tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87899433156795448862024-03-13T11:24:55.639-07:00Womb and BoredA dash of sarcasm with a sprinkle of truthAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05046313352195441856noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8789943315679544886.post-58207087323960863582017-10-14T13:30:00.000-07:002017-10-14T14:12:12.954-07:00Whoreloween<br />
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<br />
Ahhhh! Fall is in the air.<br />
<br />
Bonfires, pumpkin spice, and sexy eskimo costumes for children ages 3-7.<br />
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I love Halloween. It is one of the best holidays around. And, what's not to like? Your kids get to knock on your neighbor's door, say three words, and they give you candy while you stay on the sidewalk. SOOO much better than having to make small talk with them, out of courtesy, on your way to the mailbox when the only thing they give you is the gift of shit from their dog's ass placed strategically in your mower path.<br />
<br />
While I have always LOVED Halloween, we've really found a way of fucking it up.<br />
<br />
It's not just because we decided pumpkin spice would taste amazing in tuna.<br />
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Or that the decorations go up in July.<br />
<br />
While those things are annoying. There are other offenses much worse.<br />
<br />
I present to you, the 8 magical things we've done to fuck up Halloween.<br />
<br />
1. Leg Avenue<br />
What happened to the days of kids/teens dressing like book characters and gum ball machines? Seriously? If you have children, you know what I'm talking about. Everything is slutty as hell. I was perusing the aisles of a Halloween store recently, and there was a tween costume for Amelia Earhart that featured fishnet stockings and a plunging neckline. Like, WTF? Does anyone truly believe that's what Ms. Earhart wore as she soared over that pond? A woman who broke gender barriers clearly did not fly over the Atlantic with her who-ha out for world to see. Of course, the package doesn't say "Amelia Earhart", it says "Sexy Bomber Pilot" however, the costume is ironically one that bares a striking throwback to the 20s and 30s. But...Being the idiots we have come to be, clearly we can't put two and two together. It's not just the sexy bomber. It's sexy police, sexy firefighter, sexy Donkey Kong. I had no idea fishnets and vinyl were so versatile...but apparently.<br />
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2. Pinterest<br />
Yes, dear neighbor, I freaking LOVE the way you used the the leftover yarn from the knitting of scarves for the homeless to macrame a spiderweb that features patterns that only exist in true nature. However. When you put that up with your up-cycled spider made of materials that aren't biodegradable because you are saving the planet, it makes my fucking rotting pumpkin look bad. And it makes me feel worthless. Remember school parties when we were young, and parents brought sugar cookies and we bobbed for apples? Well, fuck that world. That world no longer exists. It has been stripped away and replaced with parents' need to one up the other room moms. Yes, I'm sure every child wants to make a frankenstein out of homemade guacamole and organic black tortilla chips. Because, well, who wouldn't? And, I know I shouldn't be bitter, but I love the simplicity that my childhood supplied. My costume was purchased at the local costume store, and we paraded around the neighborhood and then came back to school and laughed and made candy corn. People were forced to be creative, and didn't rely on a website to supply them with ideas.<br />
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And, that's if we even get to dress up...thank you, Common Core (I'm not really sure Common Core is to blame, but everyone loves to hate it, so...). <br />
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3. Trunk-or-Treat<br />
Seriously. Yes, your Toyota Highlander looks so amazing with the hand cut teeth and vinyl tablecloth tongue in the backlight you have shining courtesy of your generator. I think it's great that through STEM-based learning, your child crafted a robot to serve candy. It looks especially amazing next to my dented Kia, with missing interior lighting. Yeah... That spider web...not a decoration. It's because my car can't fit in the garage, and so spiders actually choose to inhabit my vehicle. Perhaps insects are attracted to smell of rotting body, which again, isn't part of the props, but rather some milk that I can't find because I've become used to the smell. Do you see my conundrum? One day of knocking on doors is enough. Back then, I only had to clean my hallway. Now I have to clean my damn car so I don't look like some shady freak luring children into my trunk. <br />
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4. Adult-Themed Parties<br />
This one won't make me friends. However. We are adults. And no matter what you tell yourself, you are not a sexy eskimo. I'm not saying you aren't sexy. I'm saying, you don't need to put yourself in synthetic materials or require your guests to put themselves in synthetic materials just to enjoy each other's company. I know getting dressed up in costume is fun. If it wasn't, Fredrick's of Hollywood would not be in business. We aren't the Real Housewives. We are people who shouldn't feel like we need to spend $50 on a bustier and go-go boots to go hang with our friends. But, just because that is my viewpoint, I understand other people may really enjoy this. But I urge you to look around the room. How many women are banging down gender norms to dress in something that isn't deemed as sexy or pretty? If you want to be Amelia Mother-Fucking Earhart, then give that woman the credit she deserves and dress like the badass she truly was, not the one Trump would grab by the flight-stick. Nothing is as sexy as being smart.<br />
