So I have this friend. She’s kinduva bitch.

And I mean that in the entirely derogatory sense of the word.

I can do that, because she knows she’s a bitch. Like I know I’m offensive.

One must own their shit, ya know.

This woman will tell you what’s up and she won’t sugar-coat it, and yeah. Sometimes it STINGS.

She won’t soften it to save your delicate feelings or protect the soul of your vulnerable inner child. Fuck your inner child, I hear her saying, “you’re a big girl now.”

Sometimes I want to punch her in the face because I’m like “look lady, leave me alone, I don’t have time for this shit and I’d REALLY APPRECIATE IT if you’d just let me hide out in my warm little delusional cave.” But she won’t. It’s outta the question.

(Not gonna lie, it’s a little unnerving to be around that much honesty. Kinda makes you realize how totally and completely full of shit most people are (including me!)).

But after that initial “I’ll kill you in your sleep” passes, I want to kiss her and tie her up in my basement until she promises she’ll never leave, because I realize I have a friend who loves me enough to tell me the truth.

Like the other day when I showed up at her house in The Only Pair of Jeans I owned, which happened to be a size too big and consequently hanging off my ass, a feature that was particularly problematic when I would bend over, since my underwear aren’t the grandma kind (if ya know what I mean). And, if you read my last post, you know I have NO BUSINESS WHATSOEVER wearing non-grandma underwear. But I do anyway, because I got hooked on them in college, and I’ve never gone back. So in short, my bending over revealed what I can imagine was a somewhat disconcerting montage of cotton, cellulite and butt crack, with possibly a few stretch marks thrown in for good measure.

Hot. “Hot” is the word you’re looking for.

Anyway she basically recited the aforementioned paragraph to me in no uncertain terms, punctuating the entire thing with “we’re going today to get you new jeans. Today.”

Luckily, my two other way nicer and way gentler friends were there to soften the blows of The Bitch, and luckily the four of us are the most perfect disaster in the world, so we could go to the mall with the distinct purpose of fixing my broke ass and it felt alright and was only kind of embarrassing.

We’re like a Sex in the City episode, only with way hotter, smarter women (um duh), and not in New York. And possibly less expensive shoes. And not quite so skinny. So maybe not like it at all. Let’s move on.

So we get there and The Bitch starts running around grabbing shit off shelves, demanding my size and that I try certain things on, then hauls me into the dressing room where she sits there and watches me squeeze my rear end into approximately 9,000 pairs of jeans she chose.

Ah, but then the miracle happened. I put a pair on. She said “Holy shit, those are hot. Your ass is amazing. Your thighs look so thin it’s criminal.”

I turned a couple times in front of the mirror. She called my other friends in. They all agreed. They all discussed my amazing ass.

They told me the TRUTH, and I knew it. I knew there was nothing but honesty, and my feelings weren’t being factored into their assessment, so I could rely wholeheartedly on anything they said.

And there is no better thing in a friendship, as far as I can tell.

So I bought the damn jeans, and I wear them, and I know I look good, and I feel confident and loved, because I’ve got friends who are willing to help me, even if it may embarrass me to be helped.

I have friends who love me even though I’m a certifiable dork who can barely dress herself, who repeatedly wears clothes that should be thrown away, and will continue doing so until somebody has the balls to say “Janelle. SERIOUSLY?”

They know all this, and they’ll say it out loud, and then they’ll handle it, for me, with me.

In spite of me.

Until they’re the asshole in the saggy jeans, and I’m the bitch, and it’s my turn to tell the truth and drag them into the dressing room, loving them anyway, for being such a dork, for needing me to pick them up, save them one more time, with brutal honesty, and denim.

You see that face she’s making? Yep. It says it all.

Yeah, that’s right. I’m talking to you. Are you offended by that?

Well then you’ve come to the wrong blog.

We like to say it like it is around here. And some of us are fat. Call it whatever gentler name you want (fluffy, overweight, bulky, weight-challenged), but the problem remains: We’re FAT.

And some of us are miserable about it. Some of us aren’t exactly “into” the way we look.

Yeah, I’m talking to you. If you’re fat and happy, I’m not talking to you.

If you’re fat and okay with it, get on with your bad self.

If you’re 3 pounds over your “goal weight,” well done, but you are so not my target audience.

I’m talking to the women who are fat and fucking miserable.

I’m talking to the ones who hate themselves for the way they eat, the ones who stare at themselves disgusted, the ones who lie down at night wondering “WHY? Why did I eat like that AGAIN? What’s wrong with me? God I hate myself. ”

The ones who would rather have 6 root canals than go clothes shopping. The ones who can’t sit on the floor. The ones with limited mobility (if you can’t run on the beach with your kids, if you can’t squat, you have limited mobility, baby). The ones who will fucking cut you if you take their picture. The ones who look at themselves in the mirror when nobody’s around and shake their heads in amazement, because they just can’t believe they’ve become that woman.

The fat woman.

The one who’s embarrassed to eat in public because she’s a fat person eating. The one who won’t eat junk food around others very often, because she’s always aware, aware that she’s a fat woman eating badly, and people are probably thinking “Look at her. Look at what she’s eating. No wonder she’s fat.”

