1. Recently I said this: “Mac, in the future, when you ‘dress’ Georgia, please actually put clean clothes on her rather than just layer clean ones over the dirty ones. Kthanks.”
2. True story, ladies.
3. We went to a fair in Sonoma County – a small town fair. I ate part of a funnel cake and wanted to die. However, I got an excellent idea for how I’m going to make my millions: open up a traveling rehab that follows fairs, for the benefit of the tweaker carnies.
4. I know, I’m a thinker. And something of a humanitarian, clearly.
5. Speaking of brilliance, sometimes, when I’m playing Scrabble against my phone [whilst bored outta my mind], and my phone wins, I play again to show him who’s boss. I am also not joking about that.
6. While at the fair, we watched this juggling/comedy/guitar-playing show (um I said it was small town) and they asked for a volunteer. Of course Ava’s hand shot up like lightning and of course they called her up. They asked her to step between the juggling, um, pins (?) when they tell her to, and started teasing her, making all kinds of jokes about getting hurt, etc. The woman at one point said “Well, don’t worry about it, Ava, since they say one person’s pain is another person’s pleasure.” And Ava looks right at her and says “Um what. Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Perfect delivery. Everybody roared, and I was struck by the poise of that kid, cracking jokes up on stage in front of at least 100 people, at 10 years old. She’s something I tell ya.
7. Georgia has been eating most of her meals standing on a chair at the kitchen island. No worries though, we totally don’t let her use a fork.
8.  After Ava burped in an incredibly appalling manner, I commented to Mac that it’s like our kids were raised by wolves. Rocket then stops what he’s doing, gets a far-away look in his eye and says “wow, that would be so wonderful.”
9. So it’s comforting to know my kid would prefer ravenous wild animals over Mac and me.
10. Also, do any of you guys ever attempt side conversations in the front seat of your vehicle with the kids in the back? You know, when you lean in to one another and say something inappropriate for little people, thinking maybe, perhaps THIS TIME FOR ONCE they won’t catch it with those demon bat ears? Yeah, we do that. It’s never worked successfully once. Ever. More on that later.

Also, wanted to tell you people how much I love you and send big cyber kisses your way. (wow. That was cheesy.) No really, thanks for sharing my Valentine’s post. I got like 2,000 hits on it that day, which is a big deal for a no-name blogger such as myself. I was flattered. Thank you.

Here’s Ava up on stage…please excuse the crap quality. I don’t have Instagram to fix my photographic deficiencies. Or even an Iphone. So anyway. [Okay but seriously, Instagram is amazing. It makes good photos look freaking spectacular and crap photos look, well, almost cool. I’m getting an Iphone one of these days, so my crap photos can look less crappy and more hipster.]

Have a great week.

The other day my son came out of his room squealing in delight about the following arrangement:

 He said “Mama! Ava gave me these socks and I think they go really well with the green in my Vans! Don’t you think?”

And I said they look amazing, especially with the baseball pants, and I kissed his head.

I considered writing a blog post about how my son is gay, but then remembered that  wearing pink (or full drag, for that matter) doesn’t make a boy gay. [That wasn’t a slight against that woman who wrote that post (how’s that for vague?) when her son dressed in drag for Halloween, but rather against people who make giant sweeping assumptions when their boys gender-bend a little, IN PRESCHOOL,which isn’t actually gender-bending at all, since they haven’t been “gendered” yet and therefore can’t “bend” it — and are rather, in my opinion, just displaying a simple appreciation for the color pink. Or ruffles. Or tutus. Or whatever. ]

He wore those socks all day, including to baseball practice. I prayed none of the shithead children would make fun of him. We dodged that bullet, this time.

He once went to school in a navy blue jacket with pink piping and got all kinds of crap for it, and he was only in preschool. He may or may not have ever worn that coat again. He also got his heart handed to him for bringing a stuffed white seal to show-and-tell, because it was a “girl” toy.

That one thrashed me.

And as he was flailing around in his bright pink socks all day, I thought to myself…now THIS is a serious benefit of homeschool. My kid can run around all day dressed however he wants and won’t be tormented because his choices don’t quite fit the world’s gender expectations.

Yes, I know. Someday he’ll have to face the homophobes and their children. And they will be mean, especially if he continues to dress in 1980s-throwback gear. And he’ll doubt and question himself until all the pink is busted out of his little soul…

Or he’ll ROCK THAT SHIT forever (which is what I’m kinda hoping for).

Because dude. The kid has STYLE. Here’s the outfit he put together for his dad’s birthday dinner:

I love you, Rocket, with your pink socks and plaid fedora and big open heart.

