Outside the Baby Bubble

The great blue/gold dress debate

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As heated as the political arena has become, this isn’t the only time our nation was divided. Not too long ago, there was the Great Blue/Gold Dress Debate of 2015. If you’ll recall, the Internet blew up that winter because half the world saw the dress as blue, and the other half saw it as gold.

It took two years for scientists to explain how people could interpret the same color differently. It all depends on how the brain perceives color wavelength. The lighting under which the picture was taken, the angle at which the viewer is looking, the viewer’s environment, and even a person’s viewing history are all factors. In the end, we had a new understanding of how every unique brain interprets colors in different ways.

Some of you already know where I’m going with this.

May I present to you my Top 20 Things We Did NOT Hear During the Great Blue/ Gold Dress Debate and counting (because there is way too much material out there to keep it to 10):

*Disclaimer: I have heard these sentiments from both sides. I am an equal opportunity parodist.*

1. “Wake up, you f*cking idiot! Anyone can see that it’s blue!”

2. “Look…it’s blue. I’ve known my colors since pre-K. I wouldn’t say it was blue unless I knew what I was talking about.”

3. “I’m just checking…you don’t see gold…do you? I’d hate to think you were one of ‘those people.’”

4. “If you think this dress is gold, you’re a bad person.”

5. “You’re not looking at the facts. Your brain is interpreting the photo as more shadowy and compensating for the darker blue tinting, thereby perceiving the blue part as white and the black part as gold. If you can’t see that, you’re in denial.”

6. “Well…I just spring cleaned the gold-dressers from my friends list. If you see gold and I missed you, please delete me right now.”

7. “You know, Hitler thought that dress was gold. Just sayin’.”

8. “IT’S BLUE IT’S BLUE IT’S BLUE I CAN’T HEAR YOU lalalalalalala…”

9. “Oh yeah? I can prove that it’s blue. It’s all right here in www.GoldDressesSuck.com and www.GoldIsTheAntichrist.net. Look it up!”

10. “Can’t you just try to see blue? Look…if you stare hard enough at these stripes, you’ll see an indigo hue. You’ll be cured!”

11. “Well, the fact that you see gold is disappointing, to say the least. I thought you were raised better than that.”

12. “Did you hear about Dave? The Gold Dressers got to him. He’s brainwashed. Don’t try to reason with him–he’s too far gone.”

13. “You didn’t hear this from me–but I showed Judy the dress, and she confessed that she saw gold. And she seemed like such a normal person.”

14. “What color do you see? Gold? Can you look one more time? Please sit down. This is an intervention.”

15. “You know what? I don’t have time for your silly little gold dress narratives. You’re living in a fantasy world. We’re done here.”

16. “Well, we lost another one. One of my smartest friends has gone over to the side of the Gold Dresses. Has the world gone mad? We’re doomed!”

17. “You know, the gold dresses were manufactured by kittens in a Chinese sweatshop. But hey, you’ve gotta vote your conscience.”

18. “You wanna tell me one more time what color you see? Gold? What if I hold your face up to it like this? Huh? Still seein’ gold, ya little gold-diggin’ blue-denier?”

19. “I won’t rest until you stop lying about this whole gold thing. I will bring you to the land of the blue-seers. It’s my patriotic duty.”

20. “Well, that settles it. Snopes just said blue. Don’t you feel foolish?”

To the contrary, when a person who saw a blue dress collided with a person who saw gold, they were fascinated with each other’s differences. They tried to understand it. They agreed to disagree. They stayed friends. They moved on.

Perhaps it would have been easier to understand each other had they seen the same color. Conversation about that dress would have been effortless. But it sure as hell wouldn’t have been as interesting.

Isn’t it funny how…

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We state facts; they spread propaganda.

We are woke and enlightened; they are blind.

We are patriotic; they embrace dangerous ideals.

We have minds of our own; they are brainwashed.

We are peaceful protesters; they are violent rioters.

We speak logic and reason; they are raving, radical extremists.

We are educated and intelligent; they are…not.

We rely on fair, legitimate sources; their news is fake.

We vote for noble public servants; they vote for corrupt politicians.

Our side will save the country; their side will end it.

What’s that? You don’t know which side I’m referring to?

It doesn’t matter. This post speaks for both.

Wedding speech

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As thumbing through pictures of my little sister made me a bit nostalgic, I’m remembering that yesterday was her fifth wedding anniversary. No one has a video of the speech I delivered, so I thought I’d share it here. I am beyond proud of my sister, who was wise enough to get everything right. ❤

August 22, 2015

Parents, want to freak out your teenagers? Wait’ll they think they’re cooler than John and George resurrected at a Beatles reunion tour, then tell them you’re going to have another baby.

I was fifteen when my parents dropped that little bomb. At first I thought they were kidding. After all, these were the same practical jokers who kept insisting that I couldn’t get my license until I proved my responsibility.

Next came the bewilderment. After all, how was it scientifically possible for a thirty-seven-year-old woman to reproduce?

As the months ticked on and my mom got bigger and rounder, I started to accept that I would lose my reign as baby of the family. Besides, I’d always wanted a little brother.

On August 22, 1988, exactly twenty-seven years ago today, my parents announced it was time to go to the hospital. And for twenty grueling hours, while my mom was getting waited on hand and foot, nurses feeding her grapes and morphine cocktails–whatever it was I imagined ladies did in the delivery room—I was stuck in the waiting room watching a Growing Pains marathon, a button reading “I’m the big kid now” firmly affixed to my shirt.