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5. Almond Joy<br />
Do I need to go further?<br />
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6. Pumpkin Spice<br />
Starbucks, you had me at Pumpkin Spice. However. Leave it to us as Americans to oversaturate the world with something that was once anticipated. Pumpkin spice chewing gum? Yup. It exists. Pumpkin spice dog food. Check. Pumpkin Spice M and M's. Good news, those will soon be on clearance. We have taken a good thing and Kardashian'ed the hell out of it. I mean...Yes...much like Kim herself, it's spicy and fantastic. But I'm so fucking sick of seeing it. It's everywhere. And, frankly, I'm over it. I can't even drink my PSL this year, because it's been bastardized. <br />
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7. Thank you<br />
Seriously. I can get over the fact that you are bringing your child who doesn't have teeth and is still nursing off the teet to my house, despite the fact that I know the butterfinger is going straight to you. And, yes, I think it's adorable how you and your friends are driving around from house to house, sans costume, as door-to-door candy muggers. But, say THANK YOU. Seriously. And no one has jokes anymore. When you ask for one, they look at you as if you're dressed up as a sexy female version of Luigi. Because, seriously, what's sexier than Luigi? It's as if me giving you something is an expected behavior.<br />
<br />
8. Global Warming<br />
Yes, my friends, it's October. And, I'm SWEATING. A LOT! And, when I think about pumpkins, I sweat even more. Ugh...dragging my adorable thankless heathens to the pumpkin patch and having to lug the ugliest pumpkin in the patch just because it's the biggest. It is not supposed to be this hot in October, however, on the flip side, no one will get cold in their fishnets. <br />
<br />
I digress...<br />
<br />
I don't know about you, but I'm ready to return to celebrating the dead rising out of their graves to wander home in a more classic sense. The hoardes of hell deserve the right to celebrate death and darkness without feeling oversaturated by sexy Red-Ridinghood waving her pinteresting basket full of organic pumpkin-spice snacks in their wicked faces.<br />
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I know, I know...No one likes a hater. So if you need me, I'll be in the corner, not wearing fishnets, waiting patiently for November 1st when Christmas Carols return to the radio.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05046313352195441856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8789943315679544886.post-43225266929565921652017-02-11T17:14:00.000-08:002017-02-12T07:39:44.919-08:00Shake it off... Shake it off...Dear Special Snowflake,<br />
<br />
I think it's time we get a couple things straight. Mommy is stressed out. Mommy is so stressed out that sometimes she wants to drink. At noon. At work. Sometimes mommy has had a rough time balancing life. And, mommy especially has a hard time balancing the assholes. <br />
<br />
Because they are out there. A lot of them.<br />
<br />
It started in grade school. I was a little overweight. And my nose was a little pug. My mom used to tell me it would keep me looking young. But girls on the playground aren't that kind. They called me "Piglet". And it spread. And then the boys started calling me "Piglet". And then I called myself "Piglet" because, well, if you can't beat them, join them, right? <br />
<br />
And then there was middle school. I was funny. And not all girls are accepting of that. We had a neighborhood pool, and the girls at the pool started calling me "Wrinkles". My stomach had wrinkles. (Jesus, if they could see it now they'd have some serious fucking ammunition). <br />
<br />
And then there was high school. Where still I was funny, but no one noticed, because I was surrounded by beautiful people. And people were mean, particularly girls, and my looks were criticized. And I started to shut down. And eventually I wasn't funny, because I was too insecure. <br />
<br />
And that insecurity lived for a while. Really, until I became a mother and I realized that NO ONE will ever make my daughter feel like that. And if I don't teach her to stand up for herself and that she is enough, I'm afraid she, too, will be afraid to be who she is.<br />
<br />
Just recently, one of my friends called me, and we discussed how easy it is to be sucked back into high school or middle school or grade school. How being left out still hurts. How it's hard not to compare ourselves to other people and their social media likes or comments. We are mother-fucking adults. Why is it still so hard?<br />
<br />
And the reason it's still hard, is because mean girls still exist. Even as we get older. If you don't believe me, Google it. I mean, there's actually a book out there called "Working with Bitches: Identify the Eight Types of Office Mean Girls and Rise Above Workplace Nastiness". And even worse, I've contemplated buying it. MORE. THAN. ONCE. And why? Because, mean girls turn into meaner women and unfortunately they're everywhere...at my children's school, on the soccer field, at my job. <br />
<br />
