Monthly Archives: February 2013

What’s In A Name?

I have a weird name.  


Nary a keychain, mug, or shirt has been emblazoned with it. Never was it uttered from the fixed smiling lips of that freaky bee on “Romper Room” (you youngens may have to Google that one), and always, ALWAYS mispronounced during class attendance. Over the years, I have learned to live with, and embrace this assigned identity but have often wondered, did my mother know when she chose this funky, five letter word FOR me, just how much a PART OF ME it would become?  Do any of us know or think about this when we choose the names of our own children?

Some weird ass shit goin’ on here, and yet, I felt shunned….

Pregnancy, the very beginning of your journey into motherhood, is like a carnival dunk tank.  It seems sometimes as though there is a line of dickheads just waiting for their turn to take pop shots at you. Self-righteous motherfuckers come out of the woodwork, chucking hardballs of judgement your way in hopes you’ll take that icy plunge into the waters of prenatal insecurity. 

And that’s just the start.

Noooooo! Bastards.

More loaded than Lindsey Lohan behind the wheel,  it’s one of the most popular and baited inquires you’ll encounter during the baby growing process: 

“So, have you thought of a name yet…?”

You know where this is going, and although you’ve tossed a gajillion names around in your head, you’re not so sure you want to toss them around to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that asks. From the spelling, to the meaning, to the pronunciation, a half rotten carcass in a cage of starving vultures would probably get picked apart less then any name you might divulge to these assholes. You’re NOT about to press the restart button on this topic just because some jackass expresses their disdain…

…or are you?

Parenting is a fucked up dichotomy.  You want advice, but you don’t.  You’re proud of your choices but are always somewhat insecure.  You’re confident in doing what’s best for your kid, but constantly second guess what exactly that is.  Naming your child is no exception.  It’s one of the more deceptively monumental decisions you’ll make as a parent because, for the most part, it’s something that will stay with your child forever.

So there you are. Thumbing through endless volumes of baby name books, you go around and around asking yourself the same gamut of paranoid questions for each possible contender.

“Does it flow with the last name?”

“Is it too many syllables?”

“Does it have a douchy nickname?”

“Is it too common?”

“Is it too….weird?”

“Can it be spelled a different way?”

“How the fuck is it supposed to be spelled?”

There’s always that *forsaken* name too.  The one that, if it hadn’t belonged to that fucking bitch in high-school, you might actually like. Damn name ruining jerks, cutting the short list down from 20,000 to 19,995…


Can someone tell me what the heck a “New Age” name is?!

As I said earlier, I have a weird name.  Maybe it’s made me more aware of the impact that a single word can have on a child and therefore, has tempered my fantastical dreams of choosing a stupid, celebrity-type name that resembles more a piece of furniture, or a made-up color than an actual human being. Maybe having a weird name has strengthened my OWN sense of self. Maybe it doesn’t really matter because frankly, there’s a point in everyone’s life when they despise their own name no matter what the fuck it is.  

How important is a name after all…?

I’ve thought about this a lot, and while I DO think that a name can definitely affect a child, after watching my own kids grow and develop into the individuals they are, I’ve realized that this is only partially true.  Whatever name you choose FOR your kid, isn’t the defining force BEHIND your kid.  It doesn’t lessen or enhance their character.  It is simply a word given to a child by a parent, that over the course of their life, and throughout their endeavors, they will make their OWN.


Now, about that middle name…….




















A Play Date? Sorry, I Have to Wash My Hair. – Guest Blog by Kimmy Dee

Those Negative Nancys that say you have to flush your social life once you procreate are as full of shit as the poop they’re pouring on your parade. You don’t get the luxury of telling the rest of the world to kiss your ass as you hunker down in your baby bunker for the next 18 years; you’re just no longer allowed to CHOOSE the faces that will drive you to drink on a daily basis.


No, once you pop out a pup you are forced to mingle with OTHER mom-like beings. And once that little manure machine gets to preschool… THEY pick the moms FOR you. 


Having other children around to keep yours out of your ass for an hour or two is fantastic… having to make small talk and compare diaper dramas with adults you’ve never done body shots off of in your last, KID-FREE life is freakin’ exhausting.


