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.

1. The title of this post has to do with the fact that my dog pooped in the back of our Expedition. Since he knew it was wrong, he attempted to cover it up…WITH THE ERGO BABY CARRIER, resulting in dog crap smeared all over the thing. I considered throwing it away. But I didn’t, because we’re too poor for that.
2. I also considered throwing the dog away. But I didn’t, because that may upset PETA.
3. As you can see, I’ve been making solid decisions lately.
4. There is so much poop in my life. It’s just not right.
5. I have been eating very limited sugar and pretty much only complex carbs (whole wheat, brown rice, quinoa, etc.) and exercising 4 days/week for the last two weeks, and I gotta say, I feel so much better (mentally and physically) but I also feel really freaking weird. Holy cravings. Guess I was more addicted to sugar and white flour than formally thought. I’ve lost 10 pounds. I have like 900 more to go.
6. Yesterday I saw a gentleman wearing sweatpants and white fuzzy dog slippers, in public. That was probably the high point of my week.
7. Well that, and the comment Mac made when he walked into our bedroom after I cleaned it. He looked around and said “What happened here?” with this sort of shocked, slightly frightened look on his face – evidently he’s not used to things in that condition. He was visibly startled.
8. Have I told you that Rocket still says “dust” instead of “just”? Don’t tell anybody, but I hope he does it forever. Well maybe not FOREVER. But definitely 10 more years.
9. The upcoming week is my last week before school starts again. Please help me contain my enthusiasm.
10. This morning, Georgia fell off a chair and cut the heck out of her lower lip. There was blood everywhere. It was horrible. She cried and whimpered then said “milk” and we nursed and I was so happy I could give her that comfort. She nuzzled in close and nursed with all her might, the way they do when they just need mama. I put a blanket over her and we rocked until she fell asleep and as she took those deep breaths after crying and nursed gently and closed her eyes in peace, I thought about how women throughout the ages have been doing that same thing – in the face of war or poverty or tragedy – in the face of all problems, we bring our babies close and we are both comforted for that moment. Just the two of us. Nothing else matters. All of it fades away through this simple act of nourishing and cradling a little child, who needs her mama. When all else fails, there is that.

And I was grateful.

Have a lovely week.

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…

As I mentioned in my last post, apparently I was really bad last year, because Santa brought my kids guinea pigs.

Okay, fine. We got the kids guinea pigs. But let me explain. Rocket and Ava have been haranguing us for at least 8 months for a pet rodent of some sort – they started with hamsters and moved to guinea pigs – and like any rational mother, I denied their pleas with unswerving resolve, citing various reasons (all valid, I might add), regarding their uniformly inconsistent interest levels, which inevitably result in ME taking on the no-longer-amusing item, which in this case would be a rodent and therefore, not happening.

After a few weeks of this discussion, they suddenly ceased bringing it up. Instead, they started quietly plotting, together. All the sudden they were all into doing extra chores (for which I give them a little cash) and the next thing I knew they had SAVED THEIR MONEY and almost had enough for freaking guinea pigs. They saved for like 6 months. Uncool. Though impressive focus, I must admit.

It was precisely this focus which led me to consider that perhaps those kids meant business, and maybe, perhaps, actually wanted them. This realization came around Christmas, when I was already trying to figure out their “big” gift, and the whole guinea pig package really isn’t that expensive…soooo…yeah. Now we have two guinea pigs.

Ava’s is “Button.” Rocket’s is “Gus Gus.” They are both female.

So they were super happy on Christmas morning and we were all in love and whatnot AND I gotta admit, those things are damn cute. Like super cute.

And they don’t really make too much noise. They don’t eat or scratch my couch. And they’re cute.

So I didn’t hate them.

Until a couple days ago.

Now I kind of hate them.

So a week or so ago Rocket brings Gus Gus into the living room and puts her on the ground. She immediately runs under the couch. Luckily, I was doing something critically important and consequently didn’t have to deal with the guinea-pig-retrieval process. Mac did.

I heard various expletives coming from the living room area as he tried to get the little bastard out from under the couch, along with “ROCKET! You better not EVER LET THAT GUINEA PIG ON THE GROUND AGAIN!!!!”

Expletive.

Pause.

Expletive.

Twenty minutes later the guinea pig is in her cage and Rocket promises with a solemn oath that he will never, EVER leave Gus Gus alone on the living room floor.

