How to get unfriended on Facebook…

by renegademama

I’m writing this post because I’m a bad person.

And this list is not comprehensive.

Now that we’ve cleared that up, let’s get to it…

How to get unfriended on Facebook…or at least annoy the living shit out of people.

  1. Post more than 5 times a day. If possible, give us a run-down of where you’re going, especially if it involves running errands. Because that is really interesting stuff that people want to read (dude WAH?): “Going to post office;” “Headed to the park!”; “getting my nails done!”; “leaving work. TGIF!”
  2. Write about your cat. Sorry, but nobody gives a shit. If your cat dies, that’s sad. You should post that. If your cat vomits on your face, that’s interesting and you should definitely post that. But if your cat is just cute and you feel like sharing, or it has feline behavioral problems (oh yeah, they exist) or the sniffles, you should not write about that because I’m pretty sure about 1% of the population gives a shit, and those are really poor odds.
  3. Call your pet your “baby.” Your pet is not your baby. Even if it’s a puppy, or a kitten, it’s not your baby. I know this for a fact because the last time I left my actual baby outside with a bowl of water, some food and a scratching post, I got in BIG trouble.
  4. Try to sound smart. Say profound stuff. Talk about your graduate degrees. Impress us with your stunning intellect and piercing creativity by dropping quotes of obscure philosophers and applying them to your daily life. Because we are impressed. Because everybody appreciates your insights. Fucktard.
  5. Post inspirational quotes and cute, happy little sayings about friendship, flowers, love, looking on the bright side, new doors opening and other such ridiculous meaningless feel-good crap. Use smiley faces and exclamation points. A lot! 🙂
  6. Play Farmville. Send requests to people who don’t play.
  7. Use your relationship status as a retaliatory tool against your partner. Perhaps you think we don’t notice that you go from “married” to “single” to “in a relationship” 5-7 times a year, sometimes within the same month. But we do notice. We do. And every time we see it, we think you’re an idiot and wish you’d figure your shit out once and for all so we can finally stop reading about it.
  8. Post a lot of pictures of yourself. Post a lot of pictures of yourself all dressed up, in cool, exotic, fancy places – and make sure you are the only person in each photo. In each picture, make the exact same “I’m hot” face and if you’re a female, show cleavage. Tilt your head down and slightly to the left. Have a small lock of hair fall strategically over one eye. Look coy. Repeat.
  9. Post politically charged, highly controversial statements that trigger raging arguments between 300 idiots on Facebook who don’t know each other or anything about the topic at hand. Say things like “keep your laws out of my uterus” or “the institution of marriage is sacred and it’s between man and woman” or “Go Dodgers!” or “I think breastfeeding in public should be a felony!”
  10. Whine. Tell us how much your life sucks. Go on and on about it. Lay it on thick. Use Facebook as a virtual, one-sided therapist. And one of these days, after we put away our violins and inspirational quotes, we’ll tell you to get the fuck off Facebook and go change things if you’re so damn unhappy. Or, if we’re more the passive aggressive type, we’ll just unfriend you, then claim we had no idea what happened.

I wonder if calling people out on the annoying shit they do is a way to get unfriended on Facebook? I hope not. Cause that would hurt my feelings. And then I’d have to whine. And we all know how that goes.

Happy Friday! TGIF! 🙂

yep. pretty much.

Motherhood. The end of Dignity. Part I.

by renegademama

Lemme tell ya a little story.

Last night Rocket and Georgia needed a bath. This happens often. I started the bath water. Rocket got in, too soon, like he always does. Then, as always, he complained with shock, horror and sadness that the water was only warm in half the tub (by the faucet). And I, like I always do, suggest he sit by the faucet until the whole thing warms up. I got Georgia undressed on the changing table, then realized that I was still in my work clothes and was really uncomfortable, mainly because I was still wearing a bra, which is, as far as I can tell, totally inappropriate while in one’s home. So I went into my room, setting Georgia on the floor naked.

