I’m The Bitch Of The World!!!

Remember that movie “Titanic”?  Well, even if you were doing something more important with your life in the year 1997, like mourning the death of Biggie Smalls, or perfecting the art of collar poppin’, and you missed the boat on that movie, I’m sure, at the very least, you’re familiar with that famous scene.  


You know… THE SCENE…..   Let me remind you: 

It’s the part when that “Home Alone” kid is hella excited to first be on the dumb boat.  He runs up to the front and starts squealing so pre-pubescently high that dolphins jump in to goddamn tunafish cans just to escape it.  He then steps on to the very front part of the boat and spreads his arms out super wide (like how you wish your kid did when you asked them how much they love you but they never fucking do)  and then… he does it… 

With a grin that would make the Kool Aid Pitcher Dude kick rocks, and wind-feathered hair so flaxen gold, it put Farrah Fawcett to shame, he shouts the now iconic phrase: 

“I’M THE KING OF THE WORLD!!!  


And there it is…..

Now, I don’t know if that “Saved By The Bell” kid won an Oscar for his part in that movie, and I don’t really give a shit, all I DO know is that THAT MOMENT for me, was contagious.  

There was this EXPLOSION of self-confidence, and joy so abundantly flowing from the splayed fingertips of that “Full House” kid that I found myself flinging MY ARMS out too!** 

**This led me to accidentally smash the girl’s face seated next to me, which unfortunately resulted in a buttered popcorn brawl, subsequently getting my ass kicked out of the theater altogether and thus preventing me from ever finding out what happened to that stupid boat… 

My point is, I didn’t NEED to see anymore of that film because for the five bones I spent on the movie ticket, I walked around with three days worth of dolphin-ear-errupting confidence, periodically shouting “I’M THE BITCH OF THE WORLD!!!” and smashing random folks’ faces with flung out arms!  Now, you can’t buy THAT kind of happiness even with a million dollars!! 

I tell you, if that “Silver Spoons” kid were here right now, I’d probably make out with him for gifting me with such a spectacular moment…. and then ask to ride that really cool fucking train he’s got in his house… that little rich snot nosed shit.


Yeah, like you really need more presents you spoiled bastard.


Since that movie, or the first part at least, I’ve been trying to figure out ways to recreate the same energy and joy I felt pulse through me fifteen long years ago, and so far I’ve discovered that although being covered in baby shit is NOT one of them, certain other aspects of babies as well as kids themselves ARE!  

Below is a list of 
Shit That Kids Do, Which Makes My Ass Go ALL TITANIC:

1.  Being born.  What else makes you feel like a Super Hero more then exuding a whole other human body out of your own?!?  You can keep your useless clear jet, Wonder Woman, I have people to create!!!  Guess what Dr. Frankenstein, you didn’t actually make anyone dipshit, you just sewed together a bunch of body parts from some preexisting dead people and even THEN you couldn’t “make” a person nearly as cute as my fucking creation!!  Yeah, that moment, right after having a baby….. TITANIC.


Aww, he looks just like… like… well, like that fucking dude that died last week….! Not. Cute.

2.  First REAL”I Love You” Hug.  Let’s face it.  Babies for the most part, are ungrateful little turds.  Their EXTREME neediness tends to accentuate this, complied with the fact that they’re fucking MUTE for quite a while.  Sleepless nights, backbreaking days and more spilled body fluids than a public bathroom.  These times, when you’re soaking in sweat and tit milk feel ENDLESS…. even at times useless.
  
“Why why WHY am I doing this?!?!” you shudder… 
“WHAT FOR?!?!” you cry…

Well, that moment when your toddler, oozing with snot and bumbling around bumping in to shit, scales the couch, plops down next to you, wraps their mini-arms 1/4 way around your still baby-weighted body, and in a true Mickey Mouse style voice says loudly: 

“I WUV YOU MOMMY!” IS EXACTLY WHY WE DO THIS SHIT.   

I’m sure you’re remembering this moment right now… and smiling… because you know you were all…
TITANIC.


Even a hug and “I love you” from THIS is a TITANIC moment.

3.  Kick Ass Parent/Teacher Meeting.  This is about as far as I got on the list because my kids are still fairly young.  I’m sure more will be added as I trudge through this journey of shit stains, pissed beds and BFFs but for now, this is the last but by far NOT the least of the list.  

Just as #2 is payback for all the baby torture we endure, THIS moment is payback for toddler torture.  You know all those “Please”s and “Thank You”s and “May I”s and “Alphabet Song”s and “Counting Fingers” and “You Have To SHARE!”s and “Clean-Up Song”s and “Wait For Your Turn”s and “Follow Direction”s you repeated so many fucking times you’ve lost count? Your toddler barely heeds you as they Tasmanian Devil right past your ass destroying room after room.  
You are the ‘Rainman of Manners’ — they are your opponent in the ring.  
You are the referee of the playground — they are in UFC mode.  
You wonder if serial killers are just born that way, or if you are somehow fucking something up… and you just don’t know it yet.
They grow a bit, they start school, they challenge you differently.  Not less, just differently…  
You walk in to your first parent/teacher meeting with a hockey mask on ready to deflect insults spit like fucking pucks at your face and then…

“Oh, she’s SO GREAT with the other kids!”  
“He’s really gotten in to the spirit of helping!”  
“Your child is a wonderful addition to the class!” 
“Whatever you’re doing at home, keep it up!”

