Womb With a View Offers Unprecedented Accommodations

By guest writer, Baby X
Editors Note – As the search for a new junior writer/editor winds down, I’ve had a chance to interview the front-running candidate. What follows is his or her* first article for our publication, an introductory sampling, if you will. Please enjoy. — Brendan

I’ve never been anywhere like this before. As far as places to stay, the accommodation here is really good, though it’s a tough place to get into. I consider myself lucky because I’ve got the womb reserved through March/April.

So what do you look for when you’re deciding how good a place is?

 

  • Comfy. Oh my yes. It’s always tropically warm (womb temperature) and there’s plenty of space to stretch out.
  • Security. No one gets in or out of this place. And, with the way it’s constructed I doubt I’d even feel an earthquake.
  • Location, location, location. It’s conveniently located within walking distance of, get this, everything I have ever known. Try saying that, Mr. Ramada.
  • Price. Best I can tell it’s free. I was never asked for a credit card. I’ve never even signed a womb slip, nothing. I think the tab is being picked up on this one. Maybe because I’m an aspiring journalist, I’m not sure.
  • Room Service. Everything I’ve ever had or wanted is on the menu and immediately available. How is it when you’re somewhere? You read a menu, make a call and then wait an hour for something lukewarm to be delivered by some organ grinder monkey who expects a tip. Consider this the endless cruise buffet, but without all the hassle of having to ask for or chew your own food. It’s just there, in your body, done. Like a Big Mac I.V. (I put the dots there so you’d know I didn’t mean “4.”)

 

So when I say unprecedented, I really mean it. This place is like no other I have ever seen. This is as first place as any first place could ever be. It’s new, it’s good, and it’s nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I would recommend everyone try being within the womb at least once in their lives… I wonder how many actually do?

* Seriously though, what’s the deal with this “his or her” business? I know we don’t wish to appear to discriminate, but let’s be honest with ourselves here, I think we know who we’re going with. Can’t we just ask more personal questions like gender or name? It’s going to make getting back in contact difficult… although, if I don’t know who to make it out to, I guess I can’t write a paycheck, can I?

So now let’s talk about junior writer/editor. Baby X is a real deal, folks. There’s another staff member on the way. This isn’t just a pygmy of my imagination. They won’t give me a name or gender, but “he, she or it” is en route. What should I do? How should I address this? Do you guys even have any feedback for me? I would love to hear it if you do, and I mean that sincerely.

 

 

Womb With a View Offers Unprecedented Accommodations

By guest writer, Baby X Editors Note – As the search for a new junior writer/editor winds down, Ive had a chance to interview the front-running candidate. What follows is his or her* first article for our publication, an introductory sampling, if you will. Please enjoy. — Brendan

Go ahead and look back through the previous seven pieces and you’ll see for yourself that I’m wearing the same shirt. It’s grey, it’s patterned, and it’s handsome. So why is this so?

Let’s examine all the possibilities. You and me together, okay? Okay.

 

  • One very obscure and remote possibility is that I wore the one outfit during a very long photo shoot. In essence, a week’s worth of pictures were taken all at once when I had no opportunity to hit wardrobe. This is pretty unlikely because, as you know, I’m a pro. Even if the news actually happened all at once, rather than once a day as it’s administered, wouldn’t my people be smart enough to plan around that? Change the outfits out a bit? This theory does not test well.
  • Perhaps I have not changed my outfit this entire week. It could be that the wardrobe lady was on vacation or that I was just unwilling to be man enough to change. Maybe I wasn’t quite done with it yet. Maybe because I had heard that clothes get stinky after a few days and wanted to see for myself. Maybe just because I’d never worn a shirt for a week and wanted the experience. It could be that this is my own filthy fashion statement. Nasty, for sure, but worth a solid ponder.
  • Slight of hand. It could be that these are in fact all very different shirts: different colors, different fabrics, different everything. They only appear identical due to fantastic trickery. This theory, while plausible in many ways, is sadly implausible on the whole. Nay, beyond implausible, outright dumb.
  • It could be that this is my favorite shirt, that I insist on wearing it whenever it is clean and that laundry was done every day this week. I mean, it’s not my favorite shirt but how do you know that? I could be leading you on, being sneaky, or even telling a tale of medium height. This possibility still leaves too many variables out of line.
  • Perhaps I’m all Einsteiny and have seven identical matching outfits, one for each day. That way I don’t need to dedicate any mental energy to the process of dressing myself. Of course, I don’t dress myself, so I actually dedicate neither mental nor physical energy to the task.
  • It might be my new trademark. Yes, that’s possible. What if I’m wanting to establish myself as more of a brand, like that infernally elusive Waldo fellow. This could be especially true if I have an endorsement deal. Big bucks for wearing a brand name don’t you know… of course, this isn’t a branded shirt per se and, if I’m going to brand myself, I could do far better than this goofy thing.
  • Of course, I could have just done it on purpose to see if you’d notice, make you wonder what’s going on. Did you think of that? Huh? Huh? Did you?

