Sharon Del Vento
Sharon Del Vento

   Have you ever read a news-story about parents who are nasty pieces of work and said to yourself, “Huh. Some people should never have kids”?

Here is what I think is the problem: The process involved in conceiving children is altogether too pleasant. Mother Nature made it that way to ensure the perpetuation of the species, but frankly, we have too many people and could probably cut back a bit.

Given how difficult it is to raise a child well, if a single sex act were just as difficult, or took years of effort, or were not so pleasant, then it would be more likely that you would get parents who were steady people and who would give the matter of raising children the attention and care that it deserves. You often love and care for things more when you have had to work hard to get them; why would it be different with working hard to (be-)get living beings?

It is probably a good thing that I am not in charge of the universe. (Me as God: “FREE WILL? SCREW THAT!”) (I would definitely talk in ALL CAPS if I were God. None of that “still small voice” stuff.)


One of the weird things about aging is the unexpected ways in which you change shape, both in the particular and in general: the turkey wattles and double chins, the bumpy wrinkles everywhere, and the weird toenail thing where one toenail gets super-thick in the middle. Not all the way across, mind you, just in the middle. What the heck?

Why is “going pear-shaped” a modern-day euphemism for disaster? Excuse me? I am pear-shaped now myself, and I think I resent the implications there. If pears had the power of cognition, I think they would resent it too. Poor pears. There is an organization for everything these days; pear-haps I should start a Society for the Prevention of Pear-Slander. 


Some folks question the fairness of bilingual packaging in the stores, but I prefer to think of it as a mini-course in Spanish offered in very small doses. I now know that “Advertencia!” is “Warning!” and “Manténgase fuera del alcance de los niños” means “Keep out of reach of children.” Spanish feels delectable, the “r’s” rolling around on my tongue like a ball of butter cookie. Go on, repeat after me: mi corazón. Isn’t that pretty? How is this a bad thing?

As the Elizabethan publisher and editor Nicholas Ling once said, “Ignorance is voluntary misfortune.”