A friend of mine is expecting a baby any day. Thinking about her, about the last couple weeks of pregnancy, the days passing like the melting of arctic sheets (before climate change), each contraction offering hope (“could this be it?”) only to find yourself still pregnant 24 hours later, wondering the same damn thing, feeling like a turtle on its back – so damn powerless - sure you’re the first woman in history who will actually stay pregnant forever.

And all the assholes keep texting: “Have you had that baby yet? My goodness you must be READY TO BURST!”

I’ll kill you in your sleep if you call again, bitch.

So of course I sent her a text about how much the last days of pregnancy suck ass, and she agreed, but also responded with a text that surprised me. Apparently mothers were sending her messages about how hard breastfeeding is.

What the hell?

Why would you tell a woman about to give birth how “hard” breastfeeding is? Particularly if it were something she wanted to do?

Why do mothers feel compelled to “tell their stories” as if it’s universal fact anyway?

For every breastfeeding horror story, there is a beautiful one. Take mine, for example: my mom was a La Leche League educator. She showed me how to nurse my baby. Of course I did it wrong for a while, and my nipples felt like my own personal burning milk volcanoes for a couple weeks, but we pulled through and it was all good and the baby nursed til she was two. Is that beautiful? I don’t know. But I’m sure it wasn’t “hard.” Or maybe it was a little hard, but it wasn’t deal-breaker hard. And then with my other two kids, nursing was the easiest thing on the planet. I love nursing babies. I miss it sometimes.

But here’s the kicker:  that is just my experience with breastfeeding. I don’t know about your experience with breastfeeding. How the hell would I know? Maybe it will totally suck for you, or it won’t work, or you’ll hate it.

I’m not you. You’re you.

I’ve had experience being a wife but I have very little insight on your marriage.

I lived Texas for a while, but I have no idea how your trip to Austin’s gonna pan out.

I’ve lost a shitload of weight doing certain things, but I don’t know what you and your body need.

Um, DUH, right?

Yeah, it seems like “duh,” until you enter the presence of that special person who has just got to share her horror birthing story EVERY DAMN TIME SOMEBODY’S PREGNANT, or mentions birth, or thinks about mentioning birth, or thinks about getting pregnant, or knows somebody who once thought about getting pregnant.

“Oh my God, birth was the most traumatic experience of my life!!!  I was in labor for 9 days. No really. NINE DAYS. I didn’t eat food or drink water that entire time so when I went into the hospital they all thought I was going to die because I was so X, Y, and Z, and then they gave me Pitocin and I was in SO MUCH PAIN but they accidentally put the epidural in my calf instead of my back so I got NO relief. Finally I was at 10 and the doctor was like “PUSH! PUSH!” but there were nineteen interns in the room and I was trying to push but I couldn’t feel anything on account of the leg epidural, so I pushed for 5 hours until the doctor said “this baby is just too big to birth and the heart rate is declining,” so they rushed me in for an emergency ceseran and I passed out during it due to exhaustion so I didn’t even see my baby for 48 hours, which caused me PTSD and night terrors. And now I also have hemorrhoids the size of golf balls and the veins in my eyes are permanently popped and my calf is numb and half a hospital staff has seen my vagina. Basically I had rather stab spend the rest of my life stabbing myself in the eyes with bamboo shoots than give birth again. But good luck with yours!”

Oh COME ON. You know I’m barely exaggerating.

Seriously, what’s wrong with these people? How do we become so self-righteous as mothers that we think we KNOW The Way it Is, failing to recognize that all we know is our own tiny slice of life – a miniscule speck, a nothing. How have we become so self-centered that we believe it necessary to spew our horror stories across America, into the laps of hopeful, brave, capable women trying to carve out their own path in this crazy motherhood gig?

Is it empowering? No, it isn’t fucking empowering.

Does it help anybody in the world? Hell no. (Unless you count the storyteller’s ego.)

And I don’t know if you’ve noticed that these storytellers generally have one kid, maybe two – but probably one. Why do I think that?

Because after you’ve had more than one, you know that EACH BIRTH IS DIFFERENT and each nursing experience is different, and nobody can tell you what to do to birth your own baby.

And most importantly, you realize you don’t know shit.

Not that you won’t tell your birth story. That’s an actual god-given right and addiction and obsession of every mother. It must be done. Can’t be helped. But it can be done in a way that’s like “well, this is my experience,” rather than “This is the experience you will have and therefore this is what you should do.”

[Also, in the interest of full disclosure, I pretty much always tell my good friend Cara Lyn the gory details of all my birth stories, because it's just so fun to watch her squirm. Plus, she isn't pregnant. YET.]

But basically, the people who offer unsolicited apocalyptic stories need to remove their heads from their asses and get over themselves. (in my humble opinion – HA!)

Let a woman create her own damn horror story. Or, better yet, not.

