Womb and Bored

Womb and Bored

Sunday, October 9, 2016

If Love Trumps Hate...

It's been a while.  I'm sure you missed me.  I've been incredibly busy deleting people off my social media sites for being a-holes.  There, I said it.  But if you're reading this, it's likely you made the cut.  So...I don't know whether to congratulate you or tell you how truly sorry I am.

I am not political.  This I will tell you.  Honestly, I wish I was.  But my interest in politics is almost equivalent to my interest in my boys' coach-pitched baseball games.  If you've seen me at one, you know I'm the one losing my other children on purpose so I don't have to endure the pain of seeing that one kid they have to bring the tee out for.  I hate that.  It's like the Scarlett Letter of little league.

I digress.

However, I can't help but watch the fucking disaster we call an election taking place before me.  I'm not a huge or yuuuuge fan of any of the current candidates.  I'm just slightly less appalled by one than the other.  With that being said, I can't help but watch other people and their reactions towards our future president.  Particularly women.

And...here's why.

Trump, at one point or another, has expressed the following viewpoints...

Women are aesthetically-pleasing, and that is their purpose
Sexual assault in the military is expected behavior
Women need to rely on sex appeal to win
As long as your significant other is hot, it doesn't matter who you are.
Ugly women shouldn't be on TV.
Breast feeding is a disgusting thing to do
Women trick men
Women should be blamed for their husband's actions
Women shouldn't date too much, it makes them unattractive
And that all women want him

Yes, that is appalling.  It truly is.  However, before you're all "I'm With Her", I think it's important for you to think, particularly if you're a woman, if your words and your actions are much different than Trump's.

Here's why I say that.

I made a career choice that has me surrounded by women on a daily basis.  When I'm not at work, I typically find myself in the mommy circle, once again surrounded by women.  And, on a daily basis, without fail, I see women...those that claim they're with her...treating each other no different than Trump.  I, myself, have been victim.  My co-workers have been victim.  My friends have been victim.    I've even seen my daughter fall victim.

It's true.

And, if you say it isn't, then I want to live on your amazing planet where, perhaps, rainbow-farting unicorns fly around, sprinkling drops of bullshit like rain in the Amazon.

Because, whether you want to believe it or not, most women are guilty.

I've been accused by other women of not having a brain, only sexuality.
I've been told that my outgoing personality has me asking for attention.
I've been blamed for the actions of my significant other.
I've been told I'm "too-much" because I have opinions.

And, unfortunately, I too, am guilty.

I've called women ugly because I was pissed about how they treated me.
I've said that women shouldn't be sportscasters, because they haven't played the sport.
I've said I'd rather be friends with guys because women are moody and judgmental.

Yet I'm pissed, because someone who has a pretty significant platform, is saying and doing the things that I have found myself doing.

I suck.  And, not in the way Bill Clinton wishes.

And, it's not just in what we say, it's also in our actions.  I look at social media and we are in the land of Me-me's.  Not "Memes" (Well, those, too).  I mean the land of me-me, where anything and everything is about me, me.  I love many of you so much, but some of our social media life is about as fake as my eyelashes on any given Saturday night.  And, why?

It's okay to not have your shit in a pile.
It's okay if you didn't breastfeed.
It's okay if you're in a sexless marriage.
It's okay if you can't find half of your children.

It's not okay to pretend.

There.  I said it.

Our game of imaginary land of puppies and chocolate covered asparagus is only making those around us feel like they, too, have to up their social media game.  And it becomes this fucked up twist on keeping up with the Joneses, where people feel the need to make everything look pretty on the outside to protect what's happening on the inside.  Isn't that exactly what Trump says of us, that things should be aesthetically pleasing, because that is our purpose?

We are all fucked up.

And if you think you aren't, well, you're more fucked up than I thought.

But, if Love Trumps Hate, we need to act like it.

My shoes may not be your style.
I may be louder than you like.
Perhaps my boobs are bigger than yours.

But, regardless.

I'm a woman, and I'm one of you.

So, don't just be with her.

Be with me.











Tuesday, December 22, 2015

L'eggo my Lego

Screw gun control...if you want to lobby for a real cause it's Lego control.

Yes, you read that right.

