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.

1. So I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for 40 days. The jury’s still out on how it’s going. It may be leaning more toward “she sucks at this,” although I feel like I’ve had a few winning days. Or hours. Or moments. Let’s keep it real and go with moments.
2. The truth is I feel a little lost, like I’m not sure what to do with myself. I mean DUH I can clean and cook and take care of kids and all that stuff, but I’m used to getting up and going places and doing things and having forty-seven thousand things to do each day to torment and terrify me – and now, I have like a few very simple things. NOT EASY, simple.
3. And I’m like WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE and where am I going and what’s it all for and how do I pass my time? So, like a damn border collie, since nobody gave me a clearly discernible job, I made one up for myself. In the past few weeks that I’ve been off school (and pretty much work) I’ve replaced virtually all the body products I used with inexpensive homemade versions. It started out as a financial thing (read: we’re fucking broke and can’t afford $7.00 aluminum-and-paraben-free deodorant so I buy the regular stuff but then feel like I’m giving myself breast cancer plus that natural shit doesn’t work anyway) but as it’s evolved I find it so easy and fun that I’m pretty much sold, and frankly, feel like a bit of a schmuck for paying what I did for something I could make in my kitchen with very little brains or effort.
4. Anyway, y’all expressed some interest in the recipes I’ve been using and such, so I think I’ll do like an 8-week thing where once a week I post a recipe for some granola shenanigans I’ve been up to.
5. That way people who want to kill me in my sleep for writing a post resembling helpfulness (cause we don’t do that here, damnit!) can just ignore me on those days, and hopefully stick around on the other days to talk shit about women who throw baby sprinkles.
6. Although I’m 100% convinced that one can be a shit-talking renegade mama AND make homemade stuff. In fact, I feel incredibly empowered by this whole process – like I’ve really said “fuck you” to the man in a whole new way. Like all the sudden I feel way less victimized by American materialism and marketing and its insistence that I need companies to make me beautiful and my house clean. More on that later.
7. I suppose if we’re having a day of the week (please God let me actually stick to this) and a theme and whatnot we should have some sort of name for it: Crunchy Mondays? Hippie Hump Day? Wipe butts and make lotion? The Angry Amish? I have no idea where that last one came from.
8. Help me. I’m struggling with the naming our little series cause it isn’t just about enviro stuff (conservation, chemicals, etc.). It’s also about finances and what I was mentioning before: becoming more independent – feeling a sense of accomplishment and ownership over more areas of life.
9. So anyway, back to the week. You know it’s occurred to me that I think I really depend on the rushing to fill something in me, like if I’m moving super fast I don’t have ever really look at my life, or face anything. I’m just going, running at whirlwind paces, too damn busy to open my eyes. Do you ever experience that?
10. And on the 28^th I’ll go back to school, and undoubtedly I’ll feel a pang of regret that I didn’t enjoy my time with my kids more fully, hang back and chill out as all these things happened, with me around.

By the way, this blog will be two years old next week, on the 26^th. Trip the fuck out.

I never knew when I started writing this thing that such an incredible group of people (women mostly) would come together and teach me so much and help me see that not only am I not alone in feeling like a bit of a jackass in this mothering world, but there are plenty of women out there who feel exactly the same as I do, and will admit freely!

I do love you people. I do.

Thanks for keepin’ it real, and for sticking around.

Anyway, here’s some pictures of what we’ve been up to the last couple weeks (since I didn’t write last Sunday – bad blogger!), featuring my kids doing cute shit, and my husband sticking his tongue out. Somehow these people ruin my life and make it perfect, at the same damn time.

Pretty fancy if ya ask me.

xoxo

I took Ava to a “high tea” and it was amazing.

Last Sunday I took the kids to see a Tibetan monk do a sand painting (mandala).

Here was Ava’s prayer flag and mandala.

Georgie’s been reading naked under side tables…

and not being afraid of the water…

and melting my heart by making faces like this when I pull her against me.

Rocket’s been tying things together.

They’ve all been watching T.V. and eating ice cream at Nana’s house.

Lately this has been the sleeping arrangement.

and then there’s this fool and his damn beard.

The kids have been “sneaking around” together.

And I’ll never get enough of the cloth-diaper/wool nighttime ensemble…

No really, I won’t.

Have a great week, everybody.

Look, I get it. You’re fucking old. You have old people problems. [And judging from some of the creams I recall in my grandma’s medicine cabinet, I imagine some of those can get pretty intense.]

Clearly, you’re a little pissed. Maybe it sucks to be old. I only FEEL old on occasion, like when I go to class, or hear teenagers speaking, or wake up in the morning, but I know I’m not REALLY old, so I have very little perspective on this topic.