As I did this I had a flashing, ominous thought “she could pee on the floor.” I did a quick risk/benefit analysis and decided it was worth it – I would just get dressed REALLY FAST and if she peed, I’d spray it with something and have Mac deal with it. Since he wasn’t home I could play the “you weren’t here dealing with these hoodlum children so now you must help” card.

I sat her down. I undressed. I grabbed a skirt and a shirt and threw them on. I couldn’t find a clean shirt in my drawer, so I grabbed one from the pile on the floor, which is comprised of maternity clothing I have not yet put in the garage. Yeah. This is my life.

I return to the baby. Not more than 2 minutes have passed since I deposited her there, sitting up happily and saying “Bah.”

I notice something odd on the ground beneath her. I realize what it is. The words “No fucking way” escape my mouth.

The kid has pooped on the floor.

And I want somebody else’s life. Is that too much to ask? Just right now. Just for the next 5 minutes.

But I know this isn’t Inception. It isn’t my dream or anybody else’s and in a horrible twist of fate, I’m the only person here to deal with this.

Now I enjoy bathroom humor as much as the next guy, but I’m going to save you the details of this particular bowel movement except to say that it was well, not solid. Therefore, it was everywhere.

In moments like this, the body enters a sort of flight-or-fight response. Time slows down. Adrenalin pulses. The mind starts ticking methodically…focus on the basics, on survival…

My objective: remove baby from floor, wash her. Preferably without covering myself in poop.

I assess my options.

If I put her in the tub, the tub will be full of poop. Not doing that.

If I wipe it off her, well, that’s impossible. This is going to require water.

None of my options look promising, but I’m running out of time. Any second one of those erratic bouncing hands is going to reach down and grab that stuff.

Must act now.

So I pick her up under the arms and hold her out in front of me, hoping none falls off and begging the higher powers that she doesn’t have it on her hands, which are, of course, grabbing for my face. I dart to the bathroom sink and place her there, at which time Rocket demands to know what’s going on. I tell him. He yells “Let me see!!” and starts exiting the bath to get a better look. I scream something imperceptible but oddly effective, since he sat back down and just began requesting details.

I turn the water on. It’s cold. Of course it’s cold. Damn faucet. Cold running water has now messed with my life twice in 10 minutes. Georgia starts crying. She doesn’t like cold water. Rocket tries again. I yell. I wash the baby. I wash the baby. I wash the baby. I’m tapping the hot side of the faucet with my finger trying to warm the water up without burning her and she’s slipping around like a small seal doused in olive oil and Rocket’s nearly in tears because he doesn’t get to see the poop and this is my life. It occurs to me that moments like this would serve as extremely effective birth control.

Finally, she’s rinsed.

And with a sigh of relief I set her in her seat in the bath by Rocket. But by now the water is practically to Georgia’s neck so I do the “hold slippery seal” routine again and punch the button to drain some of the water out. Rocket is now in hysterics because he sees something on my chest that’s funny. I don’t care though. I ignore him.

But then I smell something uncool. I look down. There’s poop all over my shirt. And since it’s a maternity shirt and therefore HUGE, the v-neck is hanging really low, allowing poop to also move down my chest and between my boobs.

Rocket is having the best night of his life, viewing two of his all time favorite things at the same time: boobs and poop.

I rip the shirt off and throw it in the garbage. Yes, the garbage.

Then I bathe my baby and wash myself and decide next time I’m staying in my damn work clothes.

And I realize that I’m going to write a blog post about baby poop and its role in my life, even though I swore I was way too deep and profound and intellectual for that kind of, um, shit. Ha.Ha.Ha.

after the bath. sweet smelling clean kids. totally worth it. well mostly worth it.

9 Comments | Posted in motherhood. the end of dignity. | April 7, 2011

WTF? wednesday

by renegademama

This week we’re heavy on Rocket quotes because Ava was gone half the week (in Europe). Still, not bad.