Those f'ing rectangular prisms are what is wrong with the world.

If you are wondering what I'm talking about, you obviously don't allow children to exist in your realm.

Have you ever stepped on one of those interlocking blocks of hell?  If so, you know exactly what I'm talking about.  I would compare it to birthing a porcupine dripping in hot sauce.  It's a fucking nightmare.

At least with needles and swords, kids know to keep those bastards off the floor.  Not that I let my kids play with needles and swords...anymore.  But with Legos, they always seem to be right where you don't want them.  And those hell blocks are virtually indestructible.  Somehow they manage to find their way to the sweet spot on your foot.  Every.  Fucking. Time.

I know, I know...  They cultivate thought and creativity.  But, fuck, truly what difference do smart kids make...really?  Honestly, if you ask any grown adult what they remember about legos from their childhood, odds are, they aren't going to recall the amazing buildings or rummaging through the box to find the perfect piece.  They are going to remember stepping on one of those inanimate pieces of HADES.

Besides stepping on them, let's discuss the many other ways Legos ruin my life.

Whenever my kids get them out to play, it means I'm going to have to help.  As much as I love my five-year-olds, those heathens can't build a fire breathing dragon out of 10 mm blocks no matter how wonderful the pictorial instructions are.  So, I am forced to take the book out and help them locate the pieces.  Building things isn't my favorite thing.  Building things with a child with junkyard breath telling me I'm not building it fast enough is DEFINITELY not my favorite thing.

And, there's always a missing piece.

The average LEGO owner has 84 pieces.  That's 84 possibilities for my children to lose something.  My kids have been known to lose jackets, shoes, each other...  so the odds are clearly stacked against me with something the size of a lego.

I truly think they should ban those bitches.

I'm okay with Duplo.  If only we could find a way to get Taylor Swift to endorse them...

Until then...

Perhaps they could make them glow in the dark.

Or maybe put an age limit.  Like 21.  Because, frankly, I'd almost rather my kids have whiskey than a lego gas station.

Or they could make them squishy.

Or each set could come with thick-ass slippers.

Or perhaps I could just rid of my children.

But, then, who would pick up the swords and needles?

Happy holidays!


Friday, December 11, 2015

F your Elf

I have been dreading Thanksgiving.

And, not just because can-shaped cranberry sauce gives me anxiety.


I have been dreading Thanksgiving because it means the return of that damn two-legged bastard the Elf on the Shelf.


Seriously.  I hate him.


Okay, to be fair, I can't even find him.  That asshole spent the last year on a shelf judging me for not moving him.  And now...suddenly...I can't find his creepy ass.


Perhaps you are wondering where he might have gone.  Obviously he didn't move himself.  Lord knows, if he was capable of that, I wouldn't hate him so damn much.  The truth is, I let my kids touch the elf.  Why, you ask?  Because, it beats having to listen to them bitch about not touching the elf.

Last year, my son became obsessed with the elf.  So much so, that all he wanted for Christmas was elf things.  He wanted clothes and books and pets for the elf.  He wanted to dress like an elf.  Essentially, he wanted to be an elf.  I don't blame him, I guess.  That elf has a more exciting life than other people claim they have on Facebook.

Snow angels in sugar...check
Fishing for goldfish in the toilet...check
Zip-lining on the drapes...check

So...why do I hate such an AMAZING specimen?  Well, the truth is, I don't necessarily hate him.  I hate what he stands for.  He stands for the bastardizing of a tradition for the sake of money and fame. Exactly what I hate about society.


Remember when people used to take pictures so they could remember a moment?  That was a lovely time.  Now people take pictures so they can Snapchat that shit, and we can all see how wonderful their lives are.


And, after Thanksgiving, it only gets worse.


Because before Thanksgiving, people were only sensationalizing their own lives...  Now, they are also sensationalizing the lives of their elves.


My elf is clearly better than your elf.  Because my elf has elf donuts and your elf just sits on the shelf.


My elf dresses in Lululemon, because pilled-felt just doesn't cut it in this house.

My elf drives Barbie's car, and yours just drives a stuffed reindeer.  Take that, bitches.