Because check it out, psycho-horror-birth-story moms: For every dreadful traumatic birth story, there is a Rocket-birth story…
where you labor 6 hours at home with contractions timed perfectly apart, where you fall asleep (literally) between contractions, and you sway and rock and get in the shower, and you’re riding the waves of a gorgeous blue ocean, so whole and contained in some primal Eden, until your husband says “we have to go,” and you get in the car and drive to a birthing center, where the nurses think you can’t possibly be in hard labor – because you’re so just too CALM  – but they check you cause your mom insists (you could care less) and you’re at 8. You have 2 more huge contractions and forty-five minutes after arriving you get in the birthing tub and push three times, birthing an exquisite 8.5 pound baby boy.

The midwife says “Turn around, pick up your son.” (because you gave birth on your hands and knees)

So you turn and see him there with wide open eyes and outstretched arms, pushing the water like the fins of a little fish, until you scoop him up and pull him to the surface – to you to life and to earth – watch his eyes blink and lock on yours, his petal mouth draw its first deep breath while his body floods pink and your heart explodes then, for him.

And there isn’t a sound in the room.

There isn’t a single ripple in the entire universe to disrupt the waters of this one moment.

A midwife whispers “how do you feel?”

And you answer with a smile from your belly, “elated.”

OR, you can have a birth like Georgia’s, where you flail around the house screaming like a fucking hyena, wishing you’d die, until you finally, after 2.5 hours of pushing, birth a nearly 10-pound baby in a funky position (in a horse trough in your living room, FYI).

Both of these stories are “truth.”

But the thing is they’re just my truth: small and unique and mine.

You know what I think we should be telling women who are about to become mothers?

Welcome.

Just that.

Welcome.

Welcome to the path that’s never been tread before, leading to a place nobody’s visited, a spot carved out for you and your baby, where the two of you fit, just right – like a motherfucking glove.

[So don’t stress when they scowl at you, muttering “Damn, that looks uncomfortable.”

You got this.

So just keep on keepin’ on, new mama, we’re right here with you, walking our own dusty roads, hoping you’ll steady us as we steady you.

And welcome, welcome to motherhood.

Come on in.

The water’s fine.

Hemingway used to say he had a bullshit detector.

You know what I have? A bitch-mom detector.

No, I’m serious. Within 30 seconds I can tell if I’m next to one.

All she has to do is start talking.

Boom. MAYDAY MAYDAY!! RUN! NOW!

It happened recently at that harvest festival. Georgia, practicing her social butterfly act [and sadly lacking the bitch-mom detector I have so carefully honed] makes a beeline to the offspring of a woman who…well…let’s just say we probably wouldn’t evolve into BFFs.

So Georgie cruises up to this toddler and I notice she’s in one of those $700. hovering Euro spacecraft things. Whatever. That’s not a deal-breaker. I know some amazingly rad rich people. At least I think I do.

At any rate, ya can’t judge looks and money.

There are way better things to judge. We’ll get to that.

Admittedly, however, my Detector started quietly beeping when I observed that this woman was at a harvest festival at a FARM, in the DIRT, looking more put together than I do on my “fancy” days. Full make-up, perfect body, immaculate jeans with a perfectly ironed top, some token “country” item like unused, $400 leather boots… sipping a glass of chardonnay.

Her baby was equally immaculate.

Whatevs. I have an open mind. Open like a fucking parachute.

So she comes bounding up to me all peppy and shit, looking like something out of a BabyCenter ad, and I’m standing there with my ripped jeans and love handles,  questionable attitude and bad hair. Of course, I’m wearing flip flops, because duh. So my feet are black. I’m wearing no make-up.

A win, as usual.

My toddler is equally filthy. Her hair is insane and in her eyes (as always), speckled with various items found on the ground. She’s covered in dust and not wearing shoes. Having just consumed about 75 cherry tomatoes, she has actually managed to create mud on her cheeks and nose. When the mother says “hi” to me, I observe my offspring trying to feed her kid the rock she’s been carrying with her for the last 20 minutes.

I am sure this interaction is going to be a success.

Right.

As I’m fielding Georgia away from choking the toddler on a rock, the talking portion begins:

Her: “Oh, how old is your baby?”

Me: “just turned 2.”

Her: “Oh, wow. She’s so SMALL. I guess I forget how big my baby is!! She’s only 18 months and already wearing 3T clothing!”

And with my forced grin I realized that we were now entering what I like to call “The Female Version of ‘Who’s got the bigger penis?’”

It’s like a game show for mothers, only usually there’s only one contestant who wants to play.

I try to pull Georgia away, mumbling “yeah,” and something about finding my other kids.

She says “Oh! You have other kids here? Me too. I have an older one, but she and her friend are totally bored with all this art stuff. They go to a school where all they do is art, so they’re like ‘yeah, whatever, we do this every day.’”

And as she’s talking, I realize she’s doing bitch-speak: certain words are coming out of her mouth, but what she’s actually saying is something completely different. She’s saying “My kid goes to art school;” what she MEANS is “I’m rich and I need you to know it.”

I felt like saying “Yeah, wow. My kids think this is the best thing in the world, because they go to a public school with other poor people where they do worksheets and take standardized tests.”

But I didn’t, because that would require further involvement. I smiled and picked Georgia up, trying to book it the hell outta there before my bitch detector became audible. I said “have a good time, see you later.”

Mac saw the interaction and commented “You didn’t look like you were loving that.”

And I spent the rest of the day translating bitch-speak in my head.