 

So what’s the real answer? That’s the thing, no one knows. This is a mystery bound to go down in the history books as one of the great unsolvables, right up there with who built the pyramids, who moved them from Atlantis to Egypt, and where did I leave my keys? Sadly, I must leave you to ponder.

 

Will You Still Need Me, Will You Still Feed Me?

When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now, will you still be sending me a Valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine? If I’d been out ’till quarter to three, would you lock the door? Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?

You’ll be older, too. And if  you say the word, I could stay with you.

I could be handy, mending a fuse, when your lights have gone. You can knit a sweater by the fireside, Sunday mornings go for a ride. Doing the garden, digging the weeds, who could ask for more? Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?

Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight if it’s not to dear. We shall scrimp and save. Grandchildren on your knee, Vera, Chuck, and Dave.

Send me a postcard, drop me a line stating point of view. Indicate precisely what you mean to say, your sincerely wasting away. Give me your answer, fill in a form, mine forever more. Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?

On a less melodious note, the question still stands. Having a bizarre and comical insite to what I may look like a million years from now makes me think. I’ve been told more than anything how cute I am. That will fade, and when it does, will I have the tools in my chest to still be loveable?

People my age really dream about being older a lot, but having a picture of what older looks like… I just don’t know any more. You know?

Just a clearer shot, without the dentures of course. Hey, do people actually live to the age of sixty-four? Seems like an awfully long time to me.

 

The Legend of Cinderello

Once upon a time there was a tiny young man named Brendarello. His family was bitterly jealous of his charm and dashing good looks. He was forced into servitude in his own home yet he remained ever gentle and kind. With every dawn he was hopeful his dreams would someday come true.

One day the fair princess of the land invited all the eligible young men to the most lavish ball the town had ever yet seen. Brendarello asked if he was invited too on account of his unrivaled infantile eligibility. Wicked half brother and dad both wanted to horde the precious ladies of the ball for their own, but fair Brendarello knew he was allowed to attend. He would have his chance to meet Princess Charmingrella and woo her with his pungent suave-ioso. That is of course if he finished his chores.

Needless to say, it didn’t happen. For young Brendarello is not about doing chores and keeping things tidy. He’s about bottles, television and making an unprecedented mess. When the night of the ball came, the chores hadn’t even been touched, the house was a disaster, and what little he knew of the stables hadn’t been cleaned a lick.

Sadly, as his dad and brother were fancified to the nines and off to the ball, Brendarello was stuck home to tend the goldfish and clean out the refrigerator. Just when hope neared the gates of abandon, his fairy god-monkey appeared on the window sill. “Brendarello, why aren’t you at the ball?”

“Well here’s the deal, freaky, kooky, god-monkey dude,” replied the young scrubster, “got no fancy clothes, got no fancy carriage, kind of tired, not really sure I want to meet that Princess anyhow. Who knows, maybe she’s not really all that.”

The fairy god-monkey contemplated his predictable-ment and with a wild flick of his magic wand he created a fantastic whirl of wind and noise. Glitter sparkled from all around. Mr. God-Monkey unwittingly smacked a vase, two collectible Franklin Mint plates and a mostly-full urn all of which to the floor shattered upon the floor.

When the chaos subsided the youngster was no longer in his tattered rags of moppery but a fine tweed suit and fashionable bowler hat. His tube socks had been transformed into Blues Clues slippers, and his leftover jack-o-lantern into a fine horseless carriage. “Now you can go to the ball, young friend,” said the articulate maqack.