What the fuck?  And if you think I'm exaggerating, get on Etsy.  Check out what they are currently selling for that creepy fucker.  They sell EVERYTHING.  Clothes, masks, food, games.  And worst of all, people actually buy them.  I would love to think these purchases are for the children.  Maybe they are.  But it seems that many are using said props to make the other elves feel insecure about their own lives.


Speaking of insecure, I am incredibly not creative when it comes to my elf.  Again, the most creative thing I have done thus far is lose him.  However, I'm a creative person, so, many people have asked me about the fun ideas I've had for my elf.  So, I'm forced to admit that I place him on one shelf and then move him to another shelf.  And then I feel judged.  So, it's not bad enough that I have some freaky ass elf sitting on a shelf judging me one month out of the year.  Now, humans are judging me, as well.


What do I want to say to said judgers?  It's the Elf on the FUCKING shelf.  Not the Elf on the Train, or the Elf on the Moon or the Elf in the Jeep.


Let's discuss something else about the elf.  That bastard is EXPENSIVE.  $30.  That's, like 4 months of Netflix.  I'm actually paying a dollar a day to house that creepster.


I digress.


I love turkey.


I love mashed potatoes.


I love pumpkin pie.


But, honestly...  I hate that media-whore the elf.


And, with any luck, he will continue his game of hide-and-seek in my household and yours.

















Monday, October 19, 2015

That's Pinteresting...

I have a love/hate relationship with Pinterest.

I love it because I can be a total voyeur.  There's no pressure to be witty or beautiful.  And if someone doesn't like my post, it's okay, because it wasn't mine to begin with.  That's kinda nice.


I also love that in my "Oh, shit!" moments, I have a place I can go to aid in my complete and utter love of procrastination.


However, I hate that it has turned our world into a fucking Stepford society.


Case in point, when is the last time you attended a child's birthday party where there wasn't something inspired (plagiarized) from Pinterest?  I mean, really...think about it.  From the over-the-top invites to the 3-dimensional cake to the overly ambitions favors, all of these things were likely pilfered straight from the the virtual one-upping bulletin board.


And while the intentions are amazing, the execution has taken away the need for any creative thought and/or genuine intentions.  What the fuck happened to store bought invitations, hot dogs from the skating rink, and cookie cake with red icing?  These things have been replaced with themed bullshit and lots and lots of craft glue.  And why?  You really think your kids give a shit about the amazing snack stand you created at midnight in coordinating hand-blown glass bowls?  No.  It's not for them.  Admit it.  It's for us.  It's so when we post pictures on social media, people think we've got our shit together.


There are some things craft glue just can't fix.


Most recently I went with one of my girlfriends to a winery.  While there, every single female had the same plaid shirt with the same puffer vest with the same jeans and the same boots.  It was so fucking boring.  And, where do you think this inspiration came from?  Pinterest.  I've seen it 1,000 times myself.  It's fucked up.  It's like we can't even dress ourselves.  All the sudden, we need someone else's ideas for putting a shirt and pants together...I mean, how did we ever survive without this?  It's amazing more people weren't arrested for public indecency in the early 2000s...before we had a website that told us what to wear.


I know I sound bitter.  I totally am.


I spend most of my time trying to keep my head above water and simply survive, and meanwhile, other people have time to mold rice-crispy treats into statues of David while creating birthday cakes that actually talk.


I fear that Pinterest is creating the long for a reality that distracts from what's important.  Life shouldn't be all about what is esthetically beautiful, but rather what happens behind the scenes.  The chances...the failures...these are the things we ultimately learn from.  Not the step-by-step manual to building your own garden gnome out of real humans.


Fuck.  Yes.  I saw that amazing tutorial on the waterfall braid.  However, my daughter won't even sit still for fucking pigtails.  That's why they're crooked.  And I don't give a fuck.  Because, ultimately, she just wanted to watch Umizoomi before school, and she didn't give a crap about her hair, and that's okay.  If you are going to judge who I am as a parent based on my child's hair...you may as well slap a "Mommy-Dearest" sticker on my dirt-encrusted mini-van.


Did you know that the average Pinterest user spends 98 minutes per month pinning?  It's true.  98 minutes per month pinning other people's shit onto their own shit so they can feel disappointed that someone else's reality is only a fantasy.  Because truth be told, you can't possibly have enough time to carry out the work behind those 98 minutes of pinning.  You can't.  And if you do, well, you need to find something to do.  Like get a job.  Or find a hobby.  Of your own.  Not from someone else's pin-board.