*******

Rocket, whining and making a “puh-lease” face: “Daddy, may I have another cookie?”

Mac: “Yes, but not because you made that face and whined.”

Rocket: “Well, it worked yesterday.”

*******

Me: “What did you learn about today at school?”

Rocket: “I learned about how a frog will puff up his belly to look bigger, so other animals won’t eat him.”

Me: “Smart frog.”

Rocket, with an eye-roll: “Mama. It’s a frog. It’s not smart. It’s trying not to die.”

Dude. He’s five. How the hell was I supposed to know he understands the difference between survival instinct and intelligence?

******
And….a WTF? moment brought to you courtesy of the man inhabiting my house.

Me, on Saturday morning: “Mac, we need to clean. The house is thrashed.”

Mac: “But I did dishes this week. Why do I have to clean now?”

(Just fucking shoot me.)

*****

Rocket, to a friend, after I told her our whole family is going to see Further in San Francisco…”Yeah, but it won’t be the same without Jerry.”

Heeheehee.

****

Ava, after school, upon being asked how her day went by a family friend: “Well, the bad news is my technology teacher died. The good news is I have a softball game tonight.”

Death. Softball. Whatever.

***

0 Comments | Posted in wtf? wednesdays | April 6, 2011

don’t worry, I’m a parenting expert

by renegademama

Parenting Expert

This expression slaughters me. You know you’ve heard it: “I am a parenting expert.”

Well no, you’re not.

Let’s talk about why, shall we?

The Oxford English Dictionary (oh how I love thee, my OED) defines the word “parenting” as “the activity of being a parent; the rearing of a child or children; the manner in which a parent raises a child.” Clear enough. It defines “expert” as “one whose special knowledge or skill causes him to be regarded as an authority; a specialist.”

So let me get this straight…you are a specialist in the rearing of my children?

Wow. That is fancy.

Here I thought I was doing this all by my lonesome and all this time you were right there – the untapped resource, the authority, the specialist, the expert in my experience?! And I didn’t even know it! Gee whiz I never thought to look for you. Silly me. I assumed that since I am me and I’m the only me there is (as far as I can tell) and my kids are my kids and only my kids (as far as I can tell), if anybody were to become an “expert” in raising them, it would, by definition, have to be ME, since I am in fact the only one involved in their rearing and therefore, the only one who could gain sufficient skill or knowledge to reach “expert status.”

I mean how have you managed to acquire that skill and knowledge? Are you clairvoyant? Do you spy on us? Do you live in my attic and peep down through the heater vents? Or do you somehow “just know” how kids should be raised?

Alright, all kidding and sarcasm aside, I’d like to get serious for a moment and invite all current and potential parenting experts to step away from the computer and kindly go screw themselves.

Twice.

I’m serious people. What the hell? I see those two words EVERYWHERE and it is clearly driving me batty. The worst are the people who blog because they are “parenting experts” and apparently just can’t help but share their knowledge with us dumb shits. How do people even say that with a straight face? How can you be an expert in something so intensely personal, ever-changing and unpredictable? How can you be an expert in the rearing of a child you’ve never met? And even more frightening, are there actually parents who see that bio or blog summary and say to themselves “oh good! Somebody who knows how to raise my children! Yay! What a relief! I was thinking I had to figure this out on my own! Whew.”

I imagine that if some of these “experts” were to read this post they would defend themselves by saying something like… “oh, I’m not telling you how to raise your children. I’m an expert in the many different ways parents raise children. I just have a lot of knowledge. I’m not advocating for one over the other. I just want to provide information.”

Which is, of course, total bullshit, because there’s always bias and slant and the only type of person pretentious enough to claim an authoritative status on something as ambiguous and subjective as parenting is exactly the type of person who maintains a very strong opinion on the way things should be done. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be calling themselves an expert. An expert is called upon for their expert opinion – their informed expert opinion. That’s the whole fucking point of being an expert. Otherwise, you’re just a knowledge sharer.