I’m not ashamed to admit I’m antisocial. In fact it’s one of my best qualities; people are gross. Unfortunately my daughter is one of those proverbial social butterflies. She has cronies at all corners of the city, and none of them are orphans. They all come equipped with unique blends of moms and grandmas that want to shoot the shit over endless steaming cups of liquid laxative while the little ones frolic gaily and I contemplate how to gnaw through a major artery without interrupting my coffee companion’s riveting Pap smear story.


I’m not trying to rush the whole growing up gig; we all know it goes WAY too fast on its own. But I crave the day that one of my kid’s classmates can come out without the constant companionship of their guardian-types. There’s nothing worse than asking a fellow forebearer if their kid can come to play and having them say, “Sure, WE’LL be over soon.” You can’t just rescind your invitation; suddenly you’re the WING MAN for your progeny’s play date, and chances are the two of you will NOT be as compatible as your kids.


I can appreciate the puny people. All they want out of life is to have fun and eat junk food; admirable ambitions, if you ask me (which you didn’t). But ADULTS… I can’t deal with us assholes. We feel like we always have to TALK, and SMILE. That shit is ANNOYING. Silent stoicism gets a bad rap, but I assure you, it is bliss.


So, as I have yet to find a mom-mate that I mesh well with, I have composed a personal ad that will hopefully find me a suitable partner in play dating:


MOM SEEKING MOM, FOR LONG-TERM ALLIANCE. MUST BE ABLE TO SIT DOWN AND SHUT THE FUCK UP FOR HOURS ON END. WILLINGNESS TO LEAVE THEIR OFFSPRING IN MY SOLE CARE ON OCCASION A PLUS… I HAVE KEPT MY OWN KID ALIVE FOR 5 YEARS, YOURS *SHOULD* SURVIVE THE AFTERNOON. MUST VOW TO NEVER DISCUSS THE WEATHER, POLITICS, RELIGION, OR GREY’S ANATOMY. SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY. APPLY ONLINE AT http://kimmydee-pitchabitch.blogspot.com/.


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    Dear Romance…

    Fuck you Romance, with your roses and sweets,

    Chocolates, perfumes, and pink satin sheets.
    Romance these days, means a whooole new thing.
    I’m married with kids, brah. What, you ‘aint seen this ring?
    There’s not too much room here for you anymore,
    So either step up, or get kicked out the door.
    You need a new game, NOT a dumb faced teddy.
    Do I look like a High School bitch being asked to 
    “Go Steady”??



    You better change your angle if you wanna get props,
    Pick up those rose petals, here, take this mop.
    You wanna make me swoon like at my Honeymoon??
    Tell my husband to wash dishes and break out a broom.
    I’m sorry but bubble baths don’t turn me on.
    A sure bet to get ME wet, is if you’d go scrub the John.
    I’m not bitter, or mean, or a shit starter,
    I’m just more experienced now, and a whole lot smarter.



    You got 50 Shades, son?  Well, I got 50 Shades MORE.
    It’ll take more than cheap candy to make THIS housewife a whore!
    I’m sorry, Romance, it’s not that I hate you,
    Things have just changed since I first started to date you.

    Gotta cut shit down to the heart of the matter,
    The only thing ‘chocolate’ does, is make my ass fatter.
    So Romance, heed what I’m sayin’ and don’t take it as disses.
    You’re very sweet when it comes to young couple’s first kisses.

    All that cutesy shit however, just makes me more tired,
    So have a Pow-Wow with my husband this V-Day, 
    or guess what?!


    YOU’RE FIRED.















    Don’t Like It? Get Used To That Shit.

    Everyone’s got a PET PEEVE.  Some shit that just ruffles your feathers and gets your eyes redder than a mandrill’s ass.  It’s dreadful, and can range from your Mother-In-Law’s pesky habit of breathing to the synthetic death grip of your too tan, control-top pantyhose.


    Now, being that there’s about 1.5 MILLION people for every 22 square miles of this pretentious little borough, you can bet your fake Fendi bag that I got a whoooole bunch of PET–MOTHER-FUCKING-PEEVES.