GROSS.

The woman who’d rather not have sex because there’s just nothing hot about her. Or so she thinks.

The one who hates herself. The one who hates herself so much she keeps on eating. The one who can’t stop eating the foods that comfort her – in some sick cycle of self-abuse, engaging in the act that’s making her miserable.  The woman who’s so fat she doesn’t care anymore.

I’m already disgusting. Might as well keep eating.

I was that woman.

At my biggest, a few years ago, I was 255 pounds. I am 5 feet 8 inches tall. I wore a size 18.

After I had Rocket in 2005, I was about 30 pounds overweight (a good weight for my body is about 150 pounds, which is a size 8). In 2006 I went on a psych medication (trying to treat my drinking problem) that caused me to gain 70 pounds in about 5 months. The next thing I knew I was 100 pounds overweight.

I was obese.

I had never been that woman. I had always pretty much eaten what I wanted. I was able to regulate my weight with small dietary changes and a little exercise, but all the sudden I was The Fucking Fat Chick.

Everything I mentioned above was my life: the self-hatred, the disgust, the lack of sex drive, the limited mobility, the sick relationship with eating. The mind-boggling inability to change one goddamn thing about my diet.

I used to defend my fatness by telling people (and myself) about that medication, and that was true, but I was off all medications by the end of 2009. SO WHY WAS I STILL FAT?

Well, because I was eating like a fat person. I figured what the hell, I’m already gross, why not eat like a gross person? I lost a few pounds when I went off the meds, but not much. When I found out I was pregnant with Georgia I weighed 250 pounds and I fucking flipped. I COULD NOT GAIN ANY MORE WEIGHT. So I exercised and ate really well during that pregnancy, gaining only about 22 pounds.

I lost that plus about 20 more after she was born, mostly due to a uterine infection a couple days after her birth that sent me to the hospital on IV antibiotics for 3 days, plus 30 more days of antibiotics that killed my appetite. SCORE!?

But then I just hung out, fat.

I was about 230 pounds in January of 2012, when I hit what could be called my “bottom,” that point when I’m ready to change. That point when I just can’t stand myself for one more goddamn moment, when my excuses make my toes curl and my skin crawl, when I see myself for exactly what I am without any polish, and call myself out on my own bullshit.

Janelle, you’re not fat because of that medication. You’re fat because you’re eating like a goddamn fat person and not exercising and you hate yourself so you just keep on doing it.

SO DO SOMETHING DIFFERENT.

You’re 33 years old and you’re wasting your life. There will come a time when your body will fail you. There will come a time when no matter how thin you are or how much you exercise, your joints will hurt and your bones will be weak and it will hurt to do things.

And yet here you are, wasting your body while it’s still good. When you could be vigorous and strong and free.

ONLY YOU CAN DO SOMETHING. So do something.

So at the first of the year I started swimming laps and I did the Fat Smash diet, AND I DIDN’T CHEAT. I was willing to do anything to lose that weight, to feel human again, to use my body like it was meant to be used, to feel pretty, even occasionally. To not feel like shit all the time.

And by July of 2012 I had lost 50 pounds (a total of 70 since I was at my fattest).

Now I weigh 180 pounds and wear a size 12.

I feel alive again. I can run with my kids on the damn beach. I can walk up stairs and not get winded. I can sit on the ground and get up again without struggle. I can squat (for a minute, but HEY).

But check it out: the good is the enemy of the best, and now I find myself with a WHOLE NEW SLEW OF EXCUSES keeping me from losing my last 30 pounds.

But Janelle, you’ve already lost 70 pounds. You’re good.

You look so much better than you did before.

The last 30 are so hard to lose.

Basically, because I’m not fucking miserable anymore, I think I can just hang out where I am, even though I’m not where I want to be.

And so here’s to you, ladies, the ones who are suffering, the ones who can’t stand themselves.

The miserable fat ones.

What stories are you telling yourself?

What’s keeping you from living, from becoming strong, from being where you want to be?

I’m 100% convinced  that success of my life is determined in direct proportion to my ability to see through my own bullshit, to call myself out on my own lies, to see through the fallacies I sell myself as truth.

Fuck honesty with others. That’s easy.

The hard part is honesty with myself. When nobody’s looking. When nobody’s around and I’m going through the fast-food line, or eating my third cookie, and acting like it just isn’t my fault.

Or I’ll change it tomorrow.

I swear I will.

But I lie down at night and I’ve done it again and I hate myself, for being a liar, a fake and a fraud, a damn pig.

I’m telling you all this because I’ve got to be accountable to somebody, and you all are my favorite people in the world.

This isn’t a resolution. This is a promise to stop lying to myself.

They say the truth will set you free. Maybe. I guess we’ll see.

It’s January 23, 2013. Most resolutions have died. But it’s a new year and we’ve got 11 more months to stop the bullshit that’s killing us.

What are you going to do with it?

I, for one, am going to lose 30 fucking pounds.

And now I’ve said it out loud, on the internet, where even a bull-shitter like me can’t hide.

I’ve been told that many programs exist to educate young women on the perils of early motherhood. You know, avoid teen pregnancy and such. I’ve only heard of this sex education because I went to a Catholic girls’ school. We don’t talk about those things there. Plus, none of us were going to have sex because we were saving ourselves for marriage.