“The hour is late,” said the little B, “and I still have to brush my teeth. Would it be too much to ask for you to bring her here instead? Besides, at midnight my carriage is going to turn back into pumpkin mush, you know how soft pumpkins get after October, and we’re well into November.”

Being a fair fairy-god monkey, he understood Brendarello’s wishes and the half-life of gourds. Again he whipped his magic wand wildly about click-clicking on the ceiling fan and knocking over the table lamp. Suddenly his unprecedented spellcasting ended as he knocked himself squarely in the head. Within moments a knock fell upon the door. There in glimmering silk, lace, and vinyl stood the most elegant figure he’d ever seen.

“You are the fairest lad in the land, young Brendarello. I wish to have a foxtrot while the night is still young,” spoke the angelic maiden.

“Yeah, here’s the thing,” replied Brendarello, “It’s really great that you could come all the way out here. And I really do like dancing, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I’ve got all this neat stuff here and I think I’m just going to chill with the monkey until midnight when it all goes away.”

Clearly confused, she asked, “Don’t you wish to be in the company of a Princess?”

Brendarello answered, “You’re really sweet and I’m sure you’re a really nice girl. It’s just that I don’t really know you that well and the place is kind of a mess, also you aren’t so much my type, not that I have a type, but I don’t think you’re it. I’m sure there’s someone out there for you, really I mean that. It’s just that I really don’t see it working out between us, you know? We can still be friends and stuff, I just don’t want to create any weirdness, you know, like if we ever broke up.”

Stunned, the young lady turned and walked back into the night. Her hopes unquestionably dashed on the rocky shores of infatuation. Brendarello, mean time, had tea and cookies with his monkey, and there was happiness throughout the land.

 

Toy Immersion Program; Feet, Tummy, Hands-On

If you’re looking to learn something new full immersion programs are the way to go. Even if it’s something complicated like playing with toys there’s just no substitute for fully dipping yourself into the material.

When I wanted to learn to eat, I committed to really wrapping my head around it, and that worked out well for me. As a man on the grow, I feel it’s important to know how to play with toys. Very few of them come with a manual, so I decided to pursue tutelage.

Really, credit for the idea goes out to my brother, who was all aggravated by me playing with “his” toys. I guess I was doing it all wrong, so he went ahead and stuffed me in the toybox. Not a bad deal for me, really. I like toys, I like small and confining spaces. What’s not to like? He even closed the lid on me, so I had a pretty good head start.

A big thing to keep in mind about immersion programs is that they can make you uncomfortable while you’re learning. And talk about uncomfortable, between the Duplo block up my pantleg and the Tonka truck trying to sneak down into my diaper, I’ll tell you that there’s some real awkwardness in a learning curve this steep. “Hands-on” learning is important too. It was nice I had the luxury to not just get my hands on the toys, but really all my limbs and trunky parts too. I’m pretty sure that sped my education along.

Immersion is a very successful tool even in language courses. Like when you want to learn a foreign language so they dump you off in some strange place where they don’t speak your language, like Tijuana or Vancouver, Canada. Here you’re expected to learn out of sheer survival.

Apparently my tuition check bounced. Because when mom came in she took me out of the toybox. I guess they can’t just bill you after you learn the stuff. Kind of hard to repossess knowledge

 

Crib vs. Bassinet

Some people suggest there are phases of slumber-furni that all people go through as they age. This is completely silly as anyone may choose to sleep anywhere they like at any age.

The progression that experts suggest goes like this: bassinet to crib to racecar to bed to waterbed to couch to adjustamatic to gurney. There’s so much more to the process and so many choices one has to make along the way.

One very important choice early in life is, should I go with the bassinet or the crib? When should I switch over from using the bassinet to the crib? Do I have to switch over? The answer is very clear; maybe.

Bassinets are good, very comforting, or at least they can be. The defect I’ve found in many of these, however, is that they shrink. That’s just not acceptable no matter how comforting. It’s like those ridiculous angora sweaters, they’re comfy but one good run in the dryer and I can’t even jam the thing onto my smallest Elmo. Who buys these things?

Cribs are far more spacious. Lots of room to stretch out, roll around and point the wrong way. Very athletic for the grabbing and bouncing, which is a great way to wake up. The bars give me a bit of a bad-boy complex though and I’m not really sure how well I’m going to deal with that long term.