And he didn’t, until the next morning.

When he left Gus Gus alone on the living room floor. And she ran under the couch.

Just.Like.Before.

Only this time, Mac was not here to handle it. I was though, so that’s good.

Fucking shoot me.

This is precisely the kind of shit that solidifies my suspicions that I lack a critical mothering gene, namely the one that brings patience and poise and tolerance to moments like this.

When your son tells you he let his guinea pig get under the couch again and you realize you have to handle it.

So I get the broom. I lie on the ground and start sweeping the broom under the couch. Ava has positioned herself on the other side with a flashlight, telling me where the guinea pig is at any given moment. At her word, I sweep in the appropriate direction, at which time the bastard furry fucker scrambles over the broom to the other side of the couch and I yell something derogatory.

Rocket’s contribution is to jump on the couch and squeal.

This, of course, scares the shit out of the guinea pig, increasing her terror and scrambling. My annoyance is reaching peak levels.

Georgia found the whole thing utterly hysterical – everybody on the ground like that, the broom, the jumping. She particularly liked the fact that I was wearing elastic-wasted flannel pajama pants and squatting down, resulting in a prime opportunity to PINCH MY ASS as I attempt to retrieve this guinea pig.

So there I was, on my knees with my butt up in the air, trying to sweep this guinea pig out, with Rocket body-slamming the couch, Ava yelling “she’s here! Quick!” and Georgia with her hand down my pants trying to pinch my butt cheeks.

Please, somebody.

Fucking shoot me.

After an hour of this, I got up and said “Done, children. The guinea pig can live under there or die under there or a little of both.”

Luckily, my 10-year-old has more patience than I do, and apparently better broom skills, since she got the damn guinea pig, eventually.

I’m sorry, Santa. Whatever it is, I’m sorry. Now take ‘em away!

1. I must have been really bad last year, because Santa brought the kids guinea pigs.
2. Yes, yes, I realize “Santa” is me, but I’d rather not take responsibility for the presence of those two animals in my house. Let’s call it a temporary bout with Multiple Personality Disorder, wherein I became a person only interested in fulfilling the dreams of youngsters. Blinded by this mission, I make stupid decisions and wonder how it happened.
3. More on that in my next post. Was going to write the story here but realized it would take up the whole thing, which wouldn’t leave room for my flurry of irrelevant, disconnected thoughts. Which are obviously critical.
4. I feel kind of weird right now. Maybe it’s that I’ve been changing the way I eat. And I’ve been exercising. Weird. It’s not really a New Year’s Resolution. It’s more just a “I’m tired of feeling like shit all the time and I’m ready to feel differently but I couldn’t do anything before Christmas so I’m doing it now” type thing. I think I also don’t really know what exactly to do with myself after the insanity of last semester. I was just rushing and rushing for so long and now things are a little calmer and I’m feeling a little lost. Whatever, it happens. Then it passes.
5. On Friday I found a plastic cup in the freezer full of frozen water. In that frozen water were a variety of Legos, mostly the heads and arms of men, signaling to me that Rocket had been experimenting. I then went to the computer and wrote in the homeschool record “studied the physical properties of water.”
6. Yeah, so that’s pretty much how homeschool is going.
7. Another winning area of my life is home organization. My house is so fucking thrashed I’m considering moving out. Just leaving. But I can’t afford that, so instead I’ve started throwing and giving away things, pretty much at random. I feel a pang of sad, like “Oh, I like that.” Or “Oh, I may need that.” But then I remember that every item preserved is an item to be dealt with, and I chuck that shit. I also ask myself if I’m going to care when I’m 89 and dying that I didn’t keep that one candle holder that is just so cute.
8. Doubt it. I’ll be too busy demanding morphine and pissing off my relatives.
9. Speaking of pain, a good part of my life is now devoted to ensuring Georgia doesn’t kill herself. Last week she: 1) fell out the back door; 2.) tripped on a toy and hit the wall; and 3.) crashed into a bush for reasons still unknown. The result was three scrapes on her head.
10. I just kind of want her to stop moving. At least not so much, and so unpredictably. And so rapidly. Just kinda mellow a little. Take it down a notch.
11. And this, my friends, is her new perch. Yeah. I know. Not safe. But you try keeping her off of it. Shiiiit. And yes, she’s up there so often I just feed her there now.

I believe the word you’re looking for here is “winning.”

Have a great week.