But seriously, old people, it kind of creeps me out when you’re mean to my toddler.

I MEAN SHIT. You’re OLD, and she’s REALLY FUCKING CUTE.

YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE NICE. Grandmotherly. Warm. A little maybe?

I’m getting ahead of myself.

Maybe you’ve gathered that I have a slightly insane socialite toddler who insists on engaging with pretty much every passer-by in her line of sight. She’s like the Queen of England in her float or chariot or whatever the hell they use over there, smiling and waving at everybody, absolutely SURE they’re all there to see her.

I mean duh.

Obviously.

And 99% of the time, when she toddles up to some table o’ strangers, grins and says “HI!”, their faces brighten and seem to say “holy shit you’re a cute little bandit, aren’t ya?”, which is, of course, the response we’re all lookin’ for.

Occasionally she walks up to people in restaurants and they give her this polite “hello” but then look at me like “yeah, she’s cute, but so is my fettuccini. Somoveitalong.”

And we do.

At music festivals involving blankets and grass (the kind that grows on the ground, people! Get your heads outta the gutter!), she tends to have excellent luck, probably cause half the people are drunk and the other half are stoned, but all are hanging out at a damn hippie show (meaning they’d look really bad giving the shaft to a little toddler).

Or maybe it’s the way she plays it, sidling up and just sitting down beside them, like they’re old friends, staring at their vegan black beans as if she’s never eaten before (until they actually OFFER her some and you’re like “I swear we feed her” and they’re like “yes sure of course, that totally explains why she’s begging strangers for legumes.”).

And as you know, her socialite tendencies have resulted in some pretty remarkable situations.

But check it out. There’s always that one lady.

The mean one.

The one that looks at her like she’s some sort of varmint poking its head out of its grotto as she attempts to sip tea in her drawing room (what’s with the British theme? And what the hell is a “drawing room?”).

(By the way, I say “lady” because I can only recall women giving her the ol’ middle finger, which is even creepier, right, because of all those gender stereotypes demanding women to be all maternal and shit, and old people to be nice?)

But I digress. Again.

Though it just happened the other day, which of course is why I had to write about it. We were in Walmart (I still die a little inside writing that), and Georgia was sitting in the cart. A woman of about 75 walks up next to us and of course Georgia starts her usual “Hi!” or “Hi friend!” or “hello!” but she’s not responding. My mama bear instincts sniff mean old person syndrome, so I start trying to distract Queen Georgie from her routine, but there’s no stopping royalty.

She just gets louder and leans into it this time, with this gigantic smile on her face (which was like the cutest damn thing I’d ever seen), absolutely determined to get this woman’s attention, being so forward the woman can’t possibly ignore her, until she finally looks Georgia right in the face, scowls (and I mean SCOWLS with a death-dagger glare that would wither marigolds), and looks away, visibly hating her, and us.

So of course I’m like “Hey, lady. Are you fucking SENILE? Don’t you see that this adorable piece of humanity just said ‘hello’ to you? I know you’re old, but I’m not above kickin’ your ass right here in the goddamn toilet paper aisle.” (I’m sure weirder things have happened in Walmart anyway.)

But I keep all that inside, cause I realize that would be weird to say aloud, and I may get arrested.

So I look away, a little embarrassed for my baby (which is totally freaking weird, but let’s move on) and try to distract the toddler, who has of course no idea she’s getting the cold shoulder, and keeps trying to say hello. After we leave, the other kids process the whole thing, asking me like nineteen thousand times various formations of the same question: “Why was that lady so mean?”

And pretty soon we’re all ready to throw down.

Cause you don’t fuck with Georgia.

Yes, that would be the Georgia who has completely forgotten the whole thing, having moved on to saying “hello” to the new people in her path, a couple teenagers in the check-out line, who have fallen victim to the toddler and are defiling all coolness by playing a game of peek-a-boo.

But I always think about people like that for a little while after, wondering what it must take to transform a person into that condition. Maybe it was just a bad day, but I doubt it. A bad day doesn’t make you hard against a child.

I wonder what kind of life must have been endured, to turn a human heart cold against the irresistible warmth of a baby. To make it impossible to utter a “hello,” to find even one millisecond of joy in the antics of a little girl, throwing her innocence and smile and trust your way, a complete stranger, even for just a moment becoming your child, your friend, your own.

And it reminds me that if you’re gonna put yourself out, by god you’re gonna get the middle finger sometimes, you’re gonna get the shaft. And it’ll sting to the quick of all you’ve got, for a minute or two or years, and you’ll feel your pride sink into your toes, in that familiar anguish of realizing your love isn’t coming back, and you’ve thrown it all out there for nothing, looking like an asshole, a tool. You handed it all over, and they chuckled at the gesture, waved you on with a twitch of an uninterested hand, left you standing there with your open wound of vulnerability, and shame.