I’ll just lump all the beds into one to review them. No sense splitting hairs. Space is the big advantage with beds. They are so big you can easily throw a ten little monkey party on one, provided no adult monkeys RSVP. You can take a good eight crawlies in any direction before reaching the precipice. That’s where the danger lies, right there over the unguarded edge. I’m not afraid of falling any distance, it’s that last fraction of an inch I don’t care for, the abrupt stop at the end of the ride. Word of caution on beds: Don’t use them.

Adjustimatics are impossible to climb into, gurneys are for the soon-to-pass, whatever that means. So those are both out as well.

In terms of picking a time to switch from bassinet to crib, my assessment is a decisive: kinda-whenever. It is probably smart to go cribby once the bassinet outshrinks you. As for switching to beds, well, they are dangerous and can lead to some real nasty spills, so I’d say don’t even bother unless you are so absurdly huge that you couldn’t fit in a crib. But, if that’s the case, I’d say you may want to seek some serious medical attention. As for the gurney, well, put it off just as long as you can. It’s nothing but bad news.

Golden Era Is Upon Us

Uncle Jeremy is the wisest man I’ve ever met, hands down or no hands at all. Jeremy Boland to those of you who aren’t his artificial nephew by vague association. When he was still a teen he had the presence of mind to observe that the golden era really is from today on out. Upon consideration, I concur.

We all wonder what the future will be like, with flying cars, 20-foot televisions and self-changing diapers. At the same time we fail to appreciate how far science and technology have come. We have VCRs, microwave ovens, penicillin and Pop Rocks candy. The future will most likely grow brighter, but we’ll be there together too.

Then we romanticize about the past with times of nobility, artistic discovery and the excitement of innocence coming unraveled. A lot of people wished they lived back then, in those times of romance and mystery, but isn’t it really far better now? As Uncle Jeremy pointed out, “If you can read this, you’re living in the best times and means that have ever been.”

As the son of more or less poor people, I still have ample food and shelter, plus clothes and more toys than I can play with. I can go to the hospital when I’m sick and get medicine to make me better. And, this medicine is the best this world has ever known! If you don’t like the system we have, then next time go for the leeches and blood-lettings.

If you want your renaissance period or revolutionary times, I say go back to those rats, candles, freezing cold, and food-poisoning deaths that are blamed on ghosts. Go back to a time without dental hygiene, with anthrax, bubonicism, oppression and ignorance. I’ll be here all comfy in the Age of Light, of times when knowledge is always a google away. I like living in times when it’s okay for both mom and dad to love me, in times where survival is closer to guaranteed than ever before.

Take this as my rare moment of honesty when I’ll admit I’m far from qualified to give you advice. If I could tell you just one thing that you’d take with you though, I’d say to appreciate the moments God has given you. Not just that you have moments, but which moments you have, these ones. This is your life and it’s happening right now. It’s the only one you’ve got, and it’s the best one that’s ever been offered, so do what you can to say your thanks and make the most of it.

Facts About Pre-Sleep Mood Disorder

Im afflicted, I dont know how else to put it. I have this problem where I get really grouchy and ornery. It builds and builds until finally it becomes too much and it forces me to fall asleep.

Can we spend less time documenting my life and more time living it? What are we at now, like a hundred thousand pictures or something? Where will the madness end? I’ve spoken before of my problems with the paparazzi and this is not much different.

Here’s a thought, how about this: since I’m the editor and all, why don’t I get editorial control over which pictures we use? Makes sense to me. I mean, after all, I am in charge around here, right? There’s no ghostwriter, there’s no ghost editor. All these ghosts you’d think I was a meddling kid in the Scooby Doo fashion, but it just isn’t so (or so proclaims whomever is writing this.)

New plan, I’m going to start posting pictures of you people. That’s right. Pictures of you. Simpler still, how about I expose you people for who you really are. Dads shifting and changing facial hair, mom who doesn’t really have eyes in the back of her head. That’s right, I checked. None there. How about I expose my brother for his height or good looks? Getting personal now, isn’t it?

Let’s bear these things in mind in the future when it comes time to discard or retain a photo. How about that, huh?

Also, none of these pictures need to be saved for future generations either.