    Just in case you don’t know what a Mandrill’s ass looks like.

    You might be thinking right now: 

    “With that mouth of yours, you’re starting to become one of MINE…”

    But just hold up….I ‘m getting to a point here that’s more prevalent than a wedgie on a summer day.

    Here’s the deal.  We all have “THAT FRIEND”.  You know, the one who, no matter what, you can whisper through clenched teeth to.  The one who brings your boiling blood to a tolerable and controlled simmer with a well timed alcoholic beverage and tells you in a “THAT FRIEND” kind of way to just: 

    “Calm the FUCK down.”  

    The one who reminds you, that sometimes: 

    “You can’t control every situation, so for the sake of your OWN sanity, and CRIMINAL RECORD, you’d best SHUT UP, act like the *lady* you’re not and  just, GET USED TO THAT SHIT.”

    You’re ’bout ready to put away that gas face and throw down but, because you know she’s right, you bite down, smooth out your Strawberry’s satin sheath, and curl you lips up into a painful smile.

    You’re bearing it.

    You HATE it….but you’re bearing it.

    Ok, here’s the part where I pull back on the Google Map and put shit in PERSPECTIVE.


    “You’re lucky my homegirl said to spare you and that dumb-ass hat…”

    ENTER: PARENTHOOD….

    Remember “THAT FRIEND”???
    Yeah, well, that bitch has been replaced by a tiny little, wormy being, that has sprung from your crotch.

    Good luck with that much needed alcoholic glaze, and if you thought a seam in your tube sock was bad try…..

    NEVER SLEEPING FOR MORE THAN 3 CONSECUTIVE HOURS.

    ANY HAIRSTYLE YOU SPENT MORE THAN A NANOSECOND ON.

    ABHORRING YOUR CUTEST AND MOST COVETED HIGH-HEELS.

    A SOCIAL LIFE MORE BARE THAN A  SCORES STRIPPER AT 4AM.

    You thought your life was oh so *real*, riddled with heartache and strife and then…. 

    ….you have KIDS.

    You don’t necessarily realize it as it’s happening, but as you’re thrust into the greatest depths of selflessness bearing and caring for a child, you have become the MASTER of:

    “GETTING USED TO THAT SHIT.”

    Well, she’ll fall asleep if I bounce her for about 10,000 more minutes…”

    “He likes nursing until he spews tit milk all over, so I usually nurse on the hard floor…”

    “You gotta cut those grapes into unrecognizable nibbles and bits for her to not choke…oh, and skin them shits too, here, I’ll show you how…”

    “I’m totally functional, well, functional enough, on 37 seconds of sleep…”

    You don’t have a choice.  You don’t even have a “THAT FRIEND”….

    You have a baby…a responsibility full of the peeviest-pets you’ve EVER encountered….and guess what…?

    You do what you GOTTA DO, to simply:

    “GET USED TO THAT SHIT”.


    You’d better do more than just “THINK” you can, bitch.

    You’re a parent.  

    You’re dedicated to being a parent.

    You LOVE your child, even more than you thought you loved that pimply douchebag who popped your cherry….

    …maybe even more than you love your own mother…

    So, you bite your lip, take it down more notches than a pile of belts at a Weight Watchers meeting, and feel sorta proud that you were able to GET USED TO some ridiculous shit NO human should legally have to endure….

    ….Annnnnnd…. 

    THAT’S the exact moment that your kid, (the much shittier and selfish version of your single life’s “THAT FRIEND”) decides you’ve had plenty of time to get USED TO this set of shenanigans, and instinctively indulges you with a whole new gamut of fucked-up challenges that’ll send you to hell and back.

    You’re like the fucking Karate Kid except with a Mr. Miagi who’s on the permanent rag.  

    Don’t worry though, you were MADE for this.

    You’re becoming a black belt in art of insomnia.

    You may not be able to catch a fly with a pair of chopsticks EVERY time, but you sure as hell will get USED TO trying.

    So, keep your temper down, and your caffeine up, and remember, from one mother to another…

    WAX ON BITCHES.


    What’s a Macchio gotta do to get a BREAK around here?!?