I'm not trying to throw shade or hate on you if you're one of those people who see Pinterest as life's bible.  I get it.  There's some cool shit out there.  What I'm saying is...it doesn't have to be that way.  We put way too much pressure on ourselves to be Martha Stewart in Everyday Living and not enough pressure to be Martha Stewart in prison.  Seriously.  Do you think Martha grew more from her crafts or from her mistakes?


I love the internet, but sometimes I wish it didn't exist.  Because I know there's a lot of other moms like me who would feel better about showing up to a birthday party with a child with one shoe on if the birthday party didn't look like it was being thrown by one of the Real Housewives.


I miss the world of store bought invitations.  When I get one, I ultimately like the mom a lot better because she's relatable.


I miss the world of roller-skating parties, because without them, I feel the need to clean my house.


I miss cookie cake.


I wish you all could have seen me preparing for my last party.  I was up making cake balls at 11:00 pm.  I was literally melting the chocolate and crafting the balls (yes...I giggled as I typed that), and all of the sudden I looked around and thought...who the fuck am I trying to be?  And...WHY?  So, after I licked the bowl, I threw away my creations.  Because, let's be real, I more of a Zebra Cake kinda girl.


And I went to bed.


And, that's when I promised to never compare my reality to someone else's fantasy.


And, you know what, that was 98 minutes I had to concentrate on the things that really matter.





Monday, October 12, 2015

Go the F to Sleep...

If you're a parent, I don't have to tell you what I go through each night when that 8:00 time-frame rolls around.  You already know.

Part of sex education should be a field trip to a family's house where young children reside during the bedtime routine.  Let me tell you...all those young kids would be keeping it in their pants.

No one realizes how hard it is to get kids to sleep.  Our parents don't even realize, because back then it wasn't completely out of the question to rub a little booze on our pacifiers.  Now, if we did that, DFS would be knocking on the door before we ever even got the bottle cap unscrewed.  Fucking childproof bottle.    

The smarmiest of lawyers can't compete with the manipulation and negotiation of a 4-year-old at bedtime.  In fact, I'm surprised The Firm hasn't come to recruit my little varmints.  Because even though the routine is the same.  Every fucking night, there's a new guerrilla tactic for bedtime avoidance.

Being a teacher has taught me the love and appreciation of reading.  However, somehow, that love exits the second I ask my kids to pull out a book and it is anything by Dr. Suess.  Don't get me wrong, the man was a lyrical genius and the original Eminem, however, his books have a lot of words I can't pronounce, and if not pronounced correctly, the words don't rhyme, and if the words don't rhyme, my children get pissed, and I'm forced to go back and read it again, and those fucking books are so long.  They are so long.  And my kids are getting old enough to know when I skip pages.  And then they accuse me of skipping pages, and then they say I ruined the story and I have to read another book.  Which is even longer.  And I know you're sitting there thinking I should have better management, however, I just want to be done, and I want them to go the F to sleep, so I will do WHATEVER it takes.  

And then there is the brushing of teeth.  None of them can tolerate the same flavored toothpaste.  So, there are multiple tubes of toothpaste laying around, and once I remember which toothbrush/toothpaste belongs to which child (yes, I always fuck this up), there's the water temperature debate.  One likes it lukewarm, one likes it cold.  It's fucking bizarre.  So, they have to take turns.  Is it a big deal?  No.  But does it eat into my alone time?  Yes.  

So, it's time to go to bed.  And all of the sudden they are ready to talk about their day.  Earlier when I asked how preschool was they were glued to Jake and the Neverland Pirates, but now, they are the Stephan Fucking King of storytelling going into every ebb and flow of the day from breakfast until dinner.  I do care, however, not as much as I did two hours ago.

So, it's hugs, kisses, high-fives, knuckles, blow-it-up, elbows...

And I'm crossing the threshold to my room..  And...