Because I’m a weirdo.

But you guys have to feel me on this one…you know, those moments when mothers get all competitive, engaging in these weird, complex pissing matches, but ALL IN CODE. We do it, but we do it in bitch-speak. And this chick walks up to you all nonchalant, acting as if she’s sweet like honey, when really she’s interested in eating your young and using you as the pathetic backdrop to her own excellence.

It’s BITCH-SPEAK, and it’s REAL.

To illustrate, I made a chart. Please enjoy:

Bitch-Speak Translation Chart

And the best part is, we get so good at it, the bitch-speak translation, that we don’t even hear the actual words…our detector goes off and we’re OUTTA THERE.

As fast as we came.

And then, we call our friends, and translate together.

But don’t get me wrong. We’re all bitches too. We just don’t say it in code.

We say it outright, as it is. And then, we laugh like hell.

Cause we know who’s got the bigger penis.

AND WE LOVE IT.

[OMGI'mdyinglaughing. And you have to tell me about your translations. I can't be the only one who does this.]

Have you ever noticed that some of the most terrifying mothers out there are the super-pumped eco-friendly ones? They’re like MEAN. But not with their mouths. Only their EYES…

But they still say it:

What? You don’t dress your kid in all organic hemp?!?!? What is wrong with you? They should call CPS.

Are you driving a freaking EXPEDITION? What are you, Satan? Where are your horns? Where’s your hybrid? Your Prius? Your bicycle, Goddamnit.

Do I detect a PLASTIC BAG in our presence? I’m sorry. We can’t be friends.

Um, your baby is holding a non-wooden rattle. Aren’t you going to DO SOMETHING? DO SOMETHING NOW BEFORE SHE DIES!

Not all of them. Obviously. But some. You know what I’m talking about.

Sometimes I feel this grip of fear when I pack plastic Pampers in my bag, headed to a mother’s group, for fear of the eyeballs that may bore down into my soul — oh my god. The landfills. THE LANDFILLS PEOPLE.

And I know they’re right. But still. No need to be a dick.

Some of us are horrible people who can’t be eco-friendly ALL THE TIME.

And some of us are perfect.

You know who you are.

Recently I Googled “eco-friendly party favors” because Rocket’s 7th birthday is coming up and I would like to not buy a plastic goody bag full of plastic crap made in China that costs too much and nobody wants or plays with anyway. I’m trying to do my part, people. I am.

Anyway, I found a blog post on the topic and read through the comments. One of the comments was this one:

“NO, my son does NOT come home with green favors, not even from parties given by hybrid-driving, organic eating folks. And, I’m somewhat well known for my “Just Say No to Cheap Plastic Crap” post about environmentally unfriendly party favors. So I just stand there at the parties, trying not to look too exasperated or to be impolite…judge not….but yikes, it makes me crazy what my son brings home.”

And I was thinking “holy hell, lady. That’s so uncool. But I know you. I’ve met you. And you suck.” and then I thought ” Mother Earth called. She wants you to stop being such a douchebag.” But I changed it to “asshole” because I thought maybe that’s more appropriate.

Ha.

Because here’s the thing. Even if your cause is hip and noble and right, if you walk around belittling and dehumanizing people for not backing your cause completely – or not doing it well enough – you’re still a dick.

And in my opinion, there is nobody more annoying than an enlightened dick.

Because it’s the jerk shrouded in education, depth, profundity. It’s Asshole with an Edge. It’s mean people with data and goodness and “progressiveness” backing their game.

I just vomited a little in my mouth.

Standing there at somebody’s birthday party clothed in an impenetrable air of superiority, looking down on the miserable specimens handing out crap plastic party favors, makes this woman part of the very problem she claims to be working against. To me, there is no difference between the snobbery displayed in the materialistic label-whoring types who figure earth can go fuck itself because we’re all here to grab what we can and die… and that of the super-powered eco-friendly attachment parenting Nazis. It’s self-centeredness and judgment and superiority. Period.

Allow me to illustrate:

Woman 1: “Oh my God. Your purse isn’t Prada. Your car is cheap and old. Your kid is dirty and dressed in Old Navy. I’m so much better than you.”

Woman 2: “Oh my God. Your purse isn’t recycled materials. Your car is not a Prius. Your kid is eating non-organic food and wearing Old Navy. I’m so much better than you.”

You see? Same damn thing.

New label. Same douchebaggery. New angle. Same ego.

And I happen to have evidence that the good Mother Earth thinks these people are douchebags. How do I know? Because she told me.

She told me by pouring her rains on the eco-friendly and the polluters alike. Her flowers don’t shun the faces of those who choose “plastic” at the check-out line. Her oceans cool people who eat fast food and Whole Foods, without regard. And her mountains call to the SUV drivers just as clearly as to the Prius drivers in North Face and Tevas, eating homemade granola from locally sourced oats. Or whatever.

Oh yeah, I said it. I geeked out on you, completely. Damn hippie. But I love this planet. I believe the earth is the source of my soul and my spirit and someday I’ll return to her arms. To me there is no division between the words “god” and “earth” and “love.”