Obviously.

Now, I imagine that much of this teen-pregnancy/smart-sex/use-protection-or-die education centers around the economic burden of motherhood, the extreme responsibility, the destruction of one’s social life, and perhaps the reality of missed or limited opportunities facing a girl who’s 15 and pregnant.

This may work. But I really believe there is a better way. When I think back to my teenaged self, so cool, so hot, so together and omniscient, I can’t help but think my sorry ass would not have given two shits about economics or social life or responsibility, because I didn’t really know much about those things. I had no perspective. I had no idea that not leaving your house for 2 months or talking only to toddlers would make me want to crawl in a hole and wither. I had no idea how hard it is to pay only the really late bills because the current ones still have a tolerance window (I mean bills don’t even become real until they’re a month late, right?).

However, there is one thing I understood, and that’s humiliation. I understood that. That hit my fragile egoic self where it hurt. I also understood things that are fucking disgusting. For example, dog shit.

And so, I propose that we tell young girls stories like the one I’m about to tell. We could compile our stories and market the anthology as The Best Birth Control Ever.

It would be like that camp they send disturbed youth to – the one where they attempt to shock them into obedience – they yell at them and take them to prisons and abandon them in the wilderness, doing their best to scare the living shit outta them until they snap out of their delusion and realize they’re ruining their lives. It would be like that, only for motherhood.

Remember Laser? Oh yeah, sweet little bundle of Labrador. Sweet, psychotic bundle of holy-fuck-what-was-I-thinking-getting-a-puppy. Yes, him.

Anyhoo, we were in Tahoe.  We went to the grocery store. Mac, the older kids and my mom went into the store for supplies and Starbuck’s while I waited in the car with Georgia and both dogs. While I waited, I opened the door next to Georgia’s car seat so I could play with her and prolong the point at which she loses her fucking mind because she realizes she’s trapped in a seat and there are things happening without me damnit! While standing there, Laser was sort of jumping on the seat next to her, on the other side of the car. I ignored him. At one point, however, he put his nose across Georgia’s lap and I noticed some brown stuff on it. I thought it was peanut butter.

[Warning: this story is disgusting. Remember: SHOCK TREATMENT. We’re going for shock here people. If we sugar-coat we won’t be as effective.]

I leaned over to see what was on his nose and I realized in a moment of horror that it was not peanut butter  at all. It was poop. It was dog poop. I determined this thanks to my keen olfactory senses. The  next few moments happened in slow motion, but so fast I couldn’t believe it was happening. It was like a car accident. Time slows down but it’s moving at lightning speed.

I look at the seat under  the dog. There is a giant pile of dog diarrhea. My heart stops. Things are dire. Life and death, Janelle. Don’t fuck up. I assess the situation. He’s about to step in it. I must get him out. I bolt to the other side of the car, open the door.

My whole life is hinging on the successful removal of this dog from the car, but I cannot allow him to touch the pile of shit. I cannot fail! I grab his leash and try to pull him toward me, but because the dog is fucking idiotic, he of course flails, steps in the poop and SLIDES ACROSS THE SEAT, dragging the pile of crap across my entire seat and his body. As he jumps out of the car he brushes against me and drags the back of the leash across the morass of excrement.

So there I am, dog shit on my arm, my shirt, my hand. A puppy hopping around psychotically, covered in shit. Holding a leash covered in shit. Staring in awe and wonder and shock at the most enormous pile of dog diarrhea I’ve ever seen, covering the better part of the back seat of the only car we have – the one we need to DRIVE IN and SIT IN.

And I’m stunned. I’m paralyzed. There is no way out. I’m only in survival mode now.  I’m trying to move the dog away from me. He’s jumping on me. Georgia’s yelling. I’m holding the leash out. I have no idea what to do. There is no solution. If I put the fucking dog back in the car we have more shit in the car. But I have to get this off of me and I have to clean my seat.

FYI, there is something infinitely disturbing about being covered in animal excrement.

I hear a noise. I look down. Laser is vomiting. You think I’m kidding? NO. NO I’M NOT. Evidently he ate half of a bully stick, WHOLE. He ralphs ALL OVER THE GROUND NEXT TO ME and almost immediately begins eating it.

I pull him away. He pukes again. Tries to eat it. And I want to die.

So yes, that’s right people. I was standing in the Safeway parking lot covered in dog diarrhea with vomit at my feet and a shit-covered dog attacking me, next to a car doused in crap. And I was alone.

And this, my friends, is my life. Two people asked me if I needed help. I said “um, yes. I need you take this dog and my life. Right now.”

All I could do was stand there and wait for help. I waited for at least 10 minutes in that condition, while people walked by, glanced at me, the dog, the vomit, heard the toddler screaming.

[I wonder how Snooki would have handled that situation.]

Finally Mac came out, horrified of course, bought upholstery cleaner and rags and disinfectant wipes. He held back the dog, tried to clean him, while I cleaned myself and scrubbed dog shit off my seat for AN ENTIRE HOUR.

Now, perhaps our teenaged wonder may read this story and think “Ah, that’s got nothing to do with motherhood. That dumb broad got herself into that trouble, buying a puppy and going on trips and shit.”