Your expectation a mirror to the pathetic naiveté that led you there in the first place.

The boy who says no.

The friend who walks away.

The lies.

The joke you told to become one of them, the faces that made it clear you’ll never be.

The family member who’s gone.

The thing you thought you had that you never had.

Old lady, come to think of it, you’ve got every right to turn away, to shield yourself from whatever it is that threatens you, that bothers you, that pulls something up from your gut that you just can’t fucking stand.

You’re alright, doing your thing, teaching us how it all goes, giving us a chance to watch a toddler handle you with the grace of some sort of Zen monk, giving it all to you in that moment, everything she’s got with total abandon – then letting you walk away, free, detached, having gained nothing and lost nothing, her fire still crackling, looking for the next person, to warm, to do it again.

Always, to do it again.

There’s enough to go around, I guess.

my kids, pretending to be “mean old people”

One of the most baffling aspects of motherhood is the way it seems to obligate me to get excited about things I’m really just not that excited about. Like I’m supposed to get all into it because I’m a mother or something, but really I just watch other women get excited about it and wonder if I’m missing something.

You know like “When did that ship sail, cause seriously, I barely give a shit.”

For example, parent-teacher conferences. I hear women talk about them like they’re the biggest deal all year. You know what I think when I get that notice home? “Damn, how the hell am I going to wrangle the toddler while I sit through this thing?” Or, “Shit. One more thing to do.”

I mean I can write the whole thing for you right now anyway. Here it goes: “Your daughter is way above grade level in all subjects but has a hard time working with others and waiting her turn to talk. Your son is performing below grade level in all subjects but is a natural leader and a master at P.E. and everybody loves him.”

And all these “milestones” that I’m supposed to start jumping up and down shouting “yippee!” – first crawls, first words, first whatever – obviously these are kind of fun, and I’m excited in a “I’m glad my child is progressing” kind of way, but I’m not like tearing down the house with glee. Ya feel me? [Seriously, Janelle, rhyming?]

Because all these “milestones,” while glorious in their indication that all is well with the offspring’s progress, also mark whole new insane levels of work and chaos.

Crawling? Yipee! Now I have a MOBILE maniac.

Walking? Now I have a fast, mobile maniac.

Talking? Start of the slippery slope to the day when she NEVER EVER FUCKING STOPS TALKING. EVER.

But one of the things I felt comfortable in my disdain of, one of the “milestones” I thought I was safe to not get excited about, at all, in fact pretty much loathe, was potty training. I mean, who likes that? Nobody. It’s not fun. It’s not amusing. It’s not even cute. It involves crap and work and pee, and cajoling, and angry blog posts by judgmental women who hate the fact that I bribe my kid with chocolate chips.

WHATEVER.

So you can imagine my surprise when my homies emailed me an actual invitation to a “potty training party.”

A what what?

Oh yeah, you heard me. A party. Celebrating potty training.

Like, one you’re supposed to attend. Fiesta. Shindig.

You get it.

Here’s a quote, in case you don’t believe me: “Let’s get potty training started with a party! Come and join us for a day celebrating this inevitable milestone! We’ll have snacks and drinks for all, and a lot of fun!”

What the WHAT?

Beyond the excessive use of exclamation points, which already makes me want to die a slow death in a cold basement, the idea of celebrating POTTY TRAINING is about the most obscure concept I’ve ever heard of. It’s like oxymoronic. Or Ironic. It can’t be real. BUT IT IS.

It’s like having a party to celebrate menopause. Or hemorrhoids. Or how about a little shindig honoring a recent hysterectomy? (although wait. That one may have potential.)

You know what potty training looks like in our house? A naked toddler pissing on the floor then running up to us gleefully exclaiming “I peed in the potty!” Or Rocket laughing his ass off from the other room, barely squeaking out between squeals of laughter “Georgia’s pooping in the dollhouse!” Or it’s seeing the toddler begin to urinate on the couch, yelling “NOOOOOO!!!!” (like in one of those Hallmark movies where the dude protagonist watches the main chick die), and (in similar slow motion) bolting across the floor to stick her on the potty, which is, incidentally, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FREAKING LIVING ROOM (because potty training seems to turn you into white trash, TOO) meaning we all get peed on and the floor is covered but the actual potty contains approximately 5 drops of urine, the sad remains of the cross-room journey.