The other day, while scowling at the absurdity of one of those feel-good chocolate hearts and roses Valentine’s ads, I placed my pointer finger against my face in the classic thinking posture and asked myself… “Hmmmm…what would an honest Valentine’s Day card say?”

And then, as this thought rolled around in my [acutely insane] brain, I realized that this is no simple question, but rather depends entirely on how long the couple has been together.

Because as you probably know…that shit CHANGES. (Relationships, that is. Men, not so much.)

So this small, profound monologue got me thinking about the fact that there are (in my opinion) three stages in a relationship/marriage, each of them obviously necessitating a different Valentine, were it to be honest and real and able to speak the truth of the insanity. Err, I mean “budding love story.”

Wow. Deep.

Anyhoo, I give you this. I ask that you please enjoy the clip art.

Stage 1

Years 0-2: The “I haven’t Been With You Long Enough to Realize How Much You Annoy Me” stage, comprised of long walks and hand-holding, starry-eyed dinners, cocktails, discussions, movie-watching, reasonable arguments, cuddling and pet names. Also, smug looks directed at women who are in Stages 2 and 3 with their men, and a distinct feeling of superiority, having obviously been deemed the first woman in history to not wonder if she could turn herself into a lesbian to avoid further intimacy with the male population. Also, women in this stage rest easy in the comfort and surety that they will never, ever want to pummel their little love kitten with a meat cleaver. Because he’s PERFECT. Duh.

A Stage 1 Valentine looks something like one of these:

And now…

Stage 2, Years 2-5: The “Holy Shit I had no Idea You Had These Sorts of Habits” Stage, also known as the “I Must Mold You Into Something More Like What I Had In Mind” Stage, characterized by a lot of discussions with girlfriends regarding the man’s deficiencies, as well as a decent amount of wonderment and awe as the female discovers The Male is not at all perfect (and may actually have some sort of disability, as evidenced by the fact that he can’t find stuff that’s 3 inches from his forehead and leaves hair in the bathroom sink after shaving). This stage also involves the surfacing of all other incomprehensible tendencies, causing the female to realize she’s going have to fix this character if they’re ever going to make it. And therefore, she begins to WORK, which of course results in long, long, long discussions, unreasonable bickering, maybe therapy but for sure tears, cajoling, threatening, flailing and general malaise, and, most likely, the arrival of an infant or two.

Honest Valentines at this stage may look like this:

And then, if the couple in question makes it past Stage 2, they enter Stage 3 (years 6 – ?), commonly known as the “Well Obviously You are not Going to Change and I’m Tired of Fighting so I’ve Accepted you and your Weirdness” Stage. (Yes, these stages have awkwardly long titles. Not particularly catchy, I know. Don’t blame me. I didn’t make it up.) Oh wait.

As you can see, this is something of a deal-breaker stage – since it’s pretty much Stage 3 or Stage Bye-Bye. Stage 3 is characterized by a lot of glaring but less complaining, fewer divorce threats and a surface-level acceptance of small, irritating habits (such as buying odd gadgets that will never ever be used EVER, or eating onions before bed). It also involves some strange compromises (“Honey, if you pick up your bath towel from the floor every day, I’ll start squeezing the toothpaste from the bottom.”) and subtle retaliation (as opposed to the long, long, long discussions in stage 2 (or therapy)). On the plus side, this Stage results in a weird peace and vague sense of serenity and, occasionally, some intense relief  regarding the fact that you didn’t throw in the towel when things got rough (and therefore, thank god, you don’t have to deal with these hoodlum children alone). Women in this stage feel a little like badass survivors of some great calamity, like a tsunami, or fire. “We almost didn’t make it, kids. We really had to work HARD to make this marriage work. Ah, but look at us now…”

And we feel a little victorious. And yeah, alright, I’ll say it: A little in love.

Enough of the sappy crap.

Real valentines in this stage may look something like this:

And with that, let me just say: Happy freaking Valentine’s Day, ladies.