When my dad finally called me into the delivery room—they say a newborn can see only eight inches in front of them, but I don’t believe it. Because when I laid eyes on Chelsea for the very first time—and let me tell you, she looks a hell of a lot better today than she did at that moment—we locked gazes–and I swear I heard her say, “OK, give it to me straight. What am I in for?”

Over the years, I came to enjoy having a little sister. The best part was the outings, where together we’d count the old ladies who shook their heads and grumbled about unwed teenage moms. I taught her how to put on makeup, the lyrical wisdom of Kurt Cobain, how to properly squish a cat’s paw (Mr. Beast has yet to thank me for that), and with the help of Cindy, I broke in and thoroughly exhausted our parents (and by the way, you have us to thank for getting your license at sixteen instead of seventeen years, nine months and six days).

My favorite full-circle moment came when I was in the delivery room at thirty-seven years old giving birth to my third child (for those of you who haven’t figured it out, moms have a special deal worked out with karma), and who there waiting on me hand and foot, feeding me grapes and morphine cocktails–but Chelsea. Since then, she has come to be known as “Auntie Che Che” to six lucky nieces and nephews, all of whom would agree she takes her auntie role very seriously.

Of all the gifts my little sister has brought to my life, the greatest one is this: Particularly on those days that I’m twenty minutes late for an appointment and have yet to strap all three kids in the backseat, and one of them is whining because the other’s arm is on her armrest, and yet another is crying because I can’t take the time to strap Blankie Bunny into the car seat—I pause for a moment. And I remember how one minute my baby sister was born, and the next minute, faster than my Aquanet lost its grip, she transformed into someone way cooler, smarter, braver and with way more fashion sense than I could every dream of having. And I remind myself that the next time I blink, I’ll find myself searching for the words on my own children’s wedding days.

And so, to Chelsea I would like to say, thank you for the dress rehearsal. Thank you for being my baby sister. And thank you for finally giving me the little brother I’ve always wanted.

Congratulations Chelsea and Justin!

Snoopgate

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I’m not one to hold a grudge. Politically speaking, I can usually work my way past any scandal.

There was the whole White House intern thing, which to me was no more than a speed bump. Hilary’s email ordeal hit a nerve, but eventually, I put it behind me. Had I been old enough to be cognizant of current events during Watergate, I’m sure it would’ve rolled off my back like a tube of wiretapped Chapstick.

But there’s one scandal from February of last year that I just can’t seem to shake.

Kamala, what’s the deal with the whole Tupac/Snoop thing?

In case you’re too busy or smart to keep up with the slashing and burning of the media, Sen. Kamala Harris, while pushing her agenda for legal marijuana in California, found herself under scrutiny when she claimed to have smoked a joint in college while listening to Snoop Dogg and Tupac Shakur–even though the West Coast rappers didn’t come out until years after her graduation.

A fact check on LeadStories.com. defends that she didn’t specifically say during the interview that she listened to their music while in college. Still, this particular skeleton in her closet reeks. You can mess with homeland security, family values and election integrity. But a full year and a half later, Tupac/Snoopgate leaves a bad aftertaste.

I’m trying to overcome it, because I want to like Kamala. I admire any woman brave enough to smash through the glass ceiling headfirst with no helmet.

First we have to see the irony here. As most politicians have tried to conceal or play down their drug use back in their day, Kamala seems to be playing hers up. There was one thing she made perfectly clear: she did inhale. But I’m not sure I’m taking her word for it.

Bear with me for a moment while I take you back to 1986, the same year Kamala graduated from Howard University. I was an eighth-grader at Vogel Junior High School in Torrington, Connecticut. The time of day that I looked forward to most was dismissal, but not because I disliked school. It was because that was when the buses full of Torrington High School students would pull up like a motorcade to pick up us seventh and eighth-graders. In the back of one particular bus, en route to Highland Avenue, was Billy Rinaldi, whose black curls, smile and wave from his window would make me choke on my own heartbeat.

There were no two kids more wrong for each other than Billy and me. He was from what my friends and I affectionately coined the “burnout crowd.” I rolled with the honors kids. Billy wore a jean jacket with an Iron Maiden patch ironed on the back. I wore cat shoes with whiskers jutting from their toes. Billy attended keg parties at a clearing in the woods which his friends dubbed “The Fort.” I hung out in my friends’ living rooms binge-eating Doritos and watching The Breakfast Club. Billy was dangerous. I was hooked.

Because we were so different, and because I couldn’t risk losing his interest, the last thing I could be was myself. I could never admit to him that I had no idea what beer tasted like or that I’d never attended (or been invited to, no less) a keg party. I pretended to like his death-metal thrash bands, when in actuality, they made the whiskers on my cat shoes recoil.

Every time the phone rang after I got home from school, I had a whole set-up on the ready. There was an Iron Maiden tape that I copied (I don’t recall where I got a hold of the original), and I pointed my stereo system toward my phone, whose cord wasn’t long enough to reach the speaker. Every time the phone rang, I cut off Bon Jovi and hit the play button on Bruce Dickinson (whose historical references and powerhouse vocals I now appreciate), then casually answered. Of course, seeing how there was no caller ID, everyone got a dose of it, from my grandmother to my parents’ co-workers to Dr. McKenna’s office calling to confirm an appointment.

But anyway, back to Kamala. I have a feeling what really happened was that she was nursing an O’Doul’s hangover with a glass of tomato juice and a good book while lip syncing Whitney Houston into a hairbrush. And suddenly, she’s relatable.

And so after an agonizing eighteen months, I’m moving on. It’s time for the country to heal. Kamala, you’ve got one free pass, along with some parting words of advice.

Touch one hair on Jon Bon Jovi’s head, and it’s over.