What? You didn’t know I was a total and complete freaking hippie? That’s probably because there’s Dawn on my kitchen sink and not the biodegradable stuff. Whatever. Dawn gets the stains out of my wool carpet. DON’T HATE.

Is it hypocritical for me to say I love the earth while driving an SUV? Maybe. But check this out. I’m also just a flawed human. I am hypocritical and contradictory and confused and lost and just trying to make small changes one minute at a time, slowly do a little more a little better. And in the process, I’m trying not to be an asshole.

I have a friend, Penny, who is very passionate about her family not being exposed to chemicals. Rather than use plastic bags, she like made these wrapper things out of muslin and beeswax…she’s created all these super inventive ways to not use chemicals. But you know what? When she tells me about the shit she’s doing I feel inspired, enlightened, empowered. Like I’m being taught something, shown something new and exciting and compelling. She doesn’t judge me for using Ziplock. She doesn’t stare at me in disdain when I whip out the Cheetos. She has chosen to live her life in a certain way and if I want to hear about it, she tells me about it, without hatred or pretense.

And that, I think, is what makes change. We do our best in our small circles, create ripples in the waters around us, lead by example, teach with patience. And when we’re standing there at a party and some kid hands our kid a goody bag full of junk, and he’s smiling and proud to be giving that gift, we take it, with genuine joy in our hearts, because we get to be there with humanity and live and receive…and we redouble our efforts. We love a little harder. We devote ourselves more to the cause we know to be true and right. And we trust that our efforts are making some difference, somewhere. Or they will, someday.

Cause I’ll tell you what. I want to be more like my friend. I hear about her super interesting solutions for bathing and cleaning and eating and I’m like “Dude. Janelle. You should try that. She’s telling you how to do it. Try it. See what happens.”

Mother Earth called about her, too. She said “Rock on, sista’. That’s what I’m talking about.”

Really, it all gets back to my trusty comment policy and life philosophy: Try not to be a dick.

And by the way, I found a great idea for cheap, “green” party favors. We’re painting little clay pots during the party and putting plants in them for the kids to take home.

BOOM.

Take that, evil party-favor lady.

Dear Certain Childless People,

I like you, and I appreciate all you add to the world, and I even, sometimes, envy your condition (only sometimes don’t freak out), but

lemmetellyasomethin.

YOU MAY KNOW A LOT OF THINGS, BUT YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO BE A PARENT.

Not because you’re dumb, but rather, because you’ve never done it. It’s very simple.

What? What’s that you say? You had seven younger siblings? That must have been fun.

But it’s got nothing to do with parenting.

Oh, you’ve been a nanny for 10 years? Impressive. I’m sure you know how to babysit really well. But did you have vacations and get paid for taking care of those kids? Yes, yes you did. And were you the ONLY PERSON caring for them? No, no you were not.

And therefore, you don’t know what it’s like to be a parent. I realize I’m being repetitive here, but there seems to be just so much confusion with some of you.

Hmmmm? You work with kids every day? My condolences.

But you leave at the end of the day, right? And you can call in sick.

So yeah. You guessed it. Not a clue.

My goodness, you have a degree in child development? Excellent! I love degrees.

But having a degree in child development without having watched your own children develop is  like having a degree in aviation without flying a plane: you may know a lot in theory, but you don’t know shit in practice.

And don’t you agree that until you’ve flown the damn plane you really have no idea what you’re talking about?

Not that you don’t know how children develop. I’m sure you do. What you DON’T KNOW, however, is what it’s like to parent those children who inspired your textbooks. You don’t know what it’s like, every day, on the ground. In reality. In life. In the home in the car in fucking everywhere.

And to continue my little metaphor…if our friendly aviation student started running her mouth to actual pilots (you know, people who have flown a plane) – telling them how it is, instructing them, criticizing and critiquing them (based on all the facts she’s read in all those great books) – the pilots would just stare at her aghast, then possibly fall over laughing at her delusional ass.

How are you gonna tell me how to fly a plane when all you’ve done is READ about flying a plane?

Are you catching my metaphor here?

I hope so, because those of us with actual children are getting mighty tired of those certain members of the childless population

advising, criticizing, proselytizing, professing, ranting, raging, judging, lecturing

on a topic they know nothing about.

Giving helpful information about something you know about children is, well, helpful, but criticizing the way we parent as if you have actually done better is just wrong.

I know you think you know how to parent, and you see how we’re doing it all wrong, and how if you had kids they’d never be annoying or pee on the floor or fight with each other or spill shit in restaurants. And that’s cool. I’m sure that’s totally true.  But maybe you could save all that preaching for when you’re surrounded with a bunch of your childless friends. You can all sit and compare theories about parenting (because sweetie that’s all you’ve got at this point) and feel super impressed with yourselves for having formed a staunch opinion on an experience you’ve never had. And of course, congratulate yourselves for the theoretical [perfect] children you will someday theoretically have.

And you know, how you’re just generally so much better than the rest of us.

Do you realize how insane that is?

Well, we do.