You cannot BELIEVE it but something you’ve done must’ve stuck!

First three thoughts?  
1. You know who I am right??
2. Am I being Punk’d right now?
3. Fucking TITANIC.


For many, this is what we feel like upon entering our first Parent/Teacher conference….



Annnnnnd there you have it folks!  So do some shoulder rolls, because even though they don’t happen often, when they do, you wanna be prepared to NOT tear a rotator cuff as you fling out your arms while shouting:

I’M THE BITCH OF THE WORLD!!!!!!!


YEAH!!!



I Fucking Heart Valentine’s Day

Listen up, I’m sick of everybody whining about Valentine’s Day.  I don’t know about you, but any holiday that entitles me to an Enya induced back rub, a fancy dinner that I don’t have to cook, and a big ass box of chocolates is AOKay in my book.  I don’t give a shit if you call it “St. Suck A Turd Day”, if I get to stuff my face with chocolate while my man serenades me in a candlelit bubble bath, count me the hell IN.  


There’s a lot of holidays that are “Hallmark Holidays”.  In fact, I can’t think of too many that aren’t. Why on earth would I snub one that happens to benefit ME for a damn change?  All things considered, I’m entitled to a lot more than a stupid dinner just for being a mother.  Shit, you’re lucky I’m not demanding a trip to Cabo, BY MYSELF

 
YES, YES, AND YES!!!

I don’t really give a hoot about couples without kids and whether or not it’s fair that the man should bear the brunt of the gift giving, although, just the fact that men are given the gift of pussy kinda makes that argument a no-brainer 

Ahh, another story, another blog….and as far as woman who never “give it up” for their man…. yet an even longer discussion. 

Anyway, I’m talking about MYSELF here, a mother, and how this “Holiday of Love” is just one of the few ways I get a shred of thanks for the daily bullshit I endure.

“Everyday should be a day of loving and appreciating one another.  No one day should be designated to show admiration and respect… blah blah BLAH!!”   

Well guess what tree hugger?! IT ‘AINT THAT WAY, so get over it.  Yeah, and everyfuckingday should be a day without child abuse, and murder, and my mother-in-law not being a fucking cunt BUT IT’S NOT NOW, IS IT???  

Take that bleeding heart shit and put it on a gold chain, wrap it in a fancy fucking box and give it to me with the glass of champaign I sooo deserve that is sooo overdue, and I might just consider it. Otherwise, tack it right up there with “Saving the Rainforest” and all the other crap you’ll never change by whining about it.  

At least I care about the rainforest.

Being a mother is the most under appreciated, over looked, underpaid, underrated, shit upon, taken for granted job in THE GODDAMN WORLD.  

Fuck, if I were the president of Hallmark, there’s be a Mother’s Day once a month!  Once a week even!!  But alas…. since I’m not the CEO of Hallmark, and Mother’s Day is only once a year, I’m gonna go ahead and count Valentine’s Day as a second fucking Mother’s Day, mmmk??  

Good, I’m glad we agree.

Soo, unless you want to sit around covered with shit and puke, play servant to some whiny ass tyrants, make a billion casseroles for people who don’t even eat ’em, and gain 75 pounds, stretch marks and saggy tits, shut the fuck up, rub my feet, and don’t forget…. nut clusters are my favorite.

I love you sweetie.




Like Me!

Destiny. 

Isn’t it funny how we notice little idiosyncrasies in our babies/children and try to peg their personalities as close to our own? Everyone has their own interpretation too. 


Dad, Grandma, Mommy — we all want our children to reflect at least SOME part (if not all) of our personality, even if it’s bad.


“Oh, see how mad he gets ’cause he can’t get his finger in his mouth? I was like that too, short tempered..”


 “Look at how she walks on her toes! Haha, a little dancer, just like me.” 


Why the fuck do we do this? 

Clearly they are our children, they came out of our bodies, they possess physical qualities that resemble our own… 

Isn’t that enough?! 


We do it as long as possible too, and then — it happens. 


He doesn’t care if you loved sweet potato as a kid or not, 

it’s going on the fucking floor. 


A young artist were you? 

Well, shove your crayons up your ass because she’d much rather toss a ball. 


You’re in shock, disbelief! 

Disappointment sullies your face (as well as the sweet potato he chucked at you). But you’re still holding on… 


“Well, okay, she wants to play with a ball, I was pretty athletic in fact I’ve been told I could catch a ball by 3 years old!” 


Guess what, she only wants to THROW it. 


So POW, there it is. Your kid isn’t like you. He or she LOOKS 

(kind of) like you but that’s about it.

 

At first we feel confused, even somewhat betrayed by our own blood. What is that about?? Do we think that by making this child we are entitled to stamp our own interests in to their genetic make up? 


Or are we hoping they exhibit something familiar, some injection of predictability in to the vast and intimidating unknown thing that is PaRANThood (lil plug there…. chill, it’s not like I made it bold)? 


The answer is, IT DOESN’T FUCKING MATTER. 


Be grateful they’re not like us. So many times I have tried to shake them from my pant leg and push them to explore THEIR world, see what THEY are in to. 

Let THEM bring something new to the table for once! 

YOU might even learn something new


Remember, the more we try to convince them to like the ‘cool’ stuff WE liked, the more they’ll HATE it. 