The dehydration kicks in.  "Mom, I'm so thirsty."  I mean, this has happened so many times I actually took them in to the doctor sure they had diabetes.  Nope.  Turns out they're just assholes.  Thirsty assholes.  Thirsty assholes who won't drink the bathroom water because it tastes funny.  So, my fat ass has to waddle down the stairs to get fresh new water.  I don't even get fresh new water for myself.  I take my Xanax with whatever filth is in the cup from the night before the night before that.  But, Erin Fucking Brockovich, who was supposed to be in bed 30 minutes ago, only has a hankering for the finest combination of Hydrogen and Oxygen.

Then...finally...it's quiet.  For about 5 minutes.  Until the nightmares.  And they are always the stupidest nightmares.  Like, can't you all make up nightmares about snakes or spiders?  Instead, it's the Cavity King.  Or the Giant.  Or Donald Trump.

I know I'm not alone.  I know other kids suck just as bad as mine at going to sleep.  I think it's time we live in the real world and admit that Goodnight Moon doesn't send every child into a blissful state of REM.

And I'm sure there are tons of things that I could do better, more consistently, and efficiently.  However, this non-routine has become part of our own routine.

And I know one day I will miss reading those long-ass books.

And I will long for the long-ass trips down the stairs.

And I will wish I could hear the tale of the Cavity King.

However, in the present, I'm wishing we could bring the whiskey back.  

And that I paid more attention to word-study so I could read those damn Seuss books.  

And that my kids, though I love them, would just go the fuck to sleep, so that I could get back to reading all of the articles about all of the ways I'm fucking up the bedtime routine whilst drinking just enough wine to not feel guilty about it.

I love my kids.

But I hate bedtime.












Thursday, September 10, 2015

I forgot the teddy bear...



Today, I was walking into daycare with my three children and I looked down to see my two oldest carrying teddy bears.  All the sudden I got this feeling in the pit of my stomach... Holy shit, it's teddy bear day, and I forgot my baby's teddy bear.  I did my walk of shame to the classroom feeling much like I used to in middle school...disorganized, unprepared, and incredibly awkward.  I made sure that my child would have something to cuddle with.  The teacher reassured me...  But, somehow I still couldn't shake the feeling that I was the worst mother ever.

That's when I got a text from my best friend, also a mother of three, and it read...

"Hey, lost all my make up.  If you think about it, can you toss in a little bit of mascara or something for me.  I look great this morning."

True story.

Can I tell you what a relief it was to read those words?

The idea that I'm not the only mess out there was incredibly refreshing and exactly what I needed to hear.

Because, truth is, I'm a beautiful disaster.  I can rock the shit out of a face of make-up and  I look put together, but yesterday, when I was leaving my house for work, I actually stuck to my doorknob.  There was some unidentified substance covering it, and my hand literally had to be pried.

I'm sure it was peanut butter, or jelly, or snot.  Whatever it was, it was disgusting.  So, I tweeted a picture of it and showed it to all my followers.

Okay...I didn't tweet it.  I don't tweet, and I definitely don't have followers.  But, what if I did tweet it?    Maybe it would be the reassurance some other mom needed.  Because, frankly, we are all kinda a beautiful mess.  But people choose the stories they choose to tell.  And, I think we need to be more honest about those stories.

What if we lived in a world where moms were honest.  Where our tweets and status updates weren't about the snow angels we created during our Christmas in July extravaganza complete with hot cocoa straight from Swiss Miss's tit?

What if they sounded more like this...

Today, I didn't shower.  Tomorrow isn't looking so good either.  I might change my underwear.


Today, I was hungover, and I let my child play Wii for two straight hours.  Suck it, world!


I can't adult today.  No way can I adult.


I don't want to join your fucking book club.  If I get a minute to read, it will be pure fucking smut, and you aren't invited.


I think it's great you breastfed.  I didn't.  My child lived.


I drove around the neighborhood...5 times...just to avoid going home because I just wasn't ready to be mom.


Would these status updates have the same impact on other moms as the "I lost my makeup" text?

I love my kids.  I do.   There is nothing I want more than to feel like I'm doing an excellent job.  But, sometimes I fall short.  We all do.  But I am conscientious about what story I tell to the world.  I am like this for two reasons:

1.  I want my good times to be good times because they're good times, and not because they paint a pretty picture of my life.