Because until you have had a child in your home 24-hours a day, seven days a week for years on end, and you are THE ONLY person there (well, and maybe your partner) to discipline, nurture and care for that child – the only one responsible for ALL their food, clothing, health care, education, love, nourishment and general well-being – until you’ve got somebody calling you “mom” or “dad” or, in other words YOU ARE ALL THEY HAVE…

Until you’ve done that, you don’t know shit about parenting. You do not know what it’s like.

And so, we cordially ask you, from the bottom of our hearts, to please, for the love of God, just shutthefuckup.

If you’d like to join the ranks of “people who know something about parenthood,” perhaps you could try, oh I don’t know, becoming a parent.

I know. Crazy talk.

But just think how much more effective your judgments would be if they were rooted in actual experience!

Because now? Well, now you just look ridiculous.

Sincerely,

The rest of us.

P.S. Still not convinced? Alright. I’ll make you a promise: you stop telling me how to parent and I’ll stop telling you how to be an adult without kids. OH WAIT. I’ve never done that. Because that would be fucking craaaaaaaazy.

pretty much

Gonna be honest, I enjoy reading the vandalism in bathroom stalls. I mean when the hell else do you have that much entertainment while peeing?

Well, unless you consider watching a toddler remove the contents of a bathroom vanity entertaining. If that’s entertaining, I get entertained daily. But I find it more annoying than entertaining.

And there’s always a lovely variety of little bathroom memos, depending on where you are, of course. Dive bars and music halls always provide some super riveting stuff involving penises and who loves whom (I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself with the “whom” thing) and all that nasty dirty stuff. My favorites though are the I’m-hammered-and-weepy-because-I-just-found-my-boyfriend-kissing-some-slut-so-now-I’m-going-to-write-horrible-things-about-him vandalism. You know, like “Johnny Smitherman gets it on with farm animals.” And then his phone number.

At my college, there’s like cultured vandalism. You know, English majors getting all deep and shit, quoting Whitman and whatnot: “And your very flesh shall be a great poem.”

I’m sure old Walt is elated. “I sound my barbaric yawp over the pissers of the world.”

And the Jesus people. “Jesus loves you.” I always want to write back “Jesus wants you to stop defacing other people’s property you fucking dumbass.”

But I don’t.

Actually, there are all kinds of things I’d like to tell the general, young, female idiot population in bars and music halls [how do I know they’re idiots, you ask? Because they’re writing in bathroom stalls]. You know, I’d like to just write a few words of wisdom and little tidbits of awesome.

I wish I wouldn’t say things like “little tidbits of awesome.” I mean shit. Not only is it meaningless, but I sound like a geeky old person when saying it.

Oh well. The cool ship sailed a Long.Time.Ago, as I have demonstrated for you folks on more than one occasion.

Anyway, here are a few things I’d write on a bathroom stall, were I the type of person to write on bathroom stalls:

1. Ladies, someday you will stop being so competitive with each other, because you will realize other women are not the problem. MEN are the fucking problem.
2. Oh come ON, admit it. You love it when Cyndi Lauper comes on the radio. You also love “Born in the U.S.A.” by Springsteen. So stop trying to be so cool.
3. Speaking of cool, that hipster guy you’re with? Yeah, he’s totally boning your best friend.
4. No, honey. No. He is never going to leave his wife for you.
5. You think you’re hiding it, but we all know how drunk you are. And we think you’re an idiot. And no, you can’t dance. You are not smooth. Not smooth at all. You do not have moves like Jagger.
6. Even when you’re doing that super-slinky I’m so hot don’t you wanna nail me dance? Yeah, it’s still bad and we still think you’re an idiot.
7. I realize you’re 21 years old and easily excited, but really sweetheart, there’s no need to squeal EVERY SINGLE TIME you see your friend across the room or OMG THAT ONE SONG comes on.
8. Less perfume. Less make-up. Less hair-flipping. Fewer fake tans. Fewer lower-back tattoos. Fewer walks of shame. Better world.
9. This will suck tomorrow.
10. Most importantly, if you flirt with my oddly attractive husband one more time because I’m older and less hot than you, my stretch marks and I will kick your teeth in. And then, I will write about it in the bathroom stall.

And with that, lil’ ladies at the bar, I bid you “goodnight!”

Haha. That was fun.

 
And please vote for me…would ya? I won’t write about it on any bathroom stalls, I promise.

Okay, I tried. I did. I grasped my tongue. I held it tight.

No really. I did. I can do that. I’ve done it twice.

In my life.

When I was ten.

But I can’t any longer. My fingers are getting tired.

Can we just talk for a minute about some of the clothing made for young girls? Can we? Please? Thanks.

Let me just start this off with some obligatory save-my-ass caveats: 1.) We all have different taste in clothes; 2.) My taste, in general, sucks; 3.) I do not have anything against bows; 4.) I don’t judge you for how you dress your kid.

That last one was a lie.

If you dress your kid in any of the following garments, I will judge you. I will tell myself to stop judging you, but I won’t be able to help it. I will wonder what is wrong with you. (But I will keep it inside, then write about it on my blog.)

Just keepin’ it real.