And I have yet to see that on a blogger bio “I am a knowledge sharer.”

Blah!

And…

I’m done.

(Thanks. I feel better now.)


what I learned this week: fevers, hippies and existential crises (nice rhyme, J)

by renegademama
  1. It’s possible to be tremendously afraid of something yet do it anyway. My daughter is going to Europe tomorrow for 2 weeks. When contemplating this, my mind goes straight to Eastern European human trafficking rings and/or the illegal sale of body parts (is there legal sale or was that redundant?). Then my mind sits there. And expands. And it keeps expanding until I’m so terrified  I determine that the only thing to do is move to a yurt in Wales with my kids, husband, and a large, protective dog.
  2. I’m letting her go any way because the likelihood of her hating me forever if I don’t let her go is far greater than the possibility of something bad happening. This, my friends, is what one would call “sound reasoning.” (I like to point out instances of “sound reasoning” in my life, due to its scarcity.)
  3. Whining is the most annoying kid feature. I’ve given this a lot of thought and pretty much settled on that one, though I’m open to ideas.
  4. Scrubs is a freaking great show. Japanese sweet potatoes are a win. I need a pedicure.
  5. I know this topic is clichéd and boring, but I have to say, insurance companies are evil and can suck it. The end.
  6. There are positive aspects of having a baby with a cold and slight fever. They are as follows: 1. unlimited cuddling of the very close variety; 2. an excuse to do nothing but sit in a rocking chair, nurse and watch T.V.; 3. an indisputable way to get out of all commitments, housework and phone calls.
  7. There are some seriously unfortunate aspects of the same scenario, such as: 1. watching your baby suffer; 2. the positive cycle mentioned above continues throughout the night, when it isn’t so cool; 3. the positive cycle mentioned above continues for more than 1 day, which is even less cool; and 4. watching your baby suffer. Right. That one needed to be said twice.
  8. When your 5-year-old says “I’m brushing my teeth,” what he really means is “I’m sitting on the counter in the bathroom, emptying the toothpaste into the sink and swirling it around with my sister’s Barbie. I am doing this without pants.”
  9. When you begin cleaning the house on a Saturday morning, watch your husband carefully. He may try to sneak out the garage in search of the neighbor, who is also dodging his wife and her Stalin-like expectations.
  10. I’m not sure why the great minds of today concern themselves with things like life on other planets, perpetual motion or life after death when there are huge, cosmic quandaries facing us every day, right here at home, left totally unanswered, such as whether it’s better to end a sentence in a preposition, thereby violating an age-old grammatical rule, or avoiding that violation by crafting a ridiculously long-winded, archaic-sounding, pretentious sentence. I mean there’s no easy answer here. (Yes. I’m still thinking about the situation in my last post where I wrote “I need things to move on to.” I mean, what are my options? “I need things to which I can move?” LAME. Or “I need things that will allow me to move on to them?” Out of the question.). You see? PROBLEMATIC.
  11. Other than having a homebirth, I recently engaged in the most hippie activity of my life: I put essential oils on my baby’s feet to “pull out” the fever and cold. Whatever. My mom told me to do it. She’s cool like that.
  12. Speaking of hippies, on June 4th, me, Mac, Ava & Rocket are going to Further. This makes me so happy I could twirl naked in Golden Gate Park with ribbons and flowers in my hair while smoking joints and loving the one I’m with. (Damn it. Another preposition situation.).
  13. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the next two weeks without my baby who isn’t a baby. This is my sad face.
  14. To make it through the next two weeks, I’m gonna need you people to hold my hand.  Cyber-space style. I’m also going to need to stop saying things like “cyber-space style” if I ever want to convince people I’m cool.

 

14 Comments | Posted in weeks of mayhem | April 3, 2011