Morning Pick-Me-Up; Purple Tea

For some people it’s coffee, tobacco or Good Morning America. I’ve got my own awakening vice, and it’s purple T, upper case T to be specific.

I’m often asked how I maintain my youthful looks and health. I wish I could say it’s simply good genes, but let’s face it, folks, I look like a cross between my mom and my dad, if that tells you anything. No, there’s more to my secret than good fortune. It’s also a matter of what I put in my hungry little gobble port.

There isn’t a whole lot of trick to it, really. I pretty much just grab the T, put it in my mouth and give it a good chew. It’s like valarian root in that regard, only without the pungency. Some mornings, like the one pictured here, I went out on the back porch and hung out with my administrative assistant. He gives me the daily stats on the paper, gets me up to speed on this and that, and I enjoy my T.

Man… where to go with this article from here, huh? Maybe I’ll just talk about myself a little bit. Um, so I’m Brendan. I’m a Capricorn. I like napping, music, noisy toys, and I think cats are pretty.

So um, how about this weather, huh?

Anybody know any good jokes that are age appropriate

Now you know the secret, and here you can just see the joy. I can’t recommend it with enough passion, but I sure can try.

 

Where It’s At; Older Women

I don’t consider myself a child anymore, so this review is to help all you men out there learn from my hard earned wisdom. You too can experience the greatest thing God has given us; older women.

I’ve been around town a goodly enough deal myself to consider my experience thorough. I’ve met old people, young people, even babies. One thing I can tell you without hesitation is this: older women know what’s what.

I’ve always heard that younger women are where it’s at, and I just couldn’t disagree more strongly. Perhaps they are impressionable and perhaps they are cute, but aren’t all kids cute at that age? The fact of the matter is that the older ladies have stuff to offer you just can’t find from the competition.

In my experience, younger women simply never have jobs, money, or a whole lot to talk about. Without fail, the older girls I’ve met have been more interesting, more articulate, and um, how to say this properly, more Amazonian? Do the math for yourself, but I’m telling you it’s going to pencil out for you every time, the way it has for me.

These photos are from a really great day in my life, as I think you can tell. I’m hanging out, doing whatever it is I actually do all day, when all of the sudden, what have he here? Hello mama, we got company. These fine folks are relatives of friends of dads, or something like that. Not family, so it’s flirty birdy time. Just a treat and a half for me. My space invaders are charming, witty, wise and beautiful.

One problem I did have this particular day was that both girls came to visit at the same time. That’s sticky, isn’t it? Hardly know how to channel my flirtational energies when confronted by such a problem, but since I didn’t really see “it” going anywhere, I just had a good time. Rolled with the flow. Nothing wrong with flirting, right? (Just say “right,” you don’t actually have to agree with me.)

Also from my experience, please note that it’s hard to be totally cool with the ladies when everyone’s wearing pants and I’ve only got on a diaper. Diapers are inherently uncool, for those of you who aren’t in the know, but I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it. I didn’t have any time to plan ahead and I was a bit overheated, so there you go. There just wasn’t any need to advertise that I was wearing it. It’s not like I’m in a Speedo advertisement or anything. Of course the fact that I’d lost a sock didn’t help either, but I wasn’t aware of that until the photo proofs came back. That’s embarrassing a bit. I still laid on the charm as thick as I was able, and judging by the smiles and coos I think my work was headed in the right direction.

In dealing with older women, it’s imperative to remain cool. Even if you really think they’re the cat’s meow, you have to maintain your cucumber-like demeanor. By that I mean a refrigerated cucumber not one kept at room temperature. For instance, in this picture, you would never know it by looking, but I am actually checking out Natalia. Do you think she knows I was looking at her? I doubt it. I was trying to be very subtle with it, even though subtlety is not a quality I possess.

So if there should arise any doubt in your mind, you now have fresh new ammo with which to approach your battle. If you are in the unlikely situation where you must choose at whom to direct your smiles and attention, remember my advice. Let me be the nagging voice that follows you around hounding the virtures of older women. In the end, it’s for the best. This much I can assure you. Besides, I heard dad on the phone giving advice to a friend of his. I heard him say, “be careful, girls are nothing but trouble.” So there you go.

Okay, article’s over folks, you can leave me to my devices now. If you don’t mind, I’ve got a bit of work to do here.