Your daughter belongs in Hollywood? Really? She “belongs” in a narcissistic, drug-laden, cut-throat cauldron of materialism, sex and exploitation? AND, have you even asked her that question? Have you asked her, “Honey, would you like to be in Hollywood when you grow up?” What if she wants to be a neurosurgeon? What if? What if she wants to join the army and shoot people? Before you go dictating where your daughter “belongs” in the world, you might want to wait until she has at least a say in it. Just a thought.

Better said: “I’m cute. Mommy’s a self-appreciating ball of idiot using her child as a walking ego-boost. Daddy’s fucking his secretary because his wife’s a moron.”

Yes. Exactly. One of the profound universal truths of life: The Bigger the Bow, the Better the Mommy. It’s all about bows. You can be a crack-smoking prostitute AND AN EXCELLENT MOTHER if you put a big enough bow on your kid’s head. Or your own head. Come to think of it, there’s a lot of ambiguity there. Are they referring to the mother’s bow or the daughter’s bow? And if a mother is wearing a giant bow, won’t people wonder if she has some sort of disorder making her think she’s seven years old? And, if this is true, I really wish I would have known it sooner. Really would have saved me a lot of guilt, effort and worry. I mean if all I have to do to “be a better mommy” is use “a bigger bow…” shiiiit.

(have you ever heard anything so stupid? Freaking bows.) P.S. It’s not the bows I have a problem with, it’s the idea that motherhood can be defined by the SIZE OF ONE’S BOW.

How in the hell do you look at your sweet, innocent baby girl and say to yourself…”What I see in you, little one, with your chubby legs and innocent eyes…what I see is a “DIVA.” I see a future pop music star. I see somebody up on stage gallivanting in sparse clothing, rocking coliseums and making men drool. Maybe back in the day the word “diva” just meant “a successful female opera singer,” but today that word is all wrapped up in sex. Interwoven with sex. Inextricably connected to sex and the objectification of it, in the form of the female voice and body. How are you going to slap that label on your little girl? HOW?

Aren’t we all? Isn’t that pretty much why we’re all born? Just to “wear diamonds?” Is there anything more important in life? No. No there isn’t. And how do you get those diamonds? By becoming a DIVA, obviously. (Or marrying somebody for their money because though you “belong in Hollywood” you never quite made it and therefore must acquire The Meaning of Life (diamonds!) by selling your life (and your soul) to some man who can provide). Aim high, I always say.

I think this one is my favorite. “Step Aside, Barbie.” BARBIE. The most controversial “girl” toy in the world. A FUCKING PLASTIC DOLL. A plastic doll with perfect features, an endless wardrobe, large houses, fancy cars, hot men, a permanent grin and high heels… AND NO BRAIN. No brain! Just boobs (and a supernaturally tiny waist). Yes, isn’t that our greatest dream for our little girls? That they become PLASTIC? That they become BRAINLESS? That they become mere shells of individuals, perfect in every physical way, perfect in their sexiness, and perfect in their mindlessness?

My dream for you, honey, is that you will take the place of BARBIE when you grow up.

Step aside, Barbie.

My daughter’s a-comin’.

And she doesn’t get to chose what she wants for herself. She doesn’t get to wear clothes she can play in. She doesn’t get to THINK about what she wants to be.

Because I’ve already decided all that for her. She is a diva. She belongs in Hollywood. She was born to wear diamonds. She will be the next Barbie.

And when you’re 7 I’ll start dressing you in mini-skirts and heels. When you’re 9 we’ll start on make-up. At 12, oh boy! At 12 we can do fake nails, bikinis and halter tops! Won’t that be fun! And when you’re 17, my dear, I’ll get you your first boob job so you really can someday take Barbie’s place.

Now come here, honey, put on this bow, so everybody can see how much I love you.

It’s bullshit, I tell ya, the crap they make for little girls. And they are forced to wear it.

Before they can even object.

I am an asshole. Just an average, everyday prick. I piss people off because I am self-absorbed and unaware and pretty much think about myself always, no matter what.

But I am not without compassion. There are, occasionally, some altruistic tugs on my heart strings. For this reason, I have decided to help any budding assholes (huh, that sounded weird) who may be trying to find their way to full dickhead status but just can’t quite make it. You know, struggling. So every now and then, I’m going to write a chapter in my book, entitled, The Asshole Diaries, in which I highlight one aspect of my douche bag repertoire.

And then I’m going to sell it on Amazon for an obscenely cheap price (which will catch your eye) but exorbitant shipping cost (which will make you utter “dick” under your breath). You know, cause that’s how I roll.

So today, let’s talk about parking.

Assholes park in a very particular ways, and they go something like this:

1. Across two spots, especially if you have one of those lifted 4-door trucks with “Piss on Chevy” sticker on the back. Or Ford. Or whatever it is. Yep. Just go ahead and pull right in sideways. Right across those lines.
2. If you can’t park sideways across two spots, at LEAST position yourself diagonally so you take up just enough of a second spot to make it physically impossible for even the tiniest car to park next to you. Make sure you do this when the parking lot is full, so everybody gets to drive by and see you taking up two spots, but just barely.
3. Another winner is to find the dirtiest mini-van or SUV you can, full of car seats and booster seats and kid crap, and park as close to them as you possibly can. I’m talking an INCH or TWO away from it. Just make sure it’s on your passenger side (obviously), so you don’t have any trouble getting out, but the mother has to wrangle her toddler and baby and spastic children into their seats from the other fucking side of the car then crawl her fat ass through the side door across the center console and into her seat. Because she can’t open her door far enough to wedge the said fat ass in.

