Archive for February, 2013|Monthly archive page

No, I did nothing all day. I’m just a mother

In Uncategorized on February 22, 2013 at 7:03 pm

It’s the year 2013, yet somehow, women’s lib forgot to notify the rest of the world that being a mother is a job.

Do I  work outside of the home? Why yes indeedy, I do. Do I make a paycheck week to week? Yes. Is it a large paycheck? No. For now. No Jewish girl wants to live on a small paycheck forever, I assure you that. I enjoy what I do, and like working, but what about my most important job. 

The one job that I cannot list on my resume.

I mean my boss, my 32 inch daughter, never hands me over a paycheck, so maybe it isn’t really–gasp–work.

Instead, I get paid in the following denominations:

temper tantrums

declarations of “No, Mommy. I sit by self. You sit there Mommy.”

Letters, shapes, colors, and number recognition.

The triumphant sound of her counting in French.

Saying her letter sounds while playing with magnetic letters.



Countless re-runs of “You’re a good sport Charlie Brown.”


tossed food

dirty diapers

and…dirty potties.

It won’t pay the mortgage, but how much does a healthy, well-adjusted child equal?

I wish men, and strangers would value child-rearing the way I do. I wish I didn’t have to hear how “easy” it is all day long.

Of course, it’s fun sometimes, and even easy. However, no one seems to remember the sleepless nights. My sore boobs. The shouts for toys in the middle of the store. The trips to the pediatrician. The tears. The temper tantrums because apparently asking your child to wear a sweater is akin to murdering Snoopy.

I don’t have a big paycheck. I only work part-time. I write, I teach, and generally, make people laugh.

What a friggin shock it is to be in my thirties and discover that even in the millennium, people do not value what they feel is woman’s work. Do you think it is fun to do laundry or food shopping while chasing after a pint-sized Castro? It certainly doesn’t give me an orgasm, but I would just love for the people telling me how easy it is, to do what I do, as well as I do.

If my child goes to bed happy tonight, I have done my job.

If my child goes to bed cranky tonight, guess what? I still have done my job. I probably didn’t give in to one of her crazy notions. I stood my ground and taught her that sometimes, you don’t get what you want, but you will survive.

For all you people thinking that your day job is somehow more work or more important than raising my child–or any child for that matter, I ask you this?

Can you be happy all day long, and emotionally balanced, even if you are having the shittiest day and the world is about to end?

Can you teach a child to read, write, sing, play, and laugh?

Can you nurse a baby while taking a shit, and trying to brush your teeth?

Can you do the laundry while potty training a child, and putting on your makeup for your night job?

if the answer is yes, then you are potentially qualified to do my job.

If the answer is no, then I offer you this:

Your job is way easier than mine pal. I will gladly trade you my vagina for your penis and get to be you.

Or maybe I wouldn’t because then I wouldn’t get to do nothing all day, while masturbating and eating bon-bons, and have so much fun raising the best, sweetest, and bossiest two year-old ever.


When it’s Okay to Slap Your Wife: Annoying Crap Women Do

In Uncategorized on February 17, 2013 at 3:23 am

I wrote a piece abut a week ago on when to kick your husband in the penis. To be fair, we women  can be real pains in the asses too. While I am not an advocate for abuse by any means, sometimes a little slap will remind your woman when she is being an annoying little snot. Here are some times when an old school slap can put your woman back in her place next to the stove.

I have a Headache Dear”:

Otherwise known as, “I’m not going to bang you tonight because I really don’t want to have sex, so I gave you this lame excuse so you will leave me alone.”

I personally have never used that excuse, so don’t shoot the messenger, but in this case gentleman, a smack with the pee-pee to her face may be in order.

You might want to suggest that she just tell you the truth. That indeed, if she has a headache, she ought to get a doctor’s note, otherwise, she can just sleep on the couch.

stories of her friends and their dramas:

Do you really care that her friend is dating a guy who is a total dirtbag. Do you really care if her friend got a bad haircut and spent the next week alone in her house crying and watching Steel Magnolias on repeat?

Nope, you don’t give a flying fart about her friends or their boyfriends, unless they’re interested in swapping.

One swift smack to the head should silence the story and eliminate future said rants.

Excessive Talking

Is it really necessary for your wife to yammer on to you about all the things you will just simply forget as soon as you blink because evolutionarily speaking, you have the short-term memory of a gnat, and so therefore, she should only speak for five minutes at a time, with long hour breaks in between?

