “our price” or “final clearance” sharpie scratched across it.

Then I received an email from Greg while at work late last week.

“Hi Sweetie, I was just talking to eager pool guy and he knows a company with a sale on pool furniture going on right now. He’s picking up a set for himself. I think we should get one too. What do you think?”

I knew the day would one day come when one of my children would take note of the graffiti scratched into bathroom stall walls or on park equipment or on the top of a turtle’s shell and yesterday seemed as good a day as any to discover such literature.

The day when we arrived 45 minutes early for our first session of basketball which is better than two hours late given we were never told a firm start time and the last two emails I received a response to addressed me as both Leah then Tina, so I wasn’t holding my breath for anyone with a basketball to show up at all.

Hanna climbed to the top of the equipment at the park where we killed some time and stopped to review something that caught her eye.

This was it. She was reading something I could only assume was written by a child and was likely riddled with grammatical and spelling mistakes but with a hilarious-to-a-child, hurtful tone. I was right.

Hanna: Jess Cherry is a nobody.

Oh dear.

Hanna: Jess Cherry’s is a nobody? Who’s Jess Cherry….Cherries? Who’s Jess Cherries?

Long pause before I began my sad, unrehearsed speech about cruel kids, bullying and why aren’t we in a gym with a freakin’ basketball in our hands so I don’t have to deal with graffiti 101 today?

Hanna: There’s more. ‘Bullshit.’ ‘Jess Cherries is a nobody. Bullshit.’ Daddy! What’s BULLSHIT?

Shhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Echoed like a gym filled with bouncing bullshit basketballs throughout the empty park.

Greg: Hanna if I had said that word when I was a kid…..

In fairness, she doesn’t know the word so she can’t get in trouble for reading it aloud. If she had stopped and giggled or whispered it, I might then have assumed she knew it was a word she’s not meant to repeat however, “What’s BULLSHIT?” rang through the two megaphones and nearly ruptured my eardrum. We were safe, this was her first introduction to the word but let’s get back to poor Jess Cherries.

We talked to the girls about how Jess must have felt reading her name scratched on top of the slide and how sad she must have been to know someone had called her a nobody. We gave Jess a moment of our time, a moment of silence while we picked stones out of our shoes and waited for the gym to open.

A sick feeling came over me wondering how I would feel if I was Jess’s Mom and had stumbled upon something so cruel written about my child.

We are all somebody. Off we went to begin our intense training but not before I climbed up to see if I could rub the nasty note off with one of my baby wipes.

“Jesus Christ is a nobody” was scratched pretty deeply into the plastic at the Catholic School yard’s park.

Bullshit.

Yesterday started like any other day.

The Tooth fairy rocked Ellie’s world leaving her a watch “WITH REAL NUMBERS!!!!” for her very first lost tooth, the baby slammed her hands on the computer chair shouting for “Elmo eo’s!” which are videos starring Elmo.

I made my oatmeal-mo, drank my steeped tea-mo and let Elmo dictate where the day would take us including how we would speakmo and then, something out of the ordinary happened.

My neighbour (and friend) called in hysterics begging for help. Having heard a car was stolen in our neighbourhood earlier this week and a second stolen car was dumped on another neighbour’s driveway I was sure this was going to be epic.

“Liz! There’s a snake in my living room!”

“Who is this?” (and did she say “snake-mo?”)

“Please get Greg and ask him to come and OH MY GOD ! OH MY GOD! OH MY FREAKIN’ GOD!” AHHHH!!! Help!”

“Um Greg? Sharon’s on the phone and is in need of some assistance.”

Off he went, eager to be the hero but very aware that a) this could be a joke and b) we just watched a program about this rare type of snake that spit venom at its prey and blinded humans with its saliva so he practiced keeping his gaze low while sprinting to the house known only as “that place we’ll never visit again.”