Because the ASSHOLE parked too close.

YOU CAN be that asshole.

Aim high.

I’m here to help.

Until Chapter 2…

Dear Animal Killer,

So you’ve successfully killed 5 cats and one small dog. In the middle of the night you put blue fly poison in Tupperware containers around our neighborhood and what success you’ve had! Bravo, you fucking waste of human life.

I just want to tell you that one of the cats you killed belonged to my little boy, Rocket. He is 6 years old and had his young kitty, “Play-Doh”, for about 6 weeks when we found him dead in our backyard, with a blue substance dribbling out of his mouth.

We thought it was a fluke. We thought he got into antifreeze or something. Though intentional poisoning crossed our minds, we didn’t really think it possible. We have such nice neighbors. The police told us yesterday that all the animals who have died (4 other cats and one Miniature Pincer) have been found with the same blue substance coming out of their mouths.

A year ago, when Play-Doh died, we told our son about it and he shook with grief. We didn’t tell him he could have been poisoned. We told him he died because he was sick.

Because how the fuck are we going to explain that YOU EXIST? That YOU KILLED his animal because you murder things for fun, or revenge, or insanity, or whatever it is that makes a person obliterate life at random.

Do you realize you’re killing pets? Do you realize you’re killing the little animal friends of children and old people and everyday people who cuddle with those animals and curl up with them when they’re sick and watch T.V. with them on their laps and give them a pat when they come home from work each day?

Do you realize all that?

They say you’re a drunk and get into dark places and kill cats.

I say get some help you worthless fuck.

Because the poison you’re using is supposed to be used only in auction yards and livestock farms – where no children or small animals are present –because it burns human skin and can kill children if ingested, even in tiny amounts.

So one of these days you could maim or kill a kid, Einstein. A real, live kid.

Does that mean more to you? Do you care more about that? Or is that your next step?

I now live in fear. I’m terrified of my kitty’s escape when I’m not looking. I’m terrified my little escape artist Houdini dog will get out and get into that poison and I will lose my beloved dog.

And my kids, when we walk to the park.

What about them.

And you, the fact that you are there, sitting in your house, plotting how to get your poison out, unseen. Sitting there alone with your booze, in darkness, in misery, working on ways to share your pain with the world.

With all of us.

Even little boys and their kittens. Or my baby.

Do you feel better after it happens? When you see them dead, are you relieved? Do you lie in bed at night glowing with joy at the success of your missions? Are you satisfied?

Or do you know on some level this isn’t the person you were meant to be? Do you sense somehow there is some other way to live? Do you feel desperation in the face of your own evil, of the destruction you cause, of the tears you pull from the eyes of people around you?

Either way, I have an idea. The next time you’re feeling down, and the whiskey has taken your wits and your soul, try a little fly poison.

I hear it’s great for the complexion and digestion, and works wonders on primitive insects.

So it should be perfect for you.

I know, that wasn’t very nice.

But you’ve made yourself pretty hard to love. I guess I’ll try. Since you live right next door to me. They say it’s you. The man who LIVES NEXT DOOR TO ME, who I know pretty well, as my quirky drunk neighbor.

So when you emerge from your drunken abyss and chat with us on Sunday afternoons again, I will try to see through your evil to the baby your mother saw, the newborn she cradled in perfect adoration. In wonderment of his smallness and innocence.

And maybe I’ll explain that there are places for people like you to get help, people who will help you regain your sanity and spirit.

But first I’m going to watch you like a hawk and when I catch you I’m going to call the police and hope they haul your sorry ass away.

For a very, very long time.

Sincerely,
Janelle

So as you know, my daughter Ava recently went to a ten-year-old’s birthday party. They rented a limousine for this birthday party (um, yes they did) and piled eight 4^th-grade girls in it to drive around town and go to pizza. Needless to say, they were stoked.

And like any respectable limousine passenger, the girls rolled the windows down and squealed and waved at passers-by (so I’m told, I wasn’t there).

I guess at one point my daughter stuck her head out the window and waved to a woman and man walking on the sidewalk in a town near us, which I won’t mention directly, but I will tell you it starts with a D and ends with an S and has a V in it.

In response to her wave the woman in question flipped her off.

FLIPPED HER OFF.

Flipped off a 10-year-old girl.

Flipped off a 10-year-old girl in front of seven other 10-year-old girls.

Flipped her off without a word.

Ava is still talking about it. How she was shocked and shrunk into her seat, humiliated. Understandably, having just been told “fuck you” in response to an act of friendliness.

And by an adult . A grown-up, a member of the group my daughter still trusts, innocently thinking adults are pretty solid and reliable (having never (thank god) learned otherwise).

But she’s starting to see. Because how am I to respond to that? When she told me about it, after the shock wore off, I just looked at her and said “Ava, some people are miserable, horrible creatures. Just mean. There’s no excuse for them. They are just assholes.”