Fuck. I like being liked. I always have. It drives me crazy when people don't like me. But my adult self also realizes that some women can't handle their own insecurities. So instead of doing something about it, they tear others down. They gossip. They manipulate. They insult. They public-shame. My question is...Why can't they just fucking step up and take care of their own insecurities? I know there's not an app for that. And technically Pinterest can only help us so much. But, we are grown ass women capable of doing so many things. Why do we use our platform in a way that takes us back to a junior high dance?<br />
<br />
I guess my optimism had me fooled into thinking that once I was done with school, I would trade my diploma for a world filled with nice women who build each other up. Unfortunately, I was mistaken. The bitches with their gossip and betrayals have only been freed to roam the world at nauseam. <br />
<br />
And. I'm not going to stop them. I'm not. But I do need to do something. <br />
<br />
As Lindsay Lohan states in the work of art Mean Girls..."Calling somebody else fat won't make you skinnier. Calling someone stupid doesn't make you any smarter... All you can do in life is try to solve the problem in front of you."<br />
<br />
(Yes, I'm fucking 40 and I just quoted Lindsay Lohan. So. What.)<br />
<br />
So, how do we solve it? <br />
<br />
Well, I don't have a magical solution. I just know that if I don't brainstorm some constructive ways I will end up saying something really, really terrible that will potentially get me sued or fired or incarcerated. So... here goes...<br />
<br />
<b>Surround yourself with badass women who build you up rather than tear you down </b><br />
There are tons of great women out there doing great things. Don't waste your time on the assholes with no originality, enthusiasm and/or drive whose only strength is tearing you down. Find those women who are smart. Who tell you you're pretty. Who tell you your butt looks good in those jeans. <br />
<br />
<b>Disengage</b><br />
Fuck it. That bitch ain't worth your time.<br />
<br />
<b>Work harder</b><br />
Sorry she sucks and is mad that you don't. Don't waste time and energy telling other people how bad she sucks or you become the worst thing ever. HER. Instead, focus on continuing to kick ass like the mother fucking rhino you are. She'll hate that.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Leave that bitch alone</b><br />
She wants to know she's under your skin. Remember. She is a business transaction. Take your emotion out.<br />
<br />
<b>Make eye contact</b><br />
Your eyes are way prettier than those soulless pupils hiding behind the girl with the pretty face but the ugly heart. <br />
<br />
<b>If you witness it, step in</b><br />
All too often, we get sucked in. We rewind to the days on the playground and we crave fitting in. But nothing feels as good as standing up for those who need it. And there's plenty of women who get persecuted just for being good at what they do. Stand up for those women. Shut the mean girls down.<br />
<br />
And if all else fails, in the words of one of the world's most esteemed philosophers...<br />
<br />
<b>Shake it off... Shake it off...</b><br />
Because you, my sweet, are a mother fucking tiger who has earned her stripes. <br />
<br />
So, take those stones she throws at you and build something fantastic. And make her REALLY mad by not even using Pinterest to create it.<br />
<br />
We owe it to our girls to look these mean girls straight in the eye and give them a wink.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05046313352195441856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8789943315679544886.post-52478893828734300052016-12-26T12:58:00.000-08:002016-12-26T12:58:04.296-08:00'Twas the Night After Christmas---Mom's Edition'Twas the Night After Christmas, and all through the houses...<br />
The women all sat, resenting their spouses.<br />
The stockings were thrown on the floor without care.<br />
In hopes that the relatives weren't all still there.<br />
The children were high from the candy and crap.<br />
While everyone feared that last gift they must wrap.<br />
And daddy, hungover, and mommy still drunk.<br />
Were trying to find a place for the junk.<br />
When from the next room there arouse such a clatter.<br />
I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter.<br />
Away to the kitchen, I crawled like a turtle.<br />
Stepping on legos, and toys I did hurdle.<br />
The filth in the kitchen from the food I did bake.<br />
Stood as clear evidence of bad choices I make.<br />
When, what to my puffy, tired eyes should appear<br />
But the realization that there was no more beer.<br />
And if that wasn't enough to make me upset.<br />
There was also the Hatchimal that put me in debt.<br />
And lots of other shit I had no place to store.<br />
Were fucking up my French-cafe' kitchen decor.<br />
The Pokemon, the Barbies, the Games, and puzzles.<br />
The dolls and the clothing---unfortunately no muzzles.<br />
Toys to the window, and toys to the wall.<br />
Toys in the family room and even the hall!<br />
As my paper cuts burned from the cheap Christmas wrapping.<br />
My hibernating husband, in his man cave a-napping.<br />
While I tried so hard and with all of my might.<br />
To sell all our old shit on the Swap and Sell site.<br />
Looking like a show, for people who hoard.<br />
As my oldest then says, "Hey mommy, I'm bored".<br />
A bundle of toys he had piled by his feet,<br />
"Mom, I'm hungry. Can I have a treat?"<br />
His breath---how it smelled. His fingers, so sticky.<br />