She’s always telling you to be kind to people with disabilities and children. Why can’t she understand your disability? Your disability to listen, comprehend, or tolerate her yammering? Whatever happened to a little peace and quiet? If she’s so interested in living a “green” life, why doesn’t she just keep the environment pure of sound, and shut her trap?


I’m too fat

When your wife says she is too fat, you might just want to smack her twice for good measure.

If she were really “too” fat, she would be unable to sit in an airplane seat, fit in her car, or ride a bicycle, not that she ever rides a bike anymore because she’d rather ride your ass.

If she were really “too” fat, she would have her own separate bed, and a wheelchair. The next time she says she is too fat, tell her that yes, she is too fat to squeeze on a tricycle seat. Too fat too wear footie-pajamas. Too fat to order a kids’ meal. 

But she’s not too fat that she can’t stick her foot in her mouth and shut the hell up, so you can enjoy your meal, and she can enjoy her salad with chocolate cake.

If your wife tells you she is too fat, bitch slap her, and then go out to the strip club.

Numerous Outfits and Shoes

Does your wife explain to you why she needs cropped pants, skinny-legged, wide-legged, button down, peasant blouse, tailored skirt, pencil skirt–abra-cadbra shut the fuck up?!

Explain to your wife that you are MALE. Explain that you just figured out that yellow, brown, and black don’t make a very cute color combination. Remind her that you just learned to tie your shoelaces and pick out a tie, even if it still doesn’t match your shirt because you are a color-blind fool.

Tell her to pipe it down, missy, before she finds herself on the divorce line.

You don’t care whether her pants are cropped or long, or her skirts pencil or flared, unless she’s wearing crotchless panties. Then my dear, you care.

Until then—smack that bitch up. 

Indecisive Little Nut Job

Does your wife take about ten-thousand hours to make a decision about which bread to buy? Or what time to bring the dog to the groomer? Or what television show to watch? Or what public hairs to shave?

The indecision of a woman can drive a man to suicide. She will fret and fawn over the stupidest crap that no man would think twice over.

If your wife starts to hem and haw over what eyeliner to use, poke her in the eyeballs, and then smack her.

If you are ever in doubt over whether a woman needs a fast hand to the face, here is the final reason for you to know that she does!

Bi-polar Disorder

Does your wife suddenly turn into a beast at the drop of the dime? If the DVR does not properly record her favorite show, do her nails turn into claws? Does her head begin to spin 360 degrees?

Does she start to curse in an unrecognizable tongue? Does she throw things and beat at her chest like a primate?

If you answered no, then you are a liar and married to a man.

Feel free to slap her up the next time she acts like a mental ward patient.

Women are certifiably nuts. They have no choice to be. Men are still in ape-mode, and therefore, we must deal with you on an instinctual level.

If things get too rough and your woman needs to be physically restrained, start running around like a baboon… 



On the Rag: Why Life can be so Unfair!

In Uncategorized on February 17, 2013 at 2:39 am

Boo, fucking hoo. It’s my party and I will cry if I want to bitches, and cry indeed I will.

Let me lament, for you see, I feel the need to whine like a total baby.

I’m hormonal and no, I’m not bitchy, but I am very hungry, and I highly suggest you do not take a bite from my food. I’m a skinny bitch, and I don’t like to share.

Anyway, I digress.

Here are a few reasons why I feel like life can truly suck, and I need to vent before I explode in a cacophony of menstral-ocity, which isn’t a word, but screw everyone because most people have crappy grammar anyway, and I deal with it.

I hope you can lament with me, or at least throw a few complaints my way, or just share this blog and feed my need to feel important!

Reason #1 why life can blow a pile of dirty penises:

Potty Time

When my daughter poops or pees on the potty, someone rewards her with chocolate or ice cream.

When I poop on the potty, I pray I won’t need a sitz bath afterwards.

No one showers with me with compliments or tells me how cute I look while I grunt.

Life is truly UNFAIR!

Thankfully I have no hemorrhoids, and a very cute butt, for now.

I imagine the clock is ticking and eventually when I am 80, it will be a field day for Preparation H.

Reason #2 why life can suck the big one:

Cute 22 Year old Boys

Cute 22 year-old boys will talk and flirt with me, but I cannot have sex with them because I’m married.

They’re also too young, but age is just a number, right? Right?

Someone say yes.

Oh for the love of the Baby Jesus, please stop sending these young men my way. It is an unfair temptation for me that I cannot act on, and I feel I would simply pervert these guys anyway.

Life is truly unfair when you have to say no to the booty.