And besides, they’ll leave you alone a lot longer if they’re doing something THEY like. 

Your child’s destiny is made by YOUR CHILD. 


Your only job is to give them the tools they need to seek it out.


Good Night.

What was that you said ’bout my goddamn Gingerbread?

So I was redecorating this house last night, and by “redecorating” I mean eating… 

and by “house” I mean gingerbread house.


Anyway,  I’m standing there, hunched over the kitchen in a “Lester the Molester” kind of way, prying Sprees out of dried up white icing glue with my nails and flipping them in to my mouth like a gangster might flip a nickel wearing a bowler hat in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. 

Got that fucking visual?  

Good.  

So as I look down at this newly decimated gingerbread abode,  I think to myself:

“This is SO fucking WRONG.”


yeah,  flipping sprees like that see, like that right in my mouth see…

Nooo, it’s not wrong that I’m eating Sprees at 11:30pm, or that I’m watching a taped episode of “The Millionaire Matchmaker” in the other room, or that I’m wearing my husbands underwear…. (don’t fucking ask).  

Of all the shit that may seem ‘off’ to a normal person, the thing that I’m thinking is fucking wrong here is: 

“What business do I have eating this Christmas treat in the middle of Janurary???” 

“How. Dare. I.?” 

Think I’m crazy?  Not so Cheerio. 

Well… maybe a little, but hear me out, 
YOU may be affected too….

Why?  Why is it that I feel certain foods should only be eaten at certain times of the year?  It’s a fucking Gingerbread house in January and I’m feeling like I’m wearing a goddamn white pants suit after Labor Day (which is also stupid to be wrong, btw).  

Then I suddenly get it….. I’m thinking it’s probably some fucked up Hallmark Jedi Mind Trick, subconsciously telling me how to feel and not feel, what to eat or not eat and who to kiss or not kiss on certain days/months/seasons/whateverthefucks.
 
Some sneaky, sinister, marketing plot to have Americans not just buy seasonal shit but fucking fight over the last of the Cadbury Cream Eggs on Easter, or the plasticy Jack-o-Lantern cheap fucking Trick’or’Treat buckets on Halloween… 

And we all seem to fall for that shit…. now don’t we?


Why do I fucking LOVE these DISGUSTING things???

I don’t really know how to react to being jedi/mindfucked.  

I mean, it doesn’t usually happen to me….. 

Do I protest it?  

How do I protest it?  

Should I shove Valentines in to stockings on Halloween?  
Hide turkeys under trees on Veteran’s Day?  
Maybe I should just hold a fucking Jack-O-Lantern over my head and randomly make-out with people on Father’s Day….
(hmmm that’s a good idea actually…)  

Orrrr should I go to the other extreme and just boycott all the holidays altogether?  

Fuck you Easter Bunny!  
Fuck you Santa!  
Fuck you Tooth Fairy!  

And by “Fuck you” I mean “Fuck me”, ’cause I’m all those bastards after all.. (another good idea…) 

I just don’t know how to react…


Merry Chanukah Mother Fuckers!!  Now Trick or Make Out With Meeeee!

So I thought about all this shit as I hunched there, at 11:30, in the kitchen, me and my crumby chin, and I decided this whole contemplation is one big piece of shit.  

And in just that moment, I realized that I had just solved the whole damn big piece of shit thing!  
In questioning the Gingerbread/January dilemma, 
I, in fact, answered it.  

One cannot be Hallmark/Jedi marketed/mindfucked if one is, in fact AWARE of it.  

AHA FUCKERSSSS!! 

Suddenly, I felt like that GI Joe dude who comes out at the end and says “And knowing is half the battle!”  
My battle is more then half over, it’s fucking won, 
and I’m the goddamn Colonel.  


Knowing is half the battle!  And now, I must slay a crocodile….

I am aware that you, Gingerbread House, are a treat savored only on Christmas, but guess what? 
There’s no law that says I cannot eat you now.  

Look at me sideways if you will nay-sayers! 
You are merely a DUPE of the beast that is Hallmark and I shall shun you vigorously!!!  

I aim to not only EAT you Ginger Bread House
but I shall enjoy you
and let you consume me with your spicy aromas.  

I shall take glory in all your candy stickiness!  

HAHA!  

Each bite I take will in turn take a bite straight from the conformists grip that clenches the throats of 
all Americans until, the whole world sees the TRUTH and casts off their presumptuous notions regarding the mastication 
of Gingerbread Houses in January!!!!!!!


EVERYWHERE!!!!!!!!!!!


Oh shit…. I think I went a little Gary Busey on myself….

Ok, I think I need to sit down…no more Diet Coke before bed… or Spree…  

This fucking house is stale, and I need a napkin for my chin.

CRACK for KIDS

Let’s face it, little kids are some cranky ass motherfuckers.  I know, I know, they’re growing, feeling shit out, testing boundaries, figuring out where they fit in in this crazy world — and I’m cool with that.  That’s the way it should be, but it still doesn’t change the fact that they’re some cranky ass motherfuckers.


It can get really discouraging too.  Thank god they’re irresistibly cute at the toddler age, with their little faces and funny Mickey Mouse voices, because their huge attitudes can make them pretty goddamn hard to love.  Their smiles during these “terrible” years are few and far between and when smiles do happen, many times it’s for a shitty selfish reason like getting a gift or some candy or a fucking TV show.  Being positive during this period of parenthood is a struggle to say the least and it’s easy to… how do you say…… LOSE YOUR FUCKING SHIT.  But don’t grab the whiskey just yet…. fuck it, go ahead and grab the whiskey, and listen the fuck up.  I’m here to help your ass out.