2.  I don't ever want a mom to question herself.  I think all moms who are trying their best are pretty kick ass.

I think we need to be better about being honest with each other.  Yes, I forgot the teddy bear, but you bet your sweet ass, I gave that baby as much love as I possibly could as soon as I saw her.  Was it tweet worthy?  Probably not.  But what is really?  When is the last time your status was updated with something truthful...with something that made others understand that being ordinary is sometimes extraordinary?

Moms...I challenge you.  Tweet about your disasters.  Tweet about your misses.  Tweet about your forgotten teddy bears.  I assure you, it will up your audience.








Monday, September 7, 2015

It's the journey...



If there is one thing I miss about not having kids, (besides being able to fat around on the couch after a night of intense drinking and shenanigans), it's the ability to leave the house.

It doesn't matter where we are going or what we are doing, when it's time to leave the house, it takes for-fucking-ever.


I'm not a timely person anyway.  In fact, I'm always late as it is.  So, you can imagine what it's like now when I'm dealing with the herding of the most brainless cats on the planet.  It's more like drunk brainless cats.  It's more like drunk brainless cats with no legs.  Yes, I think that's it.


You ALL know what I'm talking about.


There are things that will inevitably happen when you are trying to leave.  It doesn't matter if it's a place of their choosing or yours.  This shit will happen...true story.


You will lose one.

There is no doubt, if you have more than one child you are trying to wrangle into the car, you will lose one.  And, most of the time it's not the one you want to lose.  You'll be forced to go back into the house and look for the lost child.  You will finally find said child, you will get back to the car, buckle that child in and realize you are now missing another child.  It's like whack-a-mole for assholes.

There will be an occurrence of IBS.

It doesn't matter if your child shits like clockwork, the second he/she gets into the carseat, he/she will be prairie-dogging it, and will need unbuckled to run back in to take care of it.  That child will go in for three seconds and come back out only to tell you that he didn't really have to go, but he thought he did.  So...the next time, you won't let him go, and it will bite you in the ass.  Well, technically his ass.

There will be at least one lost shoe.

Seriously.  Do the shoes go hang out with my socks and earrings?  Because no matter what happens, there is always one missing.  Like, how the fuck does that happen?  Did my child walk around with one shoe on for a while?  Where could this thing be, and how did I not notice Shoeless Joe Jackson hobbling around?  How long did he hobble around?  Did someone break in and steal it?  If so, couldn't they have taken the child and left the shoe?

You will have to check the straightener/curling iron/iron.

While this isn't directly your child's fault.  It kinda is.  Because before those children, you were sharp as a fucking tack, and now your braincells are hovering in the single digits, and what is left has been sopped up by vodka.  Those brain-sucking drunk cats you are herding are clearly responsible for your extra trip up the stairs.  

There will be a fight over something stupid.

There just will.  Like who gets the seat by the window.  It's a fucking car.  There are windows everywhere.  Or who will get buckled in first.  Or who gets which bag of goldfish crackers.  Even if you made bags for each of the kids, one of them will have more, or their bag will be bigger, or they will have a broken goldfish.  Those little orange bastards make it almost impossible for children to get along.

And, inevitably, you will have forgotten whatever you were supposed to bring.


I wish that the above list was an exaggeration of real events...however, unfortunately I think I'm probably forgetting some things.  Perhaps they've been blocked from my memory on purpose as God's mercy for raising these two-legged creatures.


By the time I get in my car, I am so incredibly exhausted.  And I know I will show up somewhere and someone, possibly someone without kids or someone who forgot what it's like to have them, will ask me what took me so long or why I look so worn out.  I want to videotape the 30 minutes prior to leaving and force them to sit through it (with unequal bags of broken goldfish) so they can truly understand that it's not about the destination, but rather the long, fucked up journey I had to take to get to said destination.  And then they will celebrate me.  And give me a crown.  Or at least a beer.


Going anywhere is a chore.  


It's no wonder I have become such a homebody.

So, the next time you hear someone say they just love being home with their family.  Or you see the Facebook post reading, "Home Sweet Home", and you think how lucky that family is to have their shit in a pile.  Just think.   That amazing picture perfect family was probably scared to leave the one-shoed child they lost in the bathroom.