xoxoxoxo

1. We got new neighbors. I’m going to tell you about it by quoting myself on Facebook: “I wish I could find the words to adequately express my delight upon learning that an enormous crowd of loud not-quite-teens-anymore moved next door to us. Right now I am listening to squealing females, cheesy white-people-drunk music, and occasional announcements such as “that’s my song!” or “pass the lighter.” If I had a shotgun y’all might not see me for awhile.”
2. Fyi, quoting yourself feels oddly narcissistic.
3. Anyway I ended up calling the cops on them, which was weird for me, since I distinctly remember being the kid who got the cops called on them, and hating it. I wonder if I would have kept doing it back then if I knew how much we were annoying the neighbors. Yes. Yes I would have.
4. It has been eerily beautiful here – sunny and like 65 degrees. Amazing. I want to be concerned about the lack of rain but I’m too busy enjoying the sunshine. Kinduva vicious cycle.
5. My husband works so much (usually 6, sometimes 7 days a week) that sometimes I wonder if we shouldn’t just downgrade our life to ridiculously minimal levels so we actually, oh I don’t know, LIVE. This grind just kills me sometimes. This somewhat-poor-person grind. This working and struggling. And then I hear things like Beyonce renting out an entire floor of a hospital for like a million dollars and redecorating it and I want to vomit at the self-importance of some people – the excess. I don’t know why, but something about that just makes me ill. I hear that her security wasn’t letting parents visit their babies in the NICU. Of course I read that in the news so it probably isn’t true. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if it were.
6. I wish Pinterest would give me back my life.
7. And to the scoffers…check it out: I didn’t think I’d get roped in – actually had high hopes of the opposite. But then I started doing it and realized it’s strangely fun. GREAT. Another online distraction from reality. Whee.
8. Georgia got sick again last week, so if you’re catching a bit of negativity in my tone, it’s from exhaustion and a little frustration. I’m so tired. I’m tired of snot, mostly. It’s just always there in great quantities and though I’ll save you the details, it somehow gets ALL OVER HER which means it’s ALL OVER ME. I don’t love it.
9. February is often a weird month for me. If there’s a “dark” month for me, it’s this one. I tend to feel a little down and sort of disillusioned and lost. And then it always passes in March. Always. Unless it comes back, which it occasionally does in intervals associated with PMS – which kind of makes it not count, right?
10. So, in super boring news, the widget on the left “Google Friend Connect” is going away March 1. Not by my choice. Google is eliminating it for people who don’t use their blogging program. Pricks. So if you follow via GFC, please choose another follow method (or leave me, but at least say “Goodbye, it’s not you. It’ me” before you go).

Valentine’s Day is coming up. We’re gonna have some fun with that.

Have a great week, you guys.

Dear dudes who check out women’s asses and think nobody notices,

You know who you are. Don’t deny it. I saw one of you just the other day, and despite my glares and mouth agape at your conspicuousness and lack of class, you just kept on staring, which compels me to write you this letter, just to clear up what I was thinking, and what, perhaps, we’re all thinking. About you. You somewhat dirty man in your 50s.

Here’s what you did.

I was standing in a long line at a coffee shop. You were over at the end of the counter waiting for your drink. A young woman in jeans was standing at the register, ordering. Admittedly her curves didn’t suck. You also noticed this and decided to get a better look. So you backed up, took a few steps to the left to get an unobstructed view, and stared. Just STARED. Your eyes did not move from her ass. I stared at you. I kept staring at you. You didn’t notice. I tilted my head to one side like “for reals?” and wished I could bitch-slap you with my mind, for being an asshole.

I felt a pang for this woman, because she was just standing there, in jeans and a sweatshirt, a college student, ordering some coffee, and she became the object of whatever sick shit was rolling through your kinda-old-man brain. And you didn’t even have the decency to hide it.

You looked away for a minute. Then did it again. You were fixated. To me, you looked pathetic and creepy and almost violent with the forcefulness of your attention.

She walked over closer to you. You kept staring. I kept glaring.

The truth is I wanted to tell you you’re a fucking sleazebag slime ball, to so obviously lust after a woman at least 30 years younger than you, with no respect for her or anybody else. With no regard for who she may be as a human, or that perhaps she deserves a little privacy, or respect. That she’s somebody’s daughter and maybe mother.

And maybe you think we don’t notice. Maybe you think we can’t see what you’re doing as you undress her with your eyes and contemplate the beauty that will never be yours.

I was once the woman you dirt bags stared at, as most of us were, when I was young and thin and, um,  perky. But I ain’t anymore and I gotta tell you, it doesn’t really bother me that much. And now, I feel this weird motherly-like protective instinct for women who aren’t asking for it and yet become sex objects under the power of a masochistic gaze.

I have a feeling you don’t get it very often. I have a feeling you have a very small wee-wee.

I have a feeling you aren’t much of a man at all. You probably pay for it. You probably pay women to meet the expectations of your self-centered fantasies. It was clear you thought nothing of her beyond what she could offer you sexually. Everybody in the place was watching you gawk. My intuition was raging that you were not a man to be trusted.

So let me just say we all know, dude. We know what you’re doing and we know you’re a fucking loser. And, yes, we know your wee-wee is subpar at best.

That is all.

Signed,

Everybody else in the world.