But to that I declare: IT IS THE FAULT OF MOTHERHOOD. Why? I’ll tell you why.

Step 1: Have a kid.

Step 2: Have another kid. Maybe another, to give the first kid siblings.

Step 3: Raise them for awhile.

Step 4: Begin doing things that families do, such as buy a fucking Labrador.

Step 5: Stand in vomit piles in a parking lot while covered in dog shit next to your desecrated vehicle.

You see? One thing leads to the next. And what’s the first step? Have a kid.

The jump from kid to dog shit is such a tiny one. And even if you never get a dog, kiddo, there will be excrement in your life and you will be covered in it. Absolutely more than once.

Are you gettin’ that? SHIT. On your skinny jeans.

And that, my friends, is why you don’t want to get pregnant as a teenager…because nobody looks cool doused in dog crap. Or kid crap, for that matter. And once that kid comes, there ain’t no going back.

It’s crap for you, baby.

That’s your future.

Choose wisely.

I’m here. Waiting. To shit on you.

Normally I don’t write my weekly Sunday post because I’m disorganized and insane and can’t pull it together. This week, however, I haven’t written because I don’t want to tell you about my week. Not because I don’t want to share – because we ALL know I’m a hopeless over-sharer – but rather, because for once, I’m without words. Well, almost without words.

I write when I have something to say. I write because something rolls in my head, around and around, until it ends somewhere. And when it ends, I know what I need to say. Even with those silly weekly posts, I know what I want to say.

But I don’t know what to say now. I’ve got no “message,” no “take away.” Not much of anything at all.

On Wednesday, a dear friend – one of those family members who aren’t family members – died in a car accident. To my children, he was a beloved uncle. To my husband, he was a best friend. To me, well, he was a man I knew well and cared about deeply for the last 11 years – revered highly – and absolutely adored for what he was in the lives of my in-laws and husband and children. The way he loved them. The way they loved him.

He was the one who never missed a birthday party, a family celebration, a barbeque. He was the one who never said “no I can’t help.” He was just.always.there.

Until now. Now he is gone.

His heart, it was huge. I see that heart right now. I miss who he was. Just him.

And so I’ve spent the week grieving with my children, watching them walk through this with the miraculous grace only a child possesses – so in the moment, so bravely, so unaffected and free. They play, eat, sleep, walk. And then they remember, cry, fold into each other’s arms, talk, remember. And then, they play again.

But I, I’m a little more stuck in my brain — I’ve got a story about it. I replay it and wonder why. I replay it and I want it to be different. I replay it and I my heart breaks for him, for being gone like this, and his daughter, and my in-laws and my husband and my kids, who have faced the intransience of life. Right now. So early.

I tell myself I need this to mean something. I tell myself I need to live. Now.

Now.

Finish the book I started writing, lose the last 20 pounds, apply to PhD programs I’ll “never get into.” Read the books gathering dust on my night stand. Spend time in an ashram. Live in Europe. Do some fucking yoga.

But it’s all so clichéd – that embrace life carpe diem bullshit after somebody dies – because what are the facts? The fact is this death will fade, this loss will drift into my past, my life will go on, and slowly, without my knowing, in will creep the illusion of security, the vast fallacy of permanence, the great human trick  – and I will buy it again, once more – the rabbit in the hat - becoming deluded, believing I know where I’m going to be tomorrow.

Assuming that I will “be”, at all, tomorrow.

Resting secure in the insane notion that I’ve got this life thing covered.

And then, I’ll start complaining again. Stressing about the lone $2.43 in my bank account. Agonizing about my prospects for finding a job when I’m done with school. Feeling the weight of the unfinished. Wondering how I’m failing my kids. Bitching at my mother. Cursing the halted traffic.

But for now, yeah, I’m free of that stuff, breathing a little deeper the air of this strange universe, welcoming the delta winds on my face, and my kids haven’t annoyed me in four days. Today, yes, I’m trembling in the joy and energy of existence, of my life.

Because it IS.

And so you see. I have no closure here, nothing to say. I’ve got no wit. Nothin’ clever up in here, today.

Just life, I guess.

May that always be enough.

And until we meet again, Uncle Jeffy, rest in sweet peace.

So there are friends, and then there are those friends.

There are childhood friends, who are pretty much sisters. And on the other end of the spectrum there are acquaintances, who you kind of know and kind of like…but then, then there those fascinating creatures right in the middle: FRIENDS. Those friends. The people who get you and you get them and it just works. There’s nothing forcing the relationship…you’re friends just because the two of you jive.

Ya feel me?

I have a few of these friends. And I heart them with all my heart.

Whoa. That was lame.

Yes, lame. But true. And the other day I was thinking about these friends and I realized that one of the things that make them so awesome is that we have some “understandings” – some unspoken ways of functioning with one another.

With these friends, I don’t have to worry about sounding good, looking good, being polite or scaring them. I can just be.