Reason #3 why time on this earth can suck eggs

Annoying Grocery Shoppers

I was in the grocery store the other day when much to my disgust, some stupid woman stood in the middle of the frozen aisle while talking to her friend about some major life event like, blow drying her hair or bleaching her anus.

She stood there and chatted away while the rest of us poor, tired, and irritated people just waited for her burgeoning ass to move.

Finally, after the conclusion, in which she figured out the proper way to whiten her heiney-hole, she hung up her phone and let the rest of the world move on.

Life sucks because I could not punch her in the throat, when truly, she deserved a punch. If not in the throat, at least in the head.

Reason # 4 why jumping off a bridge sounds fun

parental advice when not wanted

I am on the phone with my mom when she hears my child having a temper tantrum over something so ridiculous, I should have sent her to India to participate in a sweatshop. Maybe then she might appreciate all the hard work I do for her! Ungrateful 22 month-old.

Anywhoo, my mom tells me what to do with my kid. Starts warning me of the dangers of what might possibly happen if I don’t do X or Y or Z.

She might become–gasp-me!

Life blows because my mother was right. Life is a piece of cocky because I can’t yell at my mom and tell her she already raised four kids, and totally screwed up with me, so don’t offer me advice because she’s 74 and awesome, and I love her, and she should have sold me to India for slave labor.

I would have gotten into less trouble.

And maybe I am not that bad anyway.

The final reason why life is so traumatic that psychiatric hospitals sounds comfortable and sweet:

relationship neglect:

Once you have been in a relationship for awhile, people seem to forget how awesome and cute you are, and never tell you how fucking faaabulous you truly are.

When I was in my twenties and not in a relationship, I got disgusted when men whistled at me in the city.

Now as long as they aren’t feeling me up, it’s free game.

Thank you  numerous men at the gym for telling me  in a non-slimy way that I look great, even if you haven’t spent enough time with me for me to totally piss you off, and make you forget my cuteness.

My flailing ego thanks you.


My Menstrual Cycle

Want a Job? Bend Over: What it Takes to Get Hired

In Uncategorized on February 15, 2013 at 6:17 pm

So you say you’d like a job, would you?

Are you willing to give the President head and shine his shoes, all while extolling your new Master’s Degree and excelling at every Microsoft office and Adobe product known to mankind?

Do you have good knee pads? Will you be willing to blow the whole staff, on top of budgeting the company’s expenses, serving everyone coffee, creating all marketing materials, and doing this for a miraculous fee of 30,000 K a year?

In today’s day and age, employers are basically demanding that you are a MENSA-certified genius with impeccable computer skills in every single possible facet imaginable, while asking that you work for pay that will allow you the luxury of eating Ramen Pride for the rest of your life, and wiping your ass with the cheapest stiffest toilet paper known on the planet.

I hope it feels good.

Oh wait, you have a degree from one of the best colleges in the nation, an interesting resume, some experience, and a great ass?

That’s too bad.

1,000 other people in their twenties without experience and just an average degree will work for ten dollars an hour, and put out.

Employers want their cake and rolls buttered. It’s not enough to have potential, because you have to have proof. No one invests in anyone anymore, and I can even stretch that to include personal relationships. 

The workforce cannot look outside of the box, despite its penchant for claiming that you–potential employee–should be able to! They cannot make connections between current job expectations and your past experience. 

My advice to any stay-at-home mom? Get some work experience however you can. Don’t wait, because the workforce will not welcome you with open arms. They will see you as having no viable skills whatsoever, because the workforce is a cold Nazi. Unless your husband or wife is totally Kosher with you staying home forever or you’ve got incredible finances or a trust fund, or an absolute 100% guaranteed job to go back to, find some way, even if it is small, to make some money, whether it’s from home, or outside the home.

As a part-time worker, I have stay current in the workforce, even though I am mostly at home. It is still incredibly difficult to find full-time work. 

This economy is a nasty ho, and she only puts out if you’ll do it for cheap.

At this point. I am seriously considering becoming a dominatrix. 

Why not? No benefits, but hey, the pay is good, I can use my “people” skills and general bossiness to good use, and I’d get to wear latex, leather, and vinyl. I might get a little sweaty, but hey, you’ve got to put some elbow grease into your work these days. I am in good shape, and someone’s gotta like me.

Just think of how “interesting” my resume would be then! If folks tell me that now, I can only imagine what they would think.