Yes, I used that word. There is no other word that would have worked in that situation.

Now I’m not that sensitive.  (Okay I’m pretty sensitive. But I cover it up well, so I can say I’m not sensitive on my blog.) But really I don’t get worked up about too many things. Some people are frantic about protecting their kids from the reality of life and I am not that way. Shit. We take them to Further shows – there’s a lot of reality there, lemme tell ya.

But this one has got me disturbed.

Because seriously: WHO flips off a little girl? WHO?

What sort of closet was she locked in?

What sort of dog food did her parents feed her instead of breakfast?

How hot is the secretary her boyfriend is boning?

What the hell happened to that chick to turn her into such a hateful ball of rage that she would abuse a kid like that, slash her little heart in random and meaningless violence? Who would somebody return evil for the innocent antics of a small girl?

If I knew who she was I would kick her in the face.

No really, I would.

If I had been there I would have stopped the limo, gotten out, walked over to her and kicked her teeth in. Without a word.

Yeah. I get that hate matching hate doesn’t solve anything. Whatever.

But I’m not Ghandi and I’m not Martin Luther King, Jr. and I’m not Mother Theresa, and so, when some worthless scrap of humanity brutalizes my child I want to render them senseless with my bare fists.

DO.NOT.MESS.WITH.MY.BABIES.

That is all.

Ladies. Get my back. Wouldn’t you destroy this woman if she did that to your kid?

Where my girls at?

So that didn’t take long. We already have material for a new volume of Idiot Surfing.

Today we’re featuring a Facebook post that asked people to complete the sentence “I suspected I was a crunchy parent when…” And as you can imagine, there are some real winners.

Please note: I have nothing against crunchy parenting. In fact, on paper, I’m pretty damn granola myself. But doesn’t it seem that the crunchies are by far the most judgmental parents? Maybe I’m wrong, but it appears that there’s an air of pretension surrounding the attachment-parenting thing – which seems weird, doesn’t it? Hypocritical? Since we”re supposed to be the “enlightened,” “accepting” ones? Ah, the complexities.

Whatever. Who gives a shit. Let’s make fun of ‘em. Here we go. I suspected I was a crunchy parent when…

“…my daughter looked in horror when she a woman feeding her child “poison” in a bottle!” – Really, lady? Really? Poison? Effing POISON? Could you just try for one single moment to enter the realm of the reasonable? POISON? Rat killer is poison. Chemicals are poison. Napalm is poison. Formula (you self-important small-minded jackass) is NOT poison. What if that woman can’t breastfeed? What if the baby can’t breastfeed? What if the baby was adopted? ARGH. It’s people like you that make me a closeted crunchy mother.

“…I cried at the mere mention of giving my baby formula.” – Yes. It’s one of the great tragedies of the world. War, child abuse, cancer, and formula feeding.

“…I didn’t want to pass my baby around and let others hold him.” – Hey dumbshit. That makes you paranoid and possessive, not crunchy. The crunchies aren’t afraid of germs. They love germs. Germs are organic. Duh.

“… I decided to breastfeed … co-bathe…child-led parent.” – What the hell is “co-bathing?” Are you telling me that each and every night at 7pm you strip down and get in the bath with your baby? You have too much time on your hands, that’s all. And “child-led parenting”? Holy hell, that’s a good idea. Here’s what “child-led” parenting would look like in my house:

Me, to my 5-year-old son: “Hey Rocket, what are you doing?”

Rocket: “I’m putting my penis in a funnel.”

Me: “But you’re supposed to be eating dinner.”

Rocket: “This is more fun. I’m doing this instead.”

Me, being a “child-led parent:” “Well okay, then. Does it fit?”

[2 hours pass]

Rocket: “Mama, I’m hungry!”

Me: “Okay, go eat the dinner you didn’t eat 2 hours ago. By the way, what are you doing with the cat?”

Rocket: “Oh, I tied her paws together with pipe cleaners and stuck her in this pillow case and now I’m going to tow her around behind my dump truck. She likes it.”

Me, being a “child-led parent”: “Very nice, honey! Excellent creativity. I support you in your ideas and free-play, so have fun and, if possible my sweet bundle of lovely, try not to kill our kitty, mmmmkay?”

(Okay so I have no idea what “child-led” parenting is for real, but it sounds bad. I mean shit, if kids could parent themselves, why would they need parents?)

“… our favorite music is the sound of the wind in the trees.” – Yeah, hate to break it to you, but the sound of wind in the trees is not music. It’s the sound of the wind, in.the.trees. That is all.

“…I can’t travel because I don’t have my refrigerator and pantry with all organic fresh foods.” – Oh sweet Jesus where do I begin? You’re just an idiot. Just an idiot. There is nothing else to say. No way to expand. Except I should mention that your kids are undoubtedly going to hate you, partly for sheltering them from the world because it couldn’t provide “organic fresh foods,” but mainly just because you’re an idiot.

The end.

______

While waiting for the next edition of Idiot Surfing, perhaps you could donate 2 clicks to a super worthy cause. There are only four more days. And then, since I’ll probably never be nominated for anything again, I’ll leave you alone forever. Well, on this particular topic.