Mostly because we have these understandings, which I have summarized here:

1. If you call one of these women a name, say for example “slut,” they will respond with something way more offensive, such as “pirate hooker.”
2. This will not be offensive. This will be funny.
3. Sexual innuendo is a basic tenet of conversation. For example, one of the friends in question may respond to the aforementioned name calling with something along the lines of “I love it when you talk dirty to me.” or “you’re so hot when you’re mad.”
4. Not returning phone calls for a day or two or never is not rude, it is a reality of our lives and we all know it and we realize that soon, we will be the asshole who isn’t returning calls.
5. It is always the husband’s fault. And when you bitch about the bastard, you will not get sound advice, helpful suggestions or supportive pick-me-ups, rather, you will hear some totally unhelpful over-generalization such as “I fucking hate men.” or “God I wish I were a lesbian.”
6. A couple of the friends I’m referring to here are in fact lesbians, so in that case, we just talk shit about their partners and mumble things like “Let’s move to Vermont and get married and we can have lovers on the side. I’m okay with it.” In fact, that exact sentence occurred recently with a particular friend of mine.
7. The conversations in 5 and 6 will never be told to outsiders. In fact, if they occur on the day of your wedding anniversary, this friend will STILL congratulate you wholeheartedly on Facebook, acting as if you hadn’t just told her you’d like to kick your husband in the, ahem, face.
8. PMS is an excuse for all kinds of insanity and weeping and depression, but you will be taken seriously when you call in that state. No questions asked.
9. If you show up to dinner with one of these friends looking like a homeless person, they won’t even notice.
10. If you just had a baby, they’ll say you look amazing.
11. If you just had a baby, you’ll get to decide everything.
12. It is agreed that people who don’t understand sarcasm are suffering from some horrible mental deficiency and pretty much aren’t funny.
13. We, however, are universally hilarious.
14. Comments like “My demon spawn are ruining my life. This evening, instead of eating dinner, I plan on igniting myself and jumping off a building while playing ‘Blaze of Glory’ on a jukebox” are not alarming, wrong, or weird. Because these friends have been there and they’ll admit it.
15. Any of us can flake pretty much immediately before the event without anybody losing their minds, on account of the demon spawn mentioned above. Or PMS. Or the problematic partner.
16. None of us know a damn thing about parenting and express it openly, you know, like this for example:

Me: “Rocket’s doing [super annoying behavior]. Have your kids ever done that?”

Friend: “No, my kids are fucking perfect.”

Me: “So what did you do about it?”

Friend: “I drank a bottle of wine and left my house.”

And it’s understood that we aren’t those mothers who “know” and give wonderfully helpful advice and bask in the glory of our perfect children.

Rather, we are the mothers who do our best, clumsily and unglamorously, and often, slightly unwillingly, hoping for the best but often getting what appears to be the worst. And when that happens, we call each other and whine and commiserate, and call each other inappropriate names.

And somehow, I feel better every time.

By the way, at the risk of sounding like a lonely internet inhabitant with no real life, as I was writing this I realized that many of you are in this classification of friends. Though we may have never met in person, somehow, we jive, and sarcasm abounds, and clearly, we are the same mothers. And we are all, obviously, fucking hilarious.

So here’s to the understandings.

Between friends.

Time for another installment of “Fun with Google Search Terms,” when we give a little recognition to the whackos who click through to my blog (present company excluded of course).

Here are the best ones in the past couple months. For those of you who haven’t played before, the terms below are the Google searches people enter to eventually find my blog. Since they probably didn’t find what they were looking for on my blog (with some of these, GOD HELP US if they did), I’d like to take a moment to respond to them. You know, like guidance.

Because everybody seeks my guidance.

As you can imagine.

So here we go.

1. “do crackheads fingers turn black” – Yes. Though my friend, I believe that may be the least of their problems. (AGAIN with the crackheads. We always end up with the crackheads.)
2. “are playdates necessary?” – If you are asking questions like that, then my dear, in this case, you have come to the right place. Here’s the quick answer: only if the parents are cool.
3. “jessica simpson’s feet are weird” – Not as weird as the fact that you just Googled that.
4. “how to stop writing on bathroom stalls” – Well, I would start by not taking a pen in there with ya. Also, you could just not do it. You know, try and stuff and see how that goes. Maybe there’s a 12-step group for people who can’t stop defacing public property.
5. “a hoarding to propagate a daily glass of milk is every child’s right” – I have no idea what that means but I know it needs to be on this list.
6. “what the fuck is a water table?” – I don’t know you, but I like you.
7. “do i yell at my kids because I’m angry at them?” – No, you yell at them because you are delighted with them, which is always why people yell at one another. Also, please don’t have any more kids. You’re kind of an idiot.
8. “fuck yo barbaric yawp” – Alright I’m serious. We need to be friends. Who are you? You quoted Walt Whitman and used the word “fuck” in the same sentence. WE ARE SOUL MATES.
9. “can i buy my kids way into gifted and talented education” – Let’s sure hope so, because that would be so helpful to them. I mean they’d really learn a LOT by having you buy their way into GATE. [P.S. Does it scare anybody else that asshats like this are walking around the world like it's nothin', quite possibly producing children who exist near our children?]
10. “i realized i like to be naked” – You’re just realizing that now? What the hell were you doing in your twenties?
11. “fuck you mean fitted sheet” – I want to write something but I’m laughing too damn hard. Win.
12. “Saturday message from Jesus” – Does it change on Saturdays? [Also, can we take a moment to appreciate that somebody looking for Jesus's message came to MY blog?]
13. “Bible quotes against Facebook” – Yo, Einstein, Facebook wasn’t around when the Bible was written. Now go back to scouring the Bible for passages you can manipulate into anti-homosexual propaganda.
14. “why is my dog mothering a sock?” – No idea, but I’d give pretty much anything to see how that’s going down
15. “neon fucking green shorts bitch” – You tell ‘em.
16. “my parents are unenlightened” -Are you sure?