For obvious reasons, I delay this shit (ha.ha.) as long as I possibly can (because OMG the work involved), but eventually it becomes so obvious that it’s “potty training time!” that I start looking bad at playgroups (um, because I totally go to those), so I start sloughing the work onto my husband, telling him he better get on it and pronto, as payback for the fact that I carried the urinater in question in my womb for 10 months and now pee on myself when I sneeze. Also he still doesn’t know where we keep the strainer.

Only fair, says I.

Dude, I’m not kidding, we’re so bad at potty training the toddler HERSELF asks us to remove her diaper so she can poop.

Judge not. Or judge. Whatever.

So HOW THE HELL am I supposed to comprehend a PARTY celebrating the “inevitable milestone?”

It ain’t easy, I tell you.

After we commiserated for a bit on the bleak state of humanity (what has the world come to when we’re having parties celebrating potty training?), my friend did some sleuthing and discovered that the event in question is this thing created and “sponsored” by Pull-Ups (oh yeah, you thought it couldn’t worse, didn’t ya?), and if you want to have one of these little shindigs, you “apply” for it and Pull-Ups chooses you based on SOMETHING (I can’t even imagine) and they send you a bunch of Pull-ups for your kid and guests, party hats and all kinds of other nonsense. There’s even a “potty training DANCE” everybody can do together! I just vomited a little in my mouth.

So basically, in having one of these parties, you become not only a threat to all that’s holy, but also a tool for the marketing antics of corporate America! Gooooo Huggies!

YAY!

SIGN ME THE FUCK UP!

Only I’m making my own damn invitations. Otherwise, my people won’t be interested. Here they are.

You coming?

1. If I were a stay-at-home-mom and I knew some self-righteous working mom who thought I did nothing all day, I’d totally knock on her door 3 weeks into winter break, smile and ask “How do ya like me now, bitch?”
2. Cause seriously. This shit’s crazy.
3. WHEN ARE THEY GOING BACK TO SCHOOL?
4. It’s not that we all hate each other. Or maybe it is. No, we just mostly hate each other. I jest. The truth is that 90% percent of the time my kids are annoying the hell out of each other AND me, 5% of the time they’re not annoying each other but definitely annoying me –and the remaining 5% is the time we’re having happy family bonding moments.
5. So as you can see, those odds suck. There is so much yelling in my house. It ain’t right.
6. The thing is, I’m not really working and school doesn’t start again until January 28, so basically I’ve been doing nothing except “homemaking” (I put that it in quotes because seriously, I’m not sure if I’m capable of such a task) since December 10. The good news is I turned over some miracle crafting leaf in the form of my obsession with making body care products. The bad news is my house looks like the woman in charge has an obsession with making body care products, as opposed to, say, cleaning. Or “homemaking.”
7. I haven’t done laundry in nineteen days, but if you need a rosemary mint sugar scrub, I’m your girl.
   
8. I suppose I should do some sort of Christmas-recap-Happy-New-Year’s-reflection-thing, but the truth is I really don’t feel like it. Christmas was a bit of a disappointment, as holidays usually are, and it passed as Christmas usually does, driving around and getting ready and not being at home, with my family, where I want to be. Next year I’m cancelling all commitments on that day. I mean it. I’m out. I just want to sit at home with my husband and kids for a few hours to open gifts and play with them, hang out together and relax and drink coffee and not have to get dressed or drive or be anywhere, until the evening at least. I don’t know why that means so much to me, but it does, and I have only myself to blame for not making it happen, pretty much ever. I seem to cave at the critical moment. I’m a caver. I always think it will be okay and fun and then it’s just too much and it’s stressful. But then by the next year, I forget again. And I get a little sad at the end of the day, because once again I didn’t spend Christmas the way I envisioned. Let’s talk about something else.
9. Like New Year’s. Yes, New Year’s. Now THAT was fun. Some new friends of ours (who I now pretty much see as family) invited us on New Year’s Eve to a house they rented on Lake Tahoe. The day before New Year’s Eve was the day we spent running around thrift stores trying to scrounge together snow gear. Oh yeah. We plan.
10. But we went and it was one of those days that’s just so perfect. Where the weather’s fine and the company’s wonderful and the fire’s burning and the kids are laughing. It was a 5% kind of day, and it set it all right.

Happy New Year to all of you. I fucking love you.

Let’s do big shit this year. Or not.

Cause let’s be honest, we’re already big. We’re huge, particularly in Japan.

Kinduva big deal.

Well to each other, at least. And that must be something, right? Maybe in Japan?

Anyway…snow trip!

my jacket from the 1980s!

steer clear of the yellow, Georgie!

he’s growing his beard back. oh happy day.

definitely a 5% kind of day