the revolution got me pregnant.

Gordon Wood tells me, in The Radicalism of the American Revolution (which is excellent, btw), that "in the last part of the eighteenth century, one-quarter to one-third of all brides in some areas of America (and England too) were pregnant before marriage."

How, pray tell, was this particularly juicy statistic determined? The information comes from an essay published in the Journal of Interdisciplinary History, so I assume it wasn't pulled out of thin air. I'm picturing a few haggard graduate students poring over the marriage and birth records of England and colonial America, endlessly counting the months between matrimony and arrival of progeny. Or endlessly imputing data into spreadsheets. I hope they were paid extremely well. I bet they weren't.

Fun fact, though, right? And I thought 6th graders were bad. But what do you think got those colonials preggers? Lack of birth control, raging horniness, or the revolutionary spirit? Gordon Wood thinks it's the revolutionary spirit, and I think he might be right. (Changing social mores, rebellion against paternal power, etc, etc...read the book.)

I still feel bad about the grad students, though. I wonder if they're all ABD.

fake trees and plastic people.

Traditionally, I loathe New Years. Too much expectation, never any fun. This year, though, Christmas is coming up as my least favorite holiday. Not only has my family bought a fake (fake! ahhhh!) Christmas tree, but the hoards of holiday shoppers flooding New York has made this years consumption-fest incredibly unpleasant. I know the dollar is weak, and New York is awesome, but can you please, please learn to walk faster? I kind of, like, have places to be. Kthnx.

Or maybe my lack of holiday cheer has something to do with the insipid diamond commercials that play every commercial break. Really, can they be any more saccharine? ("Show you really care...buy your wife some conflict diamonds!") My fervent Christmas wish is that Zales and Kay Jewelers annihilate each other in some freak diamond competition.

To top it all off - you thought I couldn't possibly keep whining, but think again - my cousin (who has a lot in common with Barbie) is getting married the Friday before Christmas. So in addition to presents, I had to buy a dress and shoes and a bag; I'm getting my hair cut, my eyebrows threaded, my nails done, etc, etc. I plan make all the effort worthwhile, btw, by drinking an obscene amount of alcohol at the open bar. The only blessing: I am re-gifting something for the wedding present.

I know, I sound like Scrooge. Well, bahfuckinhumbug. Dickens can bite me.

On the other hand, as much as Christmas is shaping up to suck, I'm excited about New Years. I have plans with awesome people, dinner reservations at a nice restaurant, and I even have a dress to wear (cause, you know, I just wore it to a wedding). So, in the long run, the holiday season will probably end up being just as shitty and just as fun as any other year. Three cheers for balance.

life is hard, #121

I used to spend December on my couch, watching tv and eating cheese. That was good. I enjoyed that. Now, it's December 4th, and I feel like Thanksgiving was a year ago. How can five weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas stretch on for a year? There's just so much work to do, and it's so assface cold outside, and there are so many shiny ornaments and pretty shoes everywhere. It's so tempting to take a two hour lunch, and to just keep pressing the snooze button. How can five more minutes snuggling with my pillows really make a difference, after all?

I've got news for myself: it makes a difference. It's like that month I spent listening to Elliott Smith. I told myself it didn't matter how depressing the songs were, or that he stabbed himself in the chest with a kitchen knife. That wouldn't make me want to kill myself. I was kind of wrong. And if you're looking for a less dramatic example: it's like finishing that whole carton of ice cream. You figure it doesn't actually make you fat. It's only the one time, after all. But then you realize what you just did, and that you are gross.

Either way, I can't help myself. Yes, I finished that carton of ice cream, and yes, I listened to King's Crossing so many times Elliott Smith started to make sense. And this morning, I hit the snooze button five times. That's 30 minutes of snuggling. My pillows don't need that much love, and I needed three cups of coffee this morning before I could look at the computer screen without squinting. That doesn't mean I won't be doing it again tomorrow, though. Apparently, I have no self-control.

And, so what? As with all things, I think to myself, "What would Machiavelli say?" In this case, I think he would tell me to get over myself. Hannah Arendt, on the other hand, she would take a drag on her cigarette, give me a withering glare, and say, "while it is true that freedom can only come to those whose needs have been fulfilled, it is equally true that it will escape those who are bent upon living for their desires."

So maybe I should try to get to work on time? And reconsider buying those $300 boots? Yeah? OK. Thanks, Hannah.