And now we can all feel confident knowing that this blog is still pulling some of the brightest bulbs in the shed, as well as the crack heads, who are always welcome.

P.S. Fuck yo barbaric yawp.

I’m using that.

The other day Mac and I did this thing where we flirt and tease all day, temporarily deluding ourselves into thinking we’re hot and have an active sex life.

Dad, please stop reading this post.

Anyhoo, you know, we taunt and whisper things and grab inappropriately. Et cetera.

As you can imagine, this is rather fun, and by the end of the day, both of us are ready for, um, the end of the day.

So a couple days ago we were doing the aforementioned let’s-pretend-we-just-met thing all day long. That evening I went out with a friend and didn’t get home until 11:30pm. The whole drive home I was imagining how I would wake him, a-hem – and what would probably follow. I went in the house ready to assault him.

But when I walked in the door I was assaulted. By the condition of my house. The front room looked like Toys R Us spun around in circles vomiting on the floor. The living room and kitchen were barely recognizable. The real clincher, however, was the animals. They were all pacing around like the walking dead, moaning and mewing and looking at me like “Please. Do something.”

I checked the cat’s bowls. Empty. I checked the dog’s. Empty. I checked the fucking rodents’. EMPTY.

Suddenly, I was not in the mood. What the fuck, husband. It’s 11:30pm and I want to ravage you but instead I have to walk around and feed the furry beasts. Even though you were here all night, and they were supposed to be fed HOURS ago…and I’ve been asking you for like 6 months to please help feed the animals on a regular basis…you still couldn’t do it and now, once again, at the end of my day, I have to do what was YOUR JOB.

Not hot, husband.

Not hot at all.

And as I finished feeding the last small mammal and felt the last spark of sex drive fizzle out through my toes, and my desire to do my husband turned into a desire to do in my husband, I realized how drastically my idea of “hot” has changed since I was like, oh I don’t know, 20.

Of course it’s a little hard to tell what I considered “hot” when I was 20, since my man of choice was whoever showed up after I’d had enough beers to make men start appearing hot (which may explain how pretty much NONE of them fit the “hot” bill the next morning….but I digress).

Despite this difficulty, I’m 99% sure “Hey baby, I fed the guinea pigs” would not have struck my former self as a turn-on.

But now? Oh yeah. Bring it.

What? You picked your stinky ass socks off the bathroom floor and put them in the actual laundry basket?

Come here baby. I got something for ya.

What’s that you say? You cleaned out the car and changed the sheets?

Take me I’m yours.

To illustrate, I made you a few graphics, which embody my current idea of the hottest shit in the world.

Yes, I realize this makes me pathetic and old and uninteresting.

Also, tired. Very tired. And with a thrashed house. So tired am I, in fact, and so thrashed is this house, that the thought of a man doing the chores they somehow can’t manage to figure out how to do on their own EVER. (I’m serious. What is wrong with them?!)..is like a giant hit off the love pipe. Like roses and dirty talk and sweat and red wine. Like oceans and whispers and bare muscular chests.

Like yes, please.

[by the way, if I'm the only one of you who finds men-doing-chores sexy, I will in fact off myself.]

Why yes.

Yes I do.

Look, I’ve given this a lot of thought. I’ve mulled it over and analyzed it from fifty directions. I’ve considered and contemplated and questioned. And as you know, I spend a good deal of my life contemplating irrational theories with no importance whatsoever, so it should come to no surprise that I have come to the following conclusion…

There are two types of mothers in the world: those who say things like “baby sprinkle,” and those who do not.

What the fuck is a “baby sprinkle?” Yes, Exactly. That’s why we’re friends. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Evidently, a “baby sprinkle” is the celebration you have for your second baby (and subsequent ones I imagine). You know, it’s not a full shower. It’s a “sprinkle.” Isn’t that cute?

No, no it is not cute.

Well yes, actually. Actually yes it is cute. It is so cute it’s dripping cuteness from its every pore. It’s so cute it makes puppies look deformed. It’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

And if you said it to me (as in “I’m having a baby sprinkle!”) and you were serious, I would look at you as if you just told me you found a large elderly man rolling in peanut butter on your front porch.

And if I said that to any of my friends “I’m having a baby sprinkle!” they would know I was full of shit, because we don’t say things like that. And then they’d probably say something like “I got a sprinkle for you, bitch.”

Or some other wildly inappropriate innuendo.

And though it may sound like an oversimplification, I’m pretty sure I’m on to something here. There’s no way people can have an ambiguous reaction to that term. You don’t just hear the words “baby sprinkle” and walk off like nothing happened. You either say “Ooooooooo that’s so cute! I’m totally doing that!!!!”