How can someone so gross, be so fucking picky?<br />
Not a vegetable all season, did anyone eat.<br />
Only two food groups consumed...sugary and sweet.<br />
Which probably explains my new rounded shape.<br />
How many times can one fucking lose tape?<br />
And in my many attempts to be so discreet,<br />
I can't seem to find that one fucking receipt. <br />
I've looked in the bags, I've looked on the shelf,<br />
You know who probably took it? That bastard, the elf.<br />
But the good news is, he's gone till next year.<br />
That immobile red fuck and his holiday cheer.<br />
This two week break, leaves a truth that's well-known<br />
I can't wait to use the bathroom alone.<br />
And escape from the toys that are missing a piece.<br />
While the family doth watch my patience decrease.<br />
The laundry still piled, and the dishes still dirty.<br />
And it's only 2 mother-fucking 30.<br />
So I ain't going to whisper, instead I will shout.<br />
Happy Christmas to all, mom's going out.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05046313352195441856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8789943315679544886.post-64144574559774032562016-10-09T11:32:00.000-07:002016-10-09T12:18:39.442-07:00If 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I digress.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
And...here's why. <br />
<br />
Trump, at one point or another, has expressed the following viewpoints...<br />
<br />
Women are aesthetically-pleasing, and that is their purpose<br />
Sexual assault in the military is expected behavior<br />
Women need to rely on sex appeal to win<br />
As long as your significant other is hot, it doesn't matter who you are.<br />
Ugly women shouldn't be on TV.<br />
Breast feeding is a disgusting thing to do<br />
Women trick men<br />
Women should be blamed for their husband's actions<br />
Women shouldn't date too much, it makes them unattractive<br />
And that all women want him<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Here's why I say that. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
It's true. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Because, whether you want to believe it or not, most women are guilty.<br />
<br />
I've been accused by other women of not having a brain, only sexuality.<br />
I've been told that my outgoing personality has me asking for attention.<br />
I've been blamed for the actions of my significant other.<br />
I've been told I'm "too-much" because I have opinions.<br />
<br />
And, unfortunately, I too, am guilty.<br />
<br />
I've called women ugly because I was pissed about how they treated me.<br />
I've said that women shouldn't be sportscasters, because they haven't played the sport.<br />
I've said I'd rather be friends with guys because women are moody and judgmental.<br />
<br />
Yet I'm pissed, because someone who has a pretty significant platform, is saying and doing the things that I have found myself doing. <br />
<br />
I suck. And, not in the way Bill Clinton wishes. <br />
<br />
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? <br />
<br />
It's okay to not have your shit in a pile. <br />
It's okay if you didn't breastfeed. <br />
It's okay if you're in a sexless marriage.<br />
It's okay if you can't find half of your children. <br />
<br />
It's not okay to pretend. <br />
<br />
There. I said it.<br />
<br />
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? <br />
<br />
We are all fucked up.<br />
<br />
And if you think you aren't, well, you're more fucked up than I thought.<br />
<br />
But, if Love Trumps Hate, we need to act like it.<br />
<br />
My shoes may not be your style.<br />
I may be louder than you like. <br />
Perhaps my boobs are bigger than yours.<br />
<br />
But, regardless. <br />
<br />
I'm a woman, and I'm one of you.<br />
<br />
So, don't just be with her. <br />
<br />
Be with me.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05046313352195441856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8789943315679544886.post-55642036696014051712015-12-22T14:28:00.002-08:002015-12-23T05:47:13.884-08:00L'eggo my LegoScrew gun control...if you want to lobby for a real cause it's Lego control.<br />
<br />
Yes, you read that right.<br />
<br />
Those f'ing rectangular prisms are what is wrong with the world. <br />
<br />
If you are wondering what I'm talking about, you obviously don't allow children to exist in your realm.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Besides stepping on them, let's discuss the many other ways Legos ruin my life. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
And, there's always a missing piece. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
I truly think they should ban those bitches. <br />
<br />
I'm okay with Duplo. If only we could find a way to get Taylor Swift to endorse them...<br />
<br />
Until then...<br />
<br />
Perhaps they could make them glow in the dark. <br />
<br />
Or maybe put an age limit. Like 21. Because, frankly, I'd almost rather my kids have whiskey than a lego gas station.<br />
<br />
Or they could make them squishy. <br />
<br />
Or each set could come with thick-ass slippers. <br />
<br />
Or perhaps I could just rid of my children. <br />
<br />
But, then, who would pick up the swords and needles?<br />
<br />
