It’s no secret that babies can be harmed by extreme environmental contaminants, even in the womb. We’ve all heard of “crack babies” and “AIDS babies”–blameless victims of irresponsible pregnancies. Just try walking two blocks with a bun in the oven and a cigarette in hand. Ten bucks says you’ll get stopped and scolded by at least one stranger–and rightly so.
As a society, we are protective of young children. We must be. There’s nothing more precious than our future social capital.
So why are we literally poisoning our kidz?
(WARNING: The information you are about to read is alarming and disturbing. It may also change your life.)
As soon as I got on the plane in South Bend, the row in front of me started talking passionately about Notre Dame football. “Okay,” I thought, “I guess this is one of those everybody-fulfills-your-stereotypes kinda places.” Boy was I wrong.
When I walked into baggage claim, my new friend Amanda Littauer–the acting head of the women’s studies program at St. Mary’s College–gave me a big hug and invited me to go with her to a Halloween block party where her partner and her daughter (a bad ass cheetah) were already waiting. The second we showed up, I was wrangled into heading up the pumpkin painting station, where I met many a costumed baby, including a tiny, blonde Darth Vader girl that just about broke my heart with happiness. Lots of cookies, apple cider, and a haphazard but enthusiastic parade around the block later, I was just one of the neighbors.
Hi there, Gawker reader. I’m just going to update our regular readers so they’re up to speed.
On Sunday, Chris and I were profiled in the New York Post’s Page Six Magazine in a story about how even New York’s middle-class young professionals are having rent issues in today’s market.
Today, our article was snarked upon over at Gawker. Naturally, personal smears and misinformation ensued.
I’ll keep this brief, with two clarifications, and three questions, especially for you Gawker readers:
- Our income is actually $100,000 household, not individual. Also, those who actually read the article will know that it did not assert that we are poor, but that even young people who are financially stable are still encountering steep rent hikes and dodgy landlords.
- Did anyone else live in New York City in 2003, or was it just me? Back then, we were worried about a mysterious white powder called ANTHRAX showing up in our workplaces, not snorting cocaine.
Food for thought:
Originally appeared on http://www.killeryear.com
I went to college at an open, lush campus in the suburbs of Baltimore. One chilly, blustery evening I was walking against light, falling hail with a group of friends. One guy, Marcus, had his hood up and walked backwards, facing the opposite direction to the rest of us.
“Why are you walking backwards?” I asked him.
He smiled, like the answer was obvious. “Beats the hell outta walking forwards.”
Like Marcus, I seem to have walked the road to my first published novel backwards.
The other night, while on the phone with my friend J, I found myself singing the chorus of “Groove Me” by Guy. My song stylings were met with silence.
“You know that song, right?”
“No,” he replied.
“It’s a classic.”
J is five years my junior, still I have always considered us members of the same generation. He had to remember Guy’s “Groove Me.”
Hoping to jog his memory, I broke into Teddy Riley’s infamous outro, “It ain’t over. It’s not over. The party’s not over.”
I immediately felt my age.
In my very un-NYC journey, I am learning that there are some pretty fantastic towns smack dab in the middle of the U.S. and one of them happens to be Kansas City. This place has defied all of my expectations with its mint green tea mocha lattes, Spanish architecture, little, enlightening yoga studios, and awesome sculptures everywhere. Oh, and laughing all day and night beside beautiful Cristina Pippa isn’t half bad either.
I’m from Durham, North Carolina—the land of the Duke Blue Devils. I grew up loving college basketball and thinking the Cameron Crazies were the coolest things ever. I even got to go to a few Duke basketball games—my parent’s friends had season tickets and would give us the pair when they were out of town. On these occasions, my dad would alternate taking me and my sister. I went first and promptly reported back to Lizz that it “wasn’t that fun” and was “kind of boring” so that the next time the chance arose, she would let me be “the nice sister” and go in her place. (The cruelest irony of this story is that my sister went on to go to Duke and, yes, she camped out for a full week to get tickets to games. I was a mean older sister.)
I’m getting away from the point. At home in North Carolina several years ago, I noticed a guy with a blue devil tattoo on his arm. It was small—tasteful if you will. I liked it and it never even occurred to me that it was a little extreme to get a sports tattoo. Until the other day when I saw a photo online of a guy with the biggest Boston Red Sox tattoo ever.
Filed under General, Sports