Or you look at them dumbfounded and slightly afraid, making a mental note of the exact details of the situation so you can tell your friends about it later.

In other words, there are women who say shit like that and there are women who make fun of women who say shit like that.

No worries, though, because they make fun of us too. We all make fun of each other. We’re a very mean, judgmental bunch.

Just doing my part.

To illustrate, I made a graph. I like making graphs of my deep life theories. Feels very official.

You see I added “push present” to the graph. That’s because I believe there is a striking similarity between women who say “baby sprinkle” and women who say “push present.” And in contrast, the women who don’t. But the push present thing deserves its own post, which will be forthcoming. In fact, I think I’m going to start devoting regular blog time to this. It’ll be the “Stupid Shit Mothers Say” series. What do ya think?

Anyway, yes. I’ll admit it. I am among the women who would not use the term “baby sprinkle,” pretty much ever, unless maybe I wanted my husband to decorate a cupcake (as in a command: “baby, sprinkle!”). Yeah that’s pretty unlikely.

The truth is, when I hear things like “baby sprinkle,” my initial reaction is a wave of nausea that travels through my entire body, beginning at my toes. After that, I begin asking questions:

What does that even mean? Baby sprinkle. It’s a fucking shower. How is it different than a shower? Do we bring little gifts? No. You bring real gifts. Who the hell would bring a little gift? That’s rude. So why do they call it a sprinkle? To be cute? I hate being cute. I hate cute shit. I’m a grown-ass woman. I’ve given enough up for my kids. I don’t have to be CUTE too.

Fuck cute.

Why do mothers have to be cute?

Being pregnant isn’t cute. Having a baby isn’t cute. Raising kids isn’t cute. There is nothing cute about motherhood except, perhaps, the kids, on occasion. And that’s a big PERHAPS and there’s a lot of NOT CUTE AT ALL buffering every moment of “cute,” so why do we have to have embrace the cute like it’s all there is?

My God. Did she really just say “baby sprinkle?”

Now, I could be wrong, but I THINK this reaction is a tiny bit different than that of the woman who sent out this invitation:

Ah, cupcakes with sprinkles. Get it. Sprinkles. Cupcakes. Baby Sprinkle.

Oh, so CUTE.

Come on, let’s all go be cute together.

Bunch of cute, sprinkly mothers, that’s us.

Well, now. That’s not a sentence you hear every day. Even Jessica herself might be a little surprised to read that one.

Or, perhaps even more alarming, she might not.

Anyhoo, the other day on the trusty cardio machine I was reading my trusty trash magazines and I saw a picture of Jessica during her baby shower. [Um, how much did she rake in for letting People Magazine cover that one?] And as I saw her I thought to myself “WOW. She’s gained some WEIGHT.”

And then I read that she served deep-fried Twinkies at her shower, which triggered in my trusty little brain a vague recalling of some chatter a few months back about how she said on Jay Leno that she was craving some ghastly brownie creation involving cookie dough and Oreos.

And all the sudden, I kinda started to like her.

I mean she’s not up there with like, say, Jane Austen or my grandma, but she’s further up than most famous pop singers.

Sure, I have never actually listened to a song she’s sung. (She does make music, right?)

And I don’t think I’ve ever actually watched a movie she’s made (there was that one with the car and water and super short shorts…that I never fully watched…Duke something?).

And she doesn’t strike me as the sharpest tool in the shed.

And I have a feeling we may have slightly different approaches to life (considering she sold her baby shower to People Magazine).

And I wouldn’t really suggest my daughters aspire to be like her, per se.

HOWEVER, despite all this, she’s my new hero – say, for the week – because she’s somebody in Hollywood who finally acted like a fucking human during pregnancy by eating too much and getting fat. Like the rest of us.

FINALLY.

Finally somebody who doesn’t look like they’ve placed a small basketball in their Gucci dress and called it a baby, with perfectly toned arms/legs/ass/head (can a head be toned?)…happily announcing “I’m due any day!”

While we all watch, gagging from our living rooms at the sight of such horridness (I mean SHIT, ANGELINA, EAT)…sitting there 8 months pregnant and wondering how the hell we’re gonna get off the couch, since we just ate like everything and pretty much can’t move even when we haven’t just eaten. Everything.

Finally. A chick in Hollywood who gets fat like a normal person.

Oh yeah. Yeah yeah yeah I know. Health. Yes. Of course. Not every woman gets fat.

True.

But most of us do.

Fact.

Or at least, we feel fat. And we gain more than we wanted. And we don’t do Pilates and yoga and ride bikes and swim and eat quinoa and roasted eggplant til the day we deliver.

Most of us eat shit and get fat and hope to God that the whole breastfeeding-burns-calories theory holds water.

And so, I commend you, Jessica Simpson, for representing the poor choices women make during that special time. And for discussing it on national television. And in People Magazine. Even if you did get millions for it.

Of course, now I hear you’ve already sold your post-baby weight-loss journey to some weight-loss company, which means we have suddenly somehow already lost touch with one another, which is kind of sad.

We had some good times, you and I.

It was good while it lasted.