Everybody has their own version of crack.  Something you get excited just thinking about. Something that can make a rainy day A.fucking.O.K.  It doesn’t have to be just one thing either. It can be a few things, or even a combination of things.  Shopping, booze, being on-line, being with your vibrator, shopping drunk on-line for vibrators…..Whatever the hell it is that gets you going there’s one thing for all of us that remains the same, you want to do it again, and again and again.

Well, guess what?  Toddlers have their own crack too.  I know what you’re thinking… “Duh bitch, it’s called TV, candy, and anything motherfucking Dora.” Well, yes, this IS true, but I’m going to, if not share with you, then remind you of the top three 
Crack For Toddler Techniques that will not only give YOU something to feel good about but will have your little one shouting AGAIN! AGAIN! AGAIN!”

1. AIRPLANE – You know it, they LOVE it and motherfucking smiles abound.  If you don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, let me explain.  It’s when you lay on your back with your knees bent and your man comes along and grabs your thighs…… oh, uh, sorry, my bad…. where was IOH ok, yeah Airplane.   It’s the act of putting your feet on your kids chest or body while laying on your back and then lifting them by extending your legs straight up in the air.  Sound scary?  It is.  That’s why they fucking love it.  You can reach up and hold their hands, but with enough practice they’ll soon perfect the art of stretching their arms out in front of them and thus assuming The Superman position that the game is so fondly named for.   The only other thing besides itty bitty giggles you’ll hear is the word “AGAIN!! AGAIN!! AGAIN!!” and so, 
a double win… (the other being a bit of core strengthening for your fucking  lazy ass too.)  

Below is the wuss version of The Airplane game.  Instead of your shins, the kid would be on your feet straight up in the air…. I’ll let her get away with it based on the fact she’s trying to show you some fool assed exercise.



2. TICKLE TORTURE – Do I even need to say a word here?  This is also what I call “The Lazy Mom’s Game” because even though you have to lift not one ass cheek from the bed, it still brings your child that cracked out intense motherfucking JOY that otherwise remains, for the most part, fleeting.  In fact, the bed is the most recommended place to play this game due to the fact that it includes little bodies jerking around with arms and legs flailing uncontrollably. This fucking game has definitely bought me many extra minutes to stay in bed on weekend mornings, another reason I love it so!!  But back to the joy part.  This tickle induced joy is something pretty goddamn special.  I can say with confidence that tickle laughs are more contagious then fucking head lice.  Soon enough you’ll be chuckling too, and as you grab one little foot to tickle, artfully dodging the other that is so desperately trying to kick your face (nice fucking try kiddo), the inevitable happens and your kid starts either drooling, or farting, or both.  All at once, your chuckling turns in to guttural gawfaws and then smelling the fart brings to light the pinnacle of all laughs the red faced silent spaz.  You’re laughing so hard you’re weak ass bladder is about to explode and then… they fart again.  I’m literally smiling as I type this because even the memory of the last time I played “The Tickle Torture Game” brings me joy…. and the urge to piss.  This game is like high grade crack for kids.  Like the pure, uncut shit.  They’ll be fucking CRYING, BEGGING and PLEADING for you to stop, and then, when you do….?  “AGAIN!! AGAIN!! AGAIN!!!!”  See how that shit works?  CRACK.

I personally like to play this game until they’re crying… like crying, crying.


3. HELICOPTER – Don’t ask me why two of the three are named after aircrafts.  I’m sure it’s because, like all humans, there’s this desirability to fucking FLY.  Or in
other words,  to be HIGH.  This is particularly true for toddlers because although they’ve never been wasted they know what fun feels like and are gonna go for that shit even at the risk of breaking their fucking heads open.  Sounds like me, and Mr. Jameson on a goddamn Saturday night, but that’s another blog….  Anyhoo, back to “Helicopter”.  Unlike the Tickle Torture Game, Helicopter is best played in a wide open space, preferably outdoors.  A wide girth is needed otherwise you risk smashing your child in to a wall or piece of furniture albeit destroying any and all potential fun from happening.  This is a pretty easy game.  Just grab two limbs of your child.  It can be both arms, both legs or even one of each and then, proceed to spin.  The more momentum you gain in your spinning, the more your child will slowly begin to lift up in to the air, and therefore, resembling a Helicopter propellor.  Be sure to halt all spinning before you get too dizzy.  Falling while trying to spin your child in circles may look fucking hilarious to others, and it might even land you a cameo on a Funny Home Video show but for you… matching bloody noses for mommy and child… not cute.  It IS hilarious however, once you stop, watching your child stumble around in a drunken dizziness, not being able to take more then two steps without falling on their ass.  And when they gather themselves up enough to finally pass a fucking field sobriety test…? 
“AGAIN!! AGAIN!! AGAIN!!”  And there you have it. CRACK.

It’s like a human fucking centrifuge… See below, the face of child crack.

And there you have it folks,  so take a break from your vibrator and share the crack, your kids will love you for it!
Who says Crack is Wack?

Playground Disguise…

Playgrounds.

