Simcha Fisher has little kidlets and morning sickness, plus a broken fluorescent light bulb… and Al Gore needs to pay.
Then the CFL bulbs came out, and I discovered that I am the snob to end all snobs . . . when it comes to light. Fluorescent lighting makes me feel like I’m dead, and am just haunting whatever room I happen to be in. It makes me feel like the top of my head has been replaced with something clammy and toxic. It makes me feel like filling up my 15-passenger van with overpriced gas and barreling nonstop to Al Gore’s house and smacking his silly, fat face around until he admits that his main goal is and always has been to make each and every day for the entire human race a little less bearable.
MY KIDS: Ooh, a lamp! Let’s kick it until it’s dead!
ME: (lying on the couch dying with morning sickness): . . .I didn’t hear anything. . . [promptly manages to actually forget about everything]
LAMP: I guess I’ll just lie here and bleed poison all over your house, you dirty breeders.
KIDS: Yay, let’s throw stuff around!
HUSBAND: Hi, I’m home! Hey, there’s broken glass all over the room. There’s mercury mixed in with the six bags of winter clothes you were sorting, and it’s all over the portacrib. Okay, well, you lie there, I’ll take care of it.
So, thanks, Al Gore. Thanks for ruining my marriage. When my baby is born with mercury poisoning, we‘ll be sure to name one of its heads after you. Because of you and your fearless activism, I’ve decided to replace all the light fixtures in the house with little brass lamps that burn polar bear blubber; and for heat, I’m going to get one of those generators that’s powered by powerful surges of indignation.
I expect the coming winter to be toasty warm.
I hope it turned out okay.