 Things at Sharon’s house were beyond hysterical. Sharon’s youngest daughter had stepped on the dark, striped snake coiled on their dark, hardwood floors thinking it was her older brother’s rubber toy. Her older brother also thought it was one of his toys but after closer inspection (and watching it slither away) realized it wasn’t in fact from his collection and was not running on battery power. They all screamed and quickly lost sight of the unwelcome intruder.

I’m sure they could have found the snake in time and handled things themselves but it’s tough to engage fully in an animal search when also dealing with your own soiled pants so this is one of those instances when calling a neighbour makes sense.

Through a series of leaps in the air, losing the snake under furniture, turning the hot air to A/C thinking cold air might blow him into the middle of the room they eventually found him in the long fibres of the area rug in the living room and scooped him up.

Greg sent the picture to the Conservation Authority while talking to them on the phone. After being told while the colouring was similar to a python (that’s right, a python!) it was more likely a common water snake with a rare colour pattern.)

He decided to have a little fun with Sharon.

Greg: So, you say there are likely a lot more that hatched at the same time somewhere in the house?

Conservation Authority: Sir, I didn’t say that.

Sharon: WHAT?????????

Greg: Could be poisonous?

Conservation A: No! Sir!

Yesterday struck me as bordering on impossibly scheduled but with enough chocolate almonds, a reliable adult diaper, the right timing on my steeped tea, we would get through it as a family.

The day was to play out a little like this.

Ellie (age 5)– art class in the morning.

Hanna (age 8)–cross country meet in the afternoon.

Ellie–violin lesson.

Hanna–swimming lesson.

Hanna–piano lesson.

Chloe (22 months)–draw all over your face, hands and clothes and furniture in permanent marker.

While that last one was not written into our itinerary, it did happen and it did take a long time to clean up.

Mommy (age 36)–eat body weight in chocolate almonds.

I should also add I do not work outside of the home. What do people do that DO work?

We made it to our first activity without incident. Ellie painted on her self portrait, toilet-paper canvas that had dried the way you might expect toilet paper mixed with water and glue constructed to look like a face to dry from the previous week. Perhaps this is where the baby’s inspiration was born?

We gave ourselves a big pat on the back for making it through the morning of what was to be a very busy day without any hiccups.

Then the rain came….

I spent a few spare minutes while the baby napped preparing Hanna’s favourite; homemade macaroni and cheese. Okay, it’s not her favourite, Kraft Dinner is but that’s simply not going to happen so homemade macaroni it was.

I filled a thermos with the noodles, made a blender full of fresh, fruit smoothies for the two younger girls and one to take along for Hanna who might be damp from her very first cross country run. I packed Hanna’s swimming towel, a new Blistex in case her lips had become chapped during the race, her music book, a spare bag of clothes in case she had already used the one I sent with her in the morning or if it did rain a little and she wanted to be toasty warm before and after swimming and some spare socks. Yep, I had thought of everything. Shy of a shiatsu masseuse, I’m pretty sure this kid is going to be pleased with her ultra-organized mother.

Until I arrived at the school and no less than thirty people both parents and students commented that my daughter was FREEZING and SOAKING wet from the cross country meet and this just as my “worst mother of the year” badge fell directly into a puddle.

I watched Hanna emerge shivering from the team bus wearing one of the parent’s jackets that hung down past her knees. Her lips looked blue her hair was so wet not even the curls could fight the weight of the water she was carrying around.

To the pool!

She complained about being cold and wet (noted) but I won a few points for the food prep and did question why she opted not to change into the spare clothes in her backpack (or explain to the parents who were calling child services on me that the dry bag existed) given I had already been told by one of the judgy mothers, there were NO change rooms at the school they were running at. Okay but aren’t those leisure-suit-type pants meant to simply slide over your existing outfit? Do you need full privacy for that?

I was able to ask a few questions about the run and how the rest of her day at school went. Apparently they ran 70,000 metres and then a kilometre after that. No wonder she was tired.