If you’re like me, you probably frequent the same couple of playgrounds with your kids on a regular basis.  They’re usually either close to your house, or your kids school.   Maybe you like the equipment because it’s perfectly age appropriate so there’s no need to get off your ass and follow your kid around, repeatedly smacking your head on a multitude of metal bars as you chase the bugger.  Maybe it’s shady in the summer and sunny in the fall.  Maybe it’s got a bathroom tucked away in it’s little playground appendix with a water fountain that’s makes for awesome water balloons.   Maybe you just like the fucking playground’s name.  Who cares, the point is you go there, and you go there a lot.


Are you the “Norm” of your playground?

As playgrounds go, this one is considered “yours”.  So much so, it’s like you’re in an episode of fucking Cheers when you arrive.  You are a regular, and everyone knows your name.  This can be cool at times.… I mean, there’s always someone who knows your kid, and can tell you to stop playing goddamn Angry Birds already  ’cause your kid went ahead and smacked another by the monkey bars and it’s time to fucking regulate.  Or you’re busy filling up a water balloon and someone walks over to tell you a pigeon is eating all your goldfish right out of the stroller. This is good.  But then, there are times when maybe you want to go to the playground unnoticed.  Maybe you DON’T want bitches up in your business… but where else you gonna go?? THAT’S where the playground disguise comes in….

Below are the Top Three Reasons you may want to go “unnoticed” to the playground…

1. Hi, My name is Go Fuck Yourself and I’m a Go Fuck Yourself:  Being hungover is never fun.  And it’s even less fun when you have bitches up in your grill asking you if you feel okay.  “NO, I don’t, matter’fact, 5 minutes before I had to drag my ass here in the first place, I was hugging the toilet.  God save you if you get close enough to smell my breath.”  
INSERT PLAYGROUND DISGUISE… Just show up incognito and hang your head shamelessly at the corner bench.  If a Groucho Marks eyeglass and mustache set doesn’t fool these moms, it’ll put them off and THAT’S exactly what you want.  Mission accomplished.


I’ll hold my OWN hair, fuck you very much.
 
2. Hi my name is… yeah, I could care less, go fuck yourself: Awww damn.  There she goes again.  The bitch that thinks you care.  You don’t like her, you don’t like her kid, yet she is constantly harassing you for a fucking PLAYDATE.  Why?  What did you do to deserve this asshole’s attention. You haven’t set any bums on fire and you never once said wassup to her, yet she’s convinced your kids LOVE each other.  Every time you run in to this bitch, she’s adamant about some playmate, somefucking where… you really don’t know ’cause you just tune her ass out within the first 5 seconds.  INSERT PLAYGROUND DISGUISE…  she may recognize your kid but a smirk creeps across your face as you see her little nosey eyes scan the whole playground passing right over your ass cause you are officially unrecognizable.  Word.  Mission accomplished. Thank you playground disguise.


Listen, you’re psychotic… leave me the fuck alone.

3.Hide and go fuck yourself: playwithmeplaywithmeplaywithme!!!”  Sound familiar?  Of course it does.  You hear it all day, all night.  All you do is fucking PLAY PLAY PLAY all day long, which is sad ’cause you’d think if that’s the case, why aren’t you having any goddamn FUN??  I’ll tell you why, because kid fun is waaaay fucking different the adult fun.  For one thing, there’s no booze involved.  For another, no sex.  Need I say anymore??  Listen,  just sit back as regular old mom and it’ll happen.  “Play with me!!” your child will whine in about 5 minutes past arrival.  (As if you haven’t been playing their lame games since BIRTH.)  Tell me, why the fuck did I bring your ass to the playground if you want to play with ME??  We could’ve stayed home for this shit!  
No worries, just recommend Hide and Go Seek  and the second they start counting INSERT PLAYGROUND DISGUISE… Need I fill in the blanks here?  I fucking hope not.  Yeah, you got it, put your wig on and RELAX.  No hiding, no dirty pants, no looking like an ass kneeling behind the sprinklers.  It’ll take them HOURS if not until it’s time for dinner before they figure out you’re YOU if at all.  If not, take off the disguise at dinner time, and not only are you off, your THE MOST AWESOME HIDER EVER!!  Double win; mission accomplished.


ok start counting…..

And there you have it.  If ya didn’t know, now you do..  

Here’s MY PLAYGROUND DISGUISE but SHHHHH don’t fucking tell a soul!



This Blog Is Brought To You By… This Blog.

I don’t blog a lot.  


I like to write.  
I like to think, 
and I love to feel. 
I’m also a pisces.  
And if you don’t believe in all that horoscope shit then you’re probably not a Pisces.  



“How do these all connect?” you may be asking yourself.  

Or perhaps you’re thinking, “Get to the fucking point already bitch…” 

In either case, I’m gonna tell you.

Yup, there it isss.. some stinky ass fish… 

Pisces typically are regarded as dreamers, usually with their heads in some artistic fantasy land, or as my mother would say, “Up our asses”. 
 
We also happen to be pretty intuitive, and although we are far from judgers, we are good at ‘reading’ shit.  

No I don’t mean your palm, or a deck of tarot cards or even some Ouija board (although I’ve been known to do all three),  what I mean is the ability to read people’s motives, and personas as well as situations and, bear with me now… vibes. 

 
(Okay, Okay, I know I lost some of you with this flaky 
“I see dead people” shit, but if you’re still here, just shut the the fuck up a minute and hear me out…) 

So, when I start writing, it’s usually because I sense something is already there.  