Happy holidays! <br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05046313352195441856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8789943315679544886.post-50132513080068131612015-12-11T05:26:00.000-08:002015-12-12T08:51:07.796-08:00F your Elf<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have been dreading Thanksgiving.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And, not just because can-shaped cranberry sauce gives me anxiety. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have been dreading Thanksgiving because it means the return of that damn two-legged bastard the Elf on the Shelf. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Seriously. I hate him.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">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.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Snow angels in sugar...check</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Fishing for goldfish in the toilet...check</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Zip-lining on the drapes...check</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">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.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">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. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And, after Thanksgiving, it only gets worse. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Because before Thanksgiving, people were only sensationalizing their own lives... Now, they are also sensationalizing the lives of their elves. </span></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My elf is clearly better than your elf. Because my elf has elf donuts and your elf just sits on the shelf.</span></i></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My elf dresses in Lululemon, because pilled-felt just doesn't cut it in this house.</span></i><br />
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<i>My elf drives Barbie's car, and yours just drives a stuffed reindeer. Take that, bitches.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">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. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">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. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">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.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">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.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I digress.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I love turkey.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I love mashed potatoes.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I love pumpkin pie.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But, honestly... I hate that media-whore the elf.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And, with any luck, he will continue his game of hide-and-seek in my household and yours.</span></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05046313352195441856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8789943315679544886.post-87877178492195871932015-10-19T06:13:00.000-07:002015-10-19T06:21:34.671-07:00That's Pinteresting...<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have a love/hate relationship with Pinterest.</span><br />
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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. </span><br />
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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. </span><br />
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However, I hate that it has turned our world into a fucking Stepford society.</span><br />
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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. </span><br />
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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. </span><br />
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There are some things craft glue just can't fix.</span><br />
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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. </span><br />
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I know I sound bitter. I totally am. </span><br />
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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.</span><br />
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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.</span><br />
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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.</span><br />
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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.</span><br />
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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? </span><br />
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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. </span><br />
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I miss the world of store bought invitations. When I get one, I ultimately like the mom a lot better because she's relatable. </span><br />
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I miss the world of roller-skating parties, because without them, I feel the need to clean my house.</span><br />
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I miss cookie cake. </span><br />
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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. </span><br />
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And I went to bed. </span><br />
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And, that's when I promised to never compare my reality to someone else's fantasy.</span><br />