With two minutes to spare before swimming, she chugged her last sip of smoothie and I ran around to unbuckle the baby from her car-seat but not before a terrible feeling hit me. I forgot her bathing suit.

Buckle up kids—we’re going home.

It was probably the right thing to do given Hanna’s long day and she wanted nothing more than to soak in a sudsy, warm bath before piano and violin lessons, which is just what she did.

Chloe and Ellie begged to join her so the three of them had a pre-music soak in my tub and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Thankfully, nobody breathed in too deeply because Chloe saw fit to use this group bonding opportunity to stand and poop centre stage.

Tomorrow is another day. You can find me in the bulk food aisle with my mouth fully enveloping the chocolate almond bin.

We made a decision along with our eight year old daughter’s input to register her in basketball this fall.

In the name of not over-scheduling our kids, with swimming a must and a musical instrument as something they are agreeing to for now, we didn’t think adding a third “thing” to the mix would drain any one of us too much and it would give her a chance to play a sport also offered at school should she decide to one day play at a more competitive level.

Basketball was never a sport I knew much about, nor did I ever play, nor did I particularly enjoy, so I wasn’t sure about the sign-up. Given the ridiculous attempts at getting her in, I’ve decided I might have been better off renting a Harlem Globetrotters video while eating popcorn and laughing at the guy they pants in every performance.

My neighbour who is pro-basketball, played herself, coached in this league for years has suggested to us we sign Hanna up for basketball and our two same-aged children could play on the same team.

She dropped off the registration form and we were off.

Where do I begin with the problems on this form? For starters, there is no indication of where the practices will take place, the date the season starts or the time of day the kids will play.

I did find a website in very small, white on black reverse print that after three failed attempts to connect, realized it was no longer working.

I googled the name of the league and stumbled upon a site that had some recognizable qualities that lead me to believe it might in fact have some of the answers I was looking for and questioned why the website name didn’t have even one word that matched the former, advertised-on-the-form site.

After scrolling around and blinking away from the screen occasionally to avoid a seizure from the flashing basketball in my face, I opted to click on the “contact us” icon and email someone/anyone to get some answers.

I started with the coordinator thinking that was a safe bet. Wrong, the email bounced back.

Next, I emailed the VP of Basketballs and did receive a reply, though not from the VP of B’s, from a third party who happened to be next on my list if the earlier selection failed like the even earlier one.

The President of Air Balls directed me to make a phone call, this time to the coordinator who if you’re paying close attention was the first person I emailed but apparently did not exist in their system, but did exist in reality and she passed along a phone number.

“Hello Coordinator?”

“Hello”

“Hi, my name is Liz Hastings…” (I could sense she thought I was a telemarketer and was gearing up to cut me off and/or hang-up angrily). I am trying to register my daughter Hanna for basketball this season but I have a few questions about location, date/time. Would you be the person to talk to?”

Coordinator: Yes, you need to fill out the form and drop it off at my house with a cheque.

Me: Okay, do you know when the season starts?

Coordinator: Yes, it starts this weekend.

Me: Great and where do the kids play?

Coordinator: I’m not sure of the location.

Me: Oh, do you know what time they start?

Coordinator: No.

What exactly do you coordinate?

Me: Will you be home when I drop off the form and the cheque?

Coordinator: No, you can leave it under my front door mat.

Oh, shall I just leave the amount blank then so you can fill in say, $1 million dollars or would you rather let your neighbours standing by fill in an amount of their choosing?

Unimpressed with the coordinator, she did suggest I could call Martha. Good old Martha, finally, some answers.

I left Martha a voice message explaining that I was attempting to register my daughter Hanna for basketball and wanted to know where they would be playing and what time of day they would practice. The Coordinator was extremely helpful in telling me the start-date was “this weekend” so that was one less detail to bother anyone with.

Martha with the answers called back fairly soon after my message. Perhaps like Coordinator, she saw the unknown name and number on her caller ID and waited to retrieve the message before being roped into listening to whatever sales pitch she thought I was about to read from my prompter.