But no matter how thin you get, no matter how many 5Ks you run 4 months after your baby’s born, no matter how soon you divorce your latest flavor, and no matter how BAD your next entertainment endeavor is… I’ll always remember you as The Actual Hollywood Human Female who ate horrible things during pregnancy, got fat, and admitted it.

Like the rest of us.

So cheers to my new hero.

Gooooooo Jessica!

Did I really just write a blog post about Jessica Simpson being my hero? Somebody help me.

So last week I didn’t write any blog posts because my computer broke, but the week before I didn’t write any blog posts because I was too pissed off to write.

And what, you ask, happened to piss me off to such an extent?

Well, now, that’s the fun part. Because nothing happened. Nothing at all. Nada.

Unless you count THAT THING. That thing that happens once a month. That thing that turns me, within seconds, into a stark raving mad specimen of humanity – a walking nutjob.

I’m fine. And then OMG I’M NOT.

That thing that makes me want to punch strangers in the throat for chewing too loudly, cry, scream, and eat all simple carbohydrates in a five-mile radius. That thing that makes me question the meaning of life while weeping at a car commercial and screaming at my kids to please STOP MAKING NOISE. To which they respond “Mama, I’m reading.”

Oh yeah. You know what I’m talking about. They call it “PMS.”

For the record, I think that is the stupidest name IN THE WORLD for such a thing.

I have some better ones. More descriptive. Accurate.

Such as: “Pissed off, Maniacal and Starving” or “Pending Marital Separation” or “Psychotic, Melodramatic, and Seething,” or “Pardon My Satanic-nature.” Those are just some ideas.

You think I’m kidding? You think I’m exaggerating? I’m not.

“Pre-menstrual Syndrome…” Bullshit. That sounds so innocuous, like it ain’t that big of a deal. Well I’m here to speak for those of us women who TURN INTO MONSTERS for a few days each month and pretty much have no capacity to change it. I’m always slightly amazed my husband hasn’t left me after that “special time.”

Men, listen up. This shit applies to you too.

At any rate, check it out: once a month, about a week before my period, I’m sitting there minding my own business when all the sudden, out of freaking nowhere, drifts into my reality a dark, cold haze. It enters every cell of my skin, right through to my bones. I feel it sinking in, a discomfort. An irritation. Like a fly buzzing just outside my ear. I feel it course through my veins. An anxiety. An angst. And I want to break things.

When it hits my ears they become more sensitive. When it hits my brain it becomes confused, scattered, anxious. When it hits my eyes they begin to only see the shit that annoys me. They see only negative.

And when it hits my heart, my heart gets heavy. It becomes a thousand pounds. My emotions burst from it in quick flashes of pain and agony and existential contemplation. What IS the meaning of life? Why AM I here? WHY do I yell at my kids so much?

But mostly…WHY IS MY HUSBAND SO FUCKING ANNOYING?

Why am I married in the first place?

Why did I ever get married?

Why do I have kids? Do I like my kids? Why am I so fat? I wish I were 20. Why aren’t I 20?

I need a scone.

And always there’s that FLY. It’s buzzing. It won’t shut up. It MUST SHUT UP.

FUCK ME.

It’s never shutting up.

It’s here. “People Must Surrender,” because I’m fucking insane. For a few days, I am insane. Women who get PMS like me should get a break from their lives. We should get a handicapped parking spot. We should get special pills and massages and a camp or something with nothing but silent people, trees and hot tubs.

Why? Well, I’ll tell you why. Because once a month:

1. I am not responsible for the shit that comes out of my mouth. I don’t even know who the fuck is saying it but I KNOW IT AIN’T ME. That bitch is crazy.
2. I am not responsible for the shit I put into my mouth (which makes me not responsible for the stuff going in or out of my mouth, which is slightly alarming).
3. I want to crawl in a hole and weep and die, though it’s unclear to me exactly why.
4. I cannot recall why anything in my life is the way it is and I’m pretty sure it’s ALL WRONG. (But there’s nothing you can do to fix it so don’t even try because it’s never getting better and that’s just the way it is you fucktard.)
5. I am no use to my husband (because it’s all his fault).
6. I am no use to my children (because they’re so irritating I can’t spend more than 5 minutes near them).
7. I am no use to my boss (because it’s hard to think when you suddenly realize your life isn’t worth living).
8. I am no use in class (because my neighbor’s face is irritating me somehow).
9. I am bloated. And nobody likes that. But I can’t drink water or get to the gym or do anything other than eat simple carbohydrates and sugar and caffeine because I’m comforting myself with food and beverage even though I’m going to regret it and I’m getting fatter by the fucking minute but OMG there’s that FLY and it WON’T STOP BUZZING PEOPLE.

Dude. No really. Let’s start a PMS camp.

Some medical site describes the emotional PMS symptoms as follows: “tension, irritability, mood swings or crying spells, anxiety, depression.”

I can summarize this in everyday language, and it pretty much summarizes my whole PMS experience, played out repeatedly, day after day, until suddenly, as fast as it came…it’s gone.

“Fuck you you irritate me please don’t leave me ever my GOD why are you so annoying no wait I’m sorry I’m such a bitch I want to move to Borneo forever oh my god I’m hungry.”

It’s good to be back. In more ways than one.