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And, you know what, that was 98 minutes I had to concentrate on the things that really matter.</span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05046313352195441856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8789943315679544886.post-62011460170335277802015-10-12T19:55:00.002-07:002015-10-13T17:12:31.542-07:00Go the F to Sleep...<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The smarmiest of lawyers can't compete with the manipulation and negotiation of a 4-year-old at bedtime. In fact, I'm surprised <i>The Firm</i> hasn't come to recruit my little varmints. </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Because even though the routine is the same. Every fucking night, there's a new guerrilla tactic for bedtime avoidance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So, it's hugs, kisses, high-fives, knuckles, blow-it-up, elbows... </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And I'm crossing the threshold to my room.. And...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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 <u>Goodnight Moon</u> doesn't send every child into a blissful state of REM. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And I know one day I will miss reading those long-ass books.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And I will long for the long-ass trips down the stairs.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And I will wish I could hear the tale of the Cavity King.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">However, in the present, I'm wishing we could bring the whiskey back. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And that I paid more attention to word-study so I could read those damn Seuss books. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I love my kids.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But I hate bedtime.</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05046313352195441856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8789943315679544886.post-20687944158468827522015-09-10T06:15:00.000-07:002015-09-20T08:03:09.840-07:00I forgot the teddy bear...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R6ge7fc7a9Q/Vf7KeUXPyrI/AAAAAAAAAAs/mSkeMl34zco/s1600/teddy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R6ge7fc7a9Q/Vf7KeUXPyrI/AAAAAAAAAAs/mSkeMl34zco/s640/teddy.jpg" title="" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That's when I got a text from my best friend, also a mother of three, and it read...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"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."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">True story.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Can I tell you what a relief it was to read those words? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The idea that I'm not the only mess out there was incredibly refreshing and exactly what I needed to hear. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What if they sounded more like this..<b>.</b></span><br />
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<i>Today, I didn't shower. Tomorrow isn't looking so good either. I might change my underwear.</i></span><br />
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<i>Today, I was hungover, and I let my child play Wii for two straight hours. Suck it, world!</i></span><br />
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<i>I can't adult today. No way can I adult.</i></span><br />
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<i>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></span><br />
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<i>I think it's great you breastfed. I didn't. My child lived.</i></span><br />
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<i>I drove around the neighborhood...5 times...just to avoid going home because I just wasn't ready to be mom.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Would these status updates have the same impact on other moms as the "I lost my makeup" text?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">2. I don't ever want a mom to question herself. I think all moms who are trying their best are pretty kick ass.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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.</span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05046313352195441856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8789943315679544886.post-47978730936419301792015-09-07T10:58:00.002-07:002015-09-20T08:49:23.155-07:00It's the journey...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y-c_fOuCL-M/Vf7KzkMKN9I/AAAAAAAAAA0/ubLMkAoZWoc/s1600/goldfish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y-c_fOuCL-M/Vf7KzkMKN9I/AAAAAAAAAA0/ubLMkAoZWoc/s640/goldfish.jpg" title="" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span><br />
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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. </span><br />
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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.</span><br />
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You ALL know what I'm talking about. </span><br />
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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.</span><br />
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<b>You will lose one.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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.</span><br />