Man this basketball league is a lot more difficult to get into than I thought. Is it some sort of secret Templar thing? Maybe I should shout, “Michael Jordan!” before speaking into the phone next time.

Martha’s message was perhaps my favourite response yet.

“Hello, this message is for Leah. (Liz) Your daughter Chloe will start basketball this weekend.” (While I do happen to have a daughter Chloe, she is 22 months old and she will not in fact be starting basketball “this weekend.”) She is to meet at St. Andrew’s school (this is not the school my neighbour told me she would be going to with her daughter) and she is to bring both a light and dark jersey should we need to switch teams mid-scrimmage.”

I bet she’s on the same team as my neighbour’s daughter.

I think I’m going to like this league.

One of the stories in the news yesterday discussed the world’s largest sperm bank rejecting red-headed donors due to lack of interest.

I have read a few articles and listened to the news and heard/read the red-heads described as anywhere from “those with ginger hair” to “flame haired donors.” I guess I can appreciate why the “flame haired” donors didn’t receive quite as many requests as say those for, “silky, blonde, ringlets,” or “spun gold cascading perfectly with a wave bouncing to the rhythm of calypso drums” and I understand why if “flame” is even an option on the hair-colour box, most participants might select either “albino white” or “none of the above” as safer alternatives. As someone who gave birth to a red headed child, I felt I could perhaps douse some of the flames on this topic.

Firstly, no one could have prepared us for the two announcements made after being nine days overdue and let’s go with 78 hours of the most horrific, gruelling labour any horror movie could write. “You have a baby girl AND she’s a redhead.”

My brunette husband looked closely at my brown roots and while smiling with delight first thought, how could my wife be the only girl in her family with three brothers and I come from a family with two brothers and no sisters and together, we’ve had a daughter?

We then both giggled, “Red hair? Awesome!”

The nurse told us how rare it was to see a baby with red hair and while I wasn’t completely certain the red hair was a result of the 94 hours of intense labour or being nine days overdue, there she was, our red headed baby girl with brunette/artificial blonde highlighted parents looking on exhausted adoringly.

Our other two girls are both blonde and let’s face it, none of them look anything alike though all created by the same two parents as the DNA reports will confirm, which are tucked safely away in the locked cabinet for a future episode of Jerry Springer.

My point is, regardless of what hair colour they’re promoting this week at the sperm clinics, it really doesn’t matter what colour the donor’s hair is. If he has an Uncle who grows a red beard and the mother-to-be has an Aunt who’s a natural red-head you might be fortunate enough to have a healthy, (are we still even taking healthy into account when we’re worrying about fine-tuning details like hair colour?) red headed baby.

Apparently in Australia, they are willing to accept the red headed donors (those condemned with gingervitis) because they have a shortage of donors. Oh good, as long as we’re still talking about them as being the lesser alternative, send them over, we’re desperate and have no other options. Until some Swedish babes migrate to Australia, we’ll gladly accept your fiery red heads……conditionally…….for now.

“There are too many redheads in relation to demand,” he told Danish newspaper Ekstra Bladet.

“I do not think you choose a redhead, unless the partner – for example, the sterile male – has red hair.” (I like that they’re coupling red hair with sterility)

I guess then you’re screwed? If your husband is stuck with it, you might be forced to curse your child similarly. It’s hair! Are we really worrying about this and aren’t we becoming dangerously close to a lot more scripted, perfect looking clone people running around looking exactly alike? I thought variety was the spice of life and what’s spicier than a red head?

I would so much rather have control over things like, “prone to cold sores” (check box NO), “affinity for chocolate and red wine” (hmm, refined taste with an anti-oxidant heavy lean) (check box YES), “elite athlete,” “immune to disease,” “Menza captain,” “life expectancy—to the moon and beyond!” “ability to fly,” “super human strength,” “charismatic personality” (check, check, check).

 “Red hair” (is there a box for who cares?)

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