It just has to be revealed.  

It’s like a chipping away a sculpture from a block of stone.  You can see the form,  feel it’s presence, but in order to bring it to life, you have to believe in it, and IT in YOU


Michaelango’s “Captives” Waiting to be let out…

In other words, I feel as though the writing takes ME where IT wants to go, I merely serve as the vehicle that gets it there.  

Nothing is planned, or drafted.  Kind of like pulling the string of a motorboat to get it revved.  And just like a motorboat, many times it takes a few “pulls” before catching…  if it catches at all.  

So, it’s not that I don’t want to blog as much as the words themselves prefer not to be blogged.   

This is where I think my whole pisces shit helps and hurts me.  I think this helps me delve in to the topics I write about, and in turn, get extremely invested. 

This is all fine and well except it also can be a colossal waste of time if the writing itself stops cooperating.  It’s a team effort, which, I know sounds fucking weird considering I’m speaking only of myself.  

It’s true though.  

So many times, I have started writing and after hours, I just straight up trash it.  I don’t trash it because it I think it sucks, I trash it because at a certain point the piece itself just gives the fuck up.


Dunno if I’ll throw the towel “In” as much as I’ll throw it “At Your Fucking Face”…

Any artist will tell you, and if you yourself are an artist you know, forcing creativity is always a backlash.  It stifles the art as well as the artist and the result is more often then not, crap.

That’s why, rather then forcing out a daily fart of a blog, just for “hits” sake,I’d rather keep my mouth shut and my fingers away from the keyboard.  

Listen up, I want my writing to accomplish stuff.  
And by stuff, I mean giving everyone involved, an actual feeling to remember.  

It’s usually funny and silly, because that’s just my nature, but once in a while, it just might influence someone’s eyebrows to do something unexpected.   


this pic always reminds me of that song 
“Put It In Your Mouth…”

you too?


So that’s what I have for you tonight.  This moment wanted to explain itself despite the several attempts I tried to dissuade it.

This very blog just tonight has already visited the topics of “Being Spontaneous” to “My Big Fat Christmas Tree” to  “Why I Had Kids” to “Fuck You Mother-In-Law”, and somehow, on it’s own volition it has ended here.  

I’ve learned at this point that I should just go with it.  

It asked me not to trash it, and so, I won’t.  As mothers we all know that “You get what you get, and you don’t get upset” so I ain’t hatin’, and I hope neither are you.

Goodnight.

Oh oh oh It’s motherfucking MAGIC, you know…

When you first have a kid there’s about a billion things you’re totally unprepared for.  In fact, fuck that, I don’t recall being prepared for any goddamn thing at all.  It’s all one big fucking surprise, from weird ass baby toenails that just peel off (blech), to bloody nipples, many of these surprises are unpleasant.  But we power on because the pleasant surprises are waaay more then pleasant.  Can someone say ecstasy?  Can someone say life-changing?  THAT’S why we do this shit.  They’re so goddamn beautiful, these moments, that for some of us, we do it again, and for a few more of you crazy bitches out there, (and by crazy, I mean fucking fearless) again and again and even again.  


Some surprises we sort of know about but haven’t actually experienced, and yet what does it mean to “know” something about parenthood?  It means you’ve heard a rumor and you’re hypothetically prepared but that’s like the difference between knowing a tattoo is gonna fucking hurt and actually experiencing the PAIN.  You can’t truly relate to it until you’re there.

Like the stages of your child’s life, many parental experiences are fleeting thank goodness, (teething) while other last much longer (the instillment of values and morals) and ultimately don’t end until children become adults.  The surprise experience I’m writing about is somewhere in-between.  It has it’s ups and downs, it can be romantic, endearing, or an annoying fucking chore. It lasts as long as you can try and make it last, but ultimately, your children are the ones who put it to rest.
Yes yes y’all, I’m talkin’ about the Magical Morphing Mommy tonight.  

Now, there’s a lot of different kinds of Mommy Magic.  You got your “eyes in the back of your head – I see all and know all so don’t even fucking try it” magic,  you got your magical mommy lips that can heal any booboo in the world with a kissmagic, and the bullshit quasi-magical I got your nosey that only the wee ones fall for. 
 
I’m not talking about ANY of these.  The magic I’m talking about is the real fucking deal.  The kind of magic that’s got a whole legend to go with it.  Intricate lying is required and decades of tradition stand behind it. Mommy Morphing Magic is where YOU become a fuckin’ MYTHICAL ENTITY that childhood fantasies are made of!  You ARE Santa Claus.  You ARE the Tooth Fairy.  You ARE the Easter Bunny.  Now these are just the particular holidays I celebrate,  but I’m sure there are other “identities” I have no knowledge about that you may assume as well.


Oh haaiii, I shrink down and slip under the door, eggs and all…
yeah, that’s the ticket….

At first I was thrilled with this notion!  I mean FUCK!  I get to be goddamn Santa Claus?!? That’s pretty fucking prestigious.  The Tooth Fairy??  Dope.  Then, I began to experience the Magical Morphing Mommy thing and I realized WHY it’s such a prestigious title.  It’s because it’s  a lot of motherfucking WORK.  And, being the imperfect parent that I am, my kids have subsequently learned, year after year, that even those possessing the top tier of magical powers sometimes fuck up.  At first I was upset about this, but now, I am accepting.