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<b>There will be an occurrence of IBS.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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.</span><br />
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<b>There will be at least one lost shoe.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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?</span><br />
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<b>You will have to check the straightener/curling iron/iron.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span><br />
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<b>There will be a fight over something stupid.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span><br />
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<b>And, inevitably, you will have forgotten whatever you were supposed to bring.</b></span><br />
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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.</span><br />
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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.</span><br />
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Going anywhere is a chore. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's no wonder I have become such a homebody.</span><br />
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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.</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05046313352195441856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8789943315679544886.post-32639669064124637492015-09-01T20:56:00.002-07:002015-09-20T08:18:28.464-07:00Sometimes My Kids are...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8MVitoTcQyY/Vf7OMfrAxMI/AAAAAAAAABI/rPgUFWEBEHg/s1600/shopping%2Bcart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8MVitoTcQyY/Vf7OMfrAxMI/AAAAAAAAABI/rPgUFWEBEHg/s640/shopping%2Bcart.jpg" title="" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Assholes.</span><br />
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It's true. </span><br />
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Individually, they are incredibly kind, lovely, happy, cooperative. But when they get together, it's all kinds of ugly. </span><br />
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Tonight, one of my four-year-olds cried incessantly because he wanted to make sure he had a toy that his brother did not. Like, not a specific toy. He wanted to make sure he had something, anything, that his brother did not have. What an asshole. </span><br />
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My daughter cried for 20 minutes because she wanted the straw out of her brother's cup. She had her own straw. It was the exact same. But, she wanted the straw that was specific to the cup that her brother was holding. She kicked, screamed, yelled, and howled about the fucking straw. What an asshole.</span><br />
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I know, deep down, I am responsible for the sibling rivalry. And, even if I'm not, the assholes I am raising will find a way to blame me.</span><br />
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However...this really makes me wonder...why is it that kids tend to fall apart the second you bring another child into this world?</span><br />
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Attention? Not in my case, I ignore them all equally.</span><br />
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Stress? I mean, what do these kids have to be stressed about? They don't even wipe their own asses. </span><br />
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I have to think it has to do with the idea of identity. They want to be individuals, to be their own people, and they don't know how to communicate that without being, well, assholes.</span><br />
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So, I've been trying to read up on what to do. I'm not really a problem-solver, but I do love a good research project. The advice out there, though well-intentioned, makes me believe that I'm going to be living a life of vodka in my cereal. </span><br />
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Here's a snippet of said advice:</span><br />
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<b>1. Children closer in age tend to compete more.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Great! Let me jump in my handy-dandy time machine and get rid of one. Which one should I choose? The one who is throwing a full-on temper tantrum because his free fucking cookie from the grocery store doesn't have a blue M&M on it, or the one singing, "Mine has a blue M&M"? No, really, which one? </span><br />
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Which leads to the next piece of advice that's out there...</span><br />
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<b>2. Don't play favorites.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Really? Because of course I have a favorite. My favorite is the one not acting like an asshole. Which tends to change from minute to minute.</span><br />
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<b>3. Anticipate Problems.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes. I can TOTALLY predict when one of my heathens is going to go apeshit over something small and insignificant. Children are so predictable. Like that time, my four-year-old laid down on the ground of the dollar store because his brother got a more expensive toy. It's the fucking dollar store. Everything costs the fucking same...a dollar. I totally saw that one coming. How do you anticipate that shit?</span><br />
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<b>4. Don't make comparisons.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Come on. It is hard not to compare. And most of the time, I'm not comparing my children to each other, because, really, they all fall on the same side of the nut tree. But, when you are in a store, and you see the kids sitting nicely in the cart while your ankle-biters are trying to shove each other out. It's hard not to compare.</span><br />
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<b>5. Encourage good behavior.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Is there really a parent out there encouraging bad behavior? I mean, seriously, is there a mom out there saying, "Come on, Jack, hit Sally again because you're jealous that she got to sit in the carseat on the right and you were forced to sit in the carseat on the left which happens to be the same carseat, just on the left fucking side." No. Nobody does that.</span><br />
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I'm sure there is other advice out there regarding the care and keeping of assholes. However, all of it seems to point in the same direction. And that is, we, as parents, are screwed. Until these kiddos develop rational thought processes, and some never do, we will be stuck playing referee. In the meantime, here are my five pieces of advice.</span><br />
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<b>1. Cherish their fighting, one day you will miss hearing it.</b></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">2. Take time with them individually...they're much nicer that way.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">3. Do compare them, but find kids that are worse than yours. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">4. Remember that most people only post their highlight reel on Facebook, their kids are assholes too.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">5. Always take the side of the one you think will let you live with him/her one day.</span></b><br />
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It's true, they're assholes. But, aren't we lucky to be the ones they feel safe enough to fall apart with?</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05046313352195441856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8789943315679544886.post-24519923423431577612015-08-18T20:35:00.001-07:002015-09-20T08:34:04.736-07:00I'm No Expert...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h23OeBWxlvs/Vf7RzyzT5LI/AAAAAAAAABg/dCVKvdap1tc/s1600/toilet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h23OeBWxlvs/Vf7RzyzT5LI/AAAAAAAAABg/dCVKvdap1tc/s640/toilet.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'm no expert. Like all moms, I fuck up. </span><br />
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But what I lack in experience, I make up for in creativity. I think the world of Facebook has us believing that if you don't have a baby attached to your nipple while having him swaddled in his co-sleeper covered in essential oils while you work, than you are doing it wrong. It wasn't until I started posting about my way of doing motherhood, not the highlight reel, that I realized that other moms are just like me. Normal.</span><br />
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Not long ago, I was watching drama unfold on an an acquaintance of an acquaintance's Facebook page. It was amazing drama. The kind of drama you think only happens in a bus full of drag queens on the way to a wig sale, and it was unfolding right there in my feed. However, my children were in my presence and they wanted to be entertained by me. I had options. I could put the phone down, after all, I am a mother and it is my job to parent. I could screen shot for later enjoyment. Or...I could fake an incredible bout of Irritable Bowel Syndrome so that I could lock myself in the bathroom and stay abreast of the drama-train derailing right before my very eyes. While there are some moms reading this hoping I took the high road. Have no fear...I took the road less traveled, straight to the voting booth. And as I sat there upon my throne, I wondered how many moms sat exactly where I was sitting...well, not exactly where I was sitting, but in their own homes in their own bathrooms faking gastric distress just to get a moment of peace and quiet. It wasn't truly about Facebook or drama, it was about me taking time for me. </span><br />
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If I were my past self (pre-motherhood) reading the story that my current self (mom of three) just wrote, about the fabrication of Montezuma's Revenge just to be by myself, I'm sure I would be appalled. I was such a good mom before I ever became a mom. But, now, as my current self reads the story of my past self (past, as in last week), I am proud of myself. Because I did what I needed to do to be a better mom. After my imaginary butt-wipe and the flush of the clear water, I was ready to be mom. And just as if I had done the real act, I felt relief. </span><br />
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Moms...don't be afraid to fake a trip to the bathroom. Or to get something in your eye. Or to take a little extra time to switch over the laundry. Sometimes that's what we need to be ready to tackle the most amazing, yet exhausting, job in the world.</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05046313352195441856noreply@blogger.com0