My daughter currently is less then entranced by The Tooth Fairy.  Out of six visits, she has fucked up and flaked three times.  She makes it up the next night of course (that fucking lush) but her magic is lessened with each failure.  My daughter now pities her and politely tapes her tooth in an envelope to the front of her bedroom door just to make it easier for the dimwit.  
Santa’s got a better track record but is getting tired in his old age and has one year even asked to “borrow wrapping paper” which is why her gifts were swathed in the same wrapping we coincidentally had stored in the closet.  He also, in his imperfection, goes ahead and puts the cookie plate she leaves out for him in the sink so that our cats don’t knock it over (how considerate).  
Even the poor Easter Bunny a couple of times,  has suffered memory loss as far as where he’s hidden every egg.  He’s a lucky bastard though, as long as there’s chocolate, he can pretty much get away with murder.

Is the position of the Magical Morphing Mommy an honor?  Yes. Is it a chore?  Sometimes. Was I prepared to assume the duties of these mysterious creatures I once so adamantly admired and believed in as a child? Kind of.  Do I have a fucking choice?  
Hell to the no.

Bottom line:  All these magical holiday motherfuckers are really just me, you, and every other parent who tries and keep the dream alive for the sheer love of our kids.  Since we’re not perfect, neither are they.   But here is the real surprise, it is really their endearing nativity and willingness to believe that is the real magic after all, and THAT is one brilliant and beautiful surpri
se
that makes all this magic bullshit worth it. 
 
Now, where the fuck did I put that beard..?

Keep on with those sugar plum dreams, one day I’ll let you in that it’s was just me and a bottle of Pinot the whoooole time!


Hot STUFF

You know what’s the hottest gift for kids that’s NOT flying off the shelves this holiday season??

I do.  It’s called motherfucking HUMILITY.

Let’s face it.  Each year every morning show in America does at least one segment on “The Hottest Gifts For Kids This Year” and it’s usually some robotic creature, or a quirky doll, or a remote controlled piece of shit — maybe a robotic remote controlled quirky doll that you can register on-line and play virtually with a bunch of other robotic remote controlled quirky on-line doll shits.  

remember this pointless fad??

Now I’ve actually bought these toys.  I’ve fought bitches in the store for the last whateverthefuckitis on the shelf and wrapped it gingerly with curling ribbons, certain that I would be the coolest mom on the block for acquiring such a sacred and sought after item.  And when my kid rips that paper open and her eyes light up like a pair of bedazzled jeans I AM the coolest mom … at that moment… and maybe even the next day.  Hell, I might even be the shit all the way till New Year’s Day!  But then, there it is, the motherfuckin’ Hottest Toy of the Year, shoved in the closet, crammed in a pile with the Hottest Toy of Last Year and right on top of the Hottest Toy of the Year Before That.


So here’s the thing.  Guess who’s feeling like The Bomb now?  Not you for getting the piece of shit toy, not your kid for owning the piece of shit toy… it’s the manufactures and marketers lining their pockets with the money you spent on a notion.  A name.  An idea. A piece of shit.

Don’t feel bad though.  It’s not your fault…  Well, not really….. Ok, it kind of is.  Listen, we all want to do right by our kids.  We love our kids, but unfortunately the world tells our kids to love STUFF. It’s not just kids either, they’re just the easiest, most gullible demographic.  The fact is, we ALL have been told to love STUFF…. and so, we do.  Shit, I fucking love STUFF too!  And that, my friends, is where we’ve all gone wrong.  Yeah, yeah, I know this is a capitalist society that’s pretty much supposed to run on money.  The buying, the selling, the consumer, the seller, etc. which would be great and all if it wasnt corrupted as hell with all these big business motherfuckers stealing all the money from us working folk.. but I’m not even gonna get in to that whole thing ’cause it takes too long and I don’t feel like getting pepper sprayed in the goddamn face.  My point is, because we’re all so programmed to believe that STUFF makes us happy, when our kids come to us, begging for the latest, hottest STUFF, we want to make them happy and we fucking buy it.


Yup.


America has always been about STUFF.  My granny came to this country as a young woman to flee war had have the opportunity to have mo’ better STUFF for her and her family, as many of our grannies did.  But STUFF was different then.  There wasn’t as much STUFF first of all, and it wasn’t getting shoved down your throat via TV, advertising and most importantly, the internet. Nowadays, we all get exposed to a constant, flashing, streaming never ending river of STUFF and because of that, it’s lost a lot of it’s meaning.  Faster then you can say “lalaloopsy” there’s another image shoving the first one out of it’s way claiming to be better, cooler, more desirable and therefore making what preceded it, outdated, obsolete, disposable.


Many immigrants came here with only as much STUFF as they could carry on their backs… you think these kids are thinking about toys??

Remember Cabbage Patch Kids?  Yeah I wanted one, yeah I needed one, fuck yeah,  I got one and my mom did many years ago what many moms still do today.  She braved lines, shoved her way through crowds, and pushed aside more then one bitch to get it for me.  The difference being that there wasn’t twenty other HOT toys pushing it aside with advertising.  Children’s programming was limited, and so, advertising targeted at children was too.  Oh, and there was no internet.  And you know what?  I LOVED that motherfucking doll for YEARS.  I still remember that bitches’ name to this day: Annibel Fanny.. no lie.  I even remember that signature on her ass verifying her authenticity.  See, STUFF wasn’t as accessible.  STUFF meant something.

I would’ve been SO jealous of these motherfuckers back in the day!
Look!  Even the boys have ’em.

So, what does all this mean for me and my kids?  Well, it doesn’t mean I’m not getting my kids STUFF for Christmas this year, just maybe a little less.   And it doesn’t mean that sometimes STUFF won’t bring you a bit of happiness.   This year though, I’ll take the kids with me to donate all their Hottest STUFF of Last Year to the Ronald McDonald House and show them that a little humility can be a gift worth getting.  Not to mention, it doesn’t require batteries AND has a lifetime guarantee.

Breaking up is hard to do… with your period.

A few days ago I tried to break up with my period.  Maybe it was stupid to do it via email (and a little tacky too) but I had just HAD it!!!  ‘Cept, now I don’t know what the fuck to do… here’s our correspondence, tell me what you think….

12/2/11
Dear Period,
This is kind of awkward for me, and I’m not even really sure what words to use.  You know I’ve always said I only wanted two kids right?  Well now I have them and I do realize I couldn’t have done it without you….

I remember when we first met.  You of course, always the prankster, had me waiting for our introduction.  Did you know I lied and told all the girls at school we had already met so that I wouldn’t be the last one?  It made me embarrassed then, but now I know it’s because you had a special first appearance in mind, didn’t you!  Was it the white pants that drew you to me?  Or was it because I was in a public park and you love a good laugh?  You were so sneaky too!  I didn’t even know you had arrived until I got home and went to take a piss, but I bet a lot of other people knew it just by looking at my backside huh?  Youuuuu.  I remember it so well because I didn’t just meet you for the first time that day.  I also met Tampon, and really, I officially met my Vagina that day as well.  We all had sooome party in the bathroom that afternoon didn’t we?  Ahhh, good times.  I look back at these times and almost forget about the ‘down days’ you’ve caused me, which is really the reason I’m writing you this letter in the first place….

Look, I know I owe you for feeding my kids in utero and all, but when I think of how many times you’ve been a bastard to me, I’d say we’re pretty goddamn even.  A surprise laugh is fine once in a while, but do you know how much fucking money you owe me in underwear???  AND sheets?!?!  AND towels!?!?!   Sometimes I really think that your goal in life is to embarrass me and put me in the poor house.  Oh, and by the way, all those times I was doubled over in excruciating pain…  I knew it wasn’t indigestion but YOU cramping the shit out of me. Cute. Very cute.  Then there’s the whole jealousy thing.  You have many times ruined my sex life by popping by at completely the wrong moments.  You are so rude and possessive that I have a ton of respect for any man who would turn the other cheek and put up with your fucking presence in the bed room.  Asshole.  Every fucking month  I’ve had to deal with you.  In fact, just the thought that you’re coming over makes me anxious and angry!  People tease me about it, but I don’t find it very funny….  You probably do though.  You probably get a real kick out of the way that I lash out at everyone around me all because of YOU, you ATTENTION WHORE!  And you don’t even take me anywhere or buy me anything…. ever!  In fact, it is I that always ends up spending money on YOU when you’re around.  Do you think tampons are cheap??  And pads?? AND LINERS????????  Lets add it to the underwear towels and sheets and see YOU pay that fucking bill DEADBEAT!
God I really hate you.  Which brings me to the point of this letter.

I’ve had enough bloating while you’re gloating.  I’m done, I’ve put up with you long enough and I just can’t take one more month of you!!!  There was a day I dreamed about your arrival, but now? Now I pray for your departure.  Your services are no longer need here.  I’m officially “closing up shop” and I’m afraid you’ve GOT TO GO.  You can keep being your regular asshole self, just NOT HERE.  So, I’m gonna need you to pack up your shit and get the fuck out of my life.  I will grant you one last swan song because frankly, there’s no other way for you to go but then THAT’S IT.  I never want to see your bloody face EVER AGAIN!  You hear me?!?!  We’re done, I hate you, now LEAVE.
-me
12/2/11
Dear You,
You ungrateful BITCH!  You would be NOTHING without me.  All the money in the WORLD couldn’t pay for what I’ve given your selfish ass.  You want me to leave so bad???  MAKE ME SLUT….. oh, and I know just how much of a slut you are, or are we forgetting?? And the times you didn’t feel like being a slut??  Who bailed you out?!! Who?!?! Or are we FORGETTING THAT TOO???  AND swim class, and I even fucking bailed you out of WORK many times!!!!! Like I said, you may be done with me, but I aint  done with YOU and I aint goin’ NOWHERE.
-your period.
12/3/11
Period,
You sadistic, creepy, uterine STALKER!  I can see this isn’t going to go nicely.  You’ll be sorry for this.
-Me
12/4/11
BITCH,
OOOOO I’m SO SCARED.   You got me shaking in YOUR UTERUS.     Listen carefully, here’s a little FYI for ya, me and menopause are TIGHT.  So, if you think I’M bad, just wait until I give my girl Meno a call.   If you don’t slow your roll…. you’ll be PRAYING for CRAMPS over the HOT FLASHES we got in store for you…. so chill the fuck out, and step away from Seasonique bitch, or YOU’RE the one who’s gonna be sorry.
-Your worst nightmare.
So that was the letter I got yesterday, and frankly, I’m a little scared.