Hey, and think of all the networking I would be doing!
In my opinion, I think people should be allowed to pay for whatever they want, whether it’s for sex, general torture, or commerce.  As far as I’m concerned, it’s none of my business, as long as no minors are involved, and no one is being hurt (unless it really turns them on.)

I better act fast before I become totally hideous and decrepit…no one wants Grandma bossing them around in a latex jumpsuit…

unless they’re into Grandma’s, but that’s for someone else to blog about.

Yes, Dear: A Go-to-Guide on When to Kick Your Husband in the Nuts

In Uncategorized on February 11, 2013 at 3:03 am

While we wives are not always perfect, sometimes men, as sweet and as kind as they are, just don’t get it. There is a reason we nag you: frequent short-term memory loss, anyone? There is a reason we remind you to flush the toilet bowl–all my friends don’t really like seeing your doodies in our bowl.

Sometimes, a husband needs a swift ball-kicking.Sure, we may need a bitch-slap now and then (ha,ha I said bitch) but I have to wonder sometimes how certain husbands get to live or see the light of day after being little (cute) pains in our asses.

Short-Term Memory Loss: Are you senile already?

Have you ever told your husband 20, I mean, 2,000 times about plans, your work schedule, or what the day of the week might be? Have you wondered if your husband suffers from dementia in his 30’s or 40’s? Has he ever gone to the wrong house and slept with a different woman, forgetting what your vagina looks like? Has he forgotten your middle name or religion even though he has been married to you for over ten years?

Your husband may need a swift kick in the nuts. And some ginkgo biloba.

What Dear? I didn’t Hear You.

Does your husband say yes to things, and then magically as if he had been living in Never Neverland with the Late Michael Jackson and Peter Pan say, “I don’t remember saying yes. I never said that.”

Does your husband agree, nod his head, smile and indicate an affirmative response, and then act like a cracked-out hooker being questioned by the cops when you remind him of this?

Your Husband may need to get slapped in his testicles.

Sure, you may have asked very fast, or asked him a question when he is in his “short-term” dementia state. It is possible you were bitching a little, okay a lot, that day and so he tuned you out.

Still, clean your ears pal. Listen when I’m talking to you? If you can’t stand my rambling, tape me, and then review your answers.

No Dear, what did you do differently to your hair?

Does your husband give you a blank stare when you change your haircut or color, even if you’ve done such a bold move, like shave your head? Does he say, “No, it looks the same to me,” even if it truly doesn’t?

My recommendation? A slight pinch in the ball-sack.

Sure, he may be color blind. He may even be somewhat right; maybe your high lights aren’t so drastically different than last time, but damnit, if he wants to get laid, he should answer in the affirmative.

Especially if you’re the  stingy little bitchy type who doesn’t like to give head. In that case, he should rant and rave about how great you look if he wants you to kiss the Prince Albert.

It Wasn’t Hard at all

Don’t you love how whether you’re working or at home with your kid, the one time your husband watches your kid by himself for a measly few hours, he gloats about how easy it was?

Has he been guilty of saying the following things?

Oh she didn’t give me a problem. I don’t know why you complain she gives you trouble.

He was great for me…it’s not really that hard.

If your husband thinks he’s an expert after a few measly hours watching your kid by himself now and again, he needs to be punched in the dick, and hard.

Even if he may be a great parent, he is not better than you are, unless you’re a cold-hearted bitch who only feeds her kids occasionally, or beats them. You have a vagina, and you’re awesome. You’re the mother. You kick ass. He’s great, but not as amazing as you and your super abilities to lactate, and birth a bowling ball out of your good old’ vaginal canal–or have the baby cut out of you, only to emerge walking that day.

Doodies, Clothing, and Other Items

Has your husband left his crap everywhere, including his doodie balls in the toilet for your friends to see? Have you had to hang your head in horror while your friend goes to use the porcelain throne, only to see the diarrhea explosion your husband took 5 WHOLE HOURS to create while watching stupid You Tube videos or porn??

Do you come home to find your husband’s crap everywhere? Do you have to pick up after him like an indentured servant?

If you answered yes to the following question, you need to punch a mutha in his balls.

if he takes over 45 minutes daily to make his stinky doodies while watching nonsense on the internet, add a second punch for good measure.

Sure, you may play on Facebook and Youtube intermittenly, and forget to correctly wrap your dirty tampons in the trash, but at least you flush, and at least you don’t leave your dirty menstrual pads everywhere.

In fact, that might be a good idea. The next time your pimp. I mean, husband forgets your birthday–his address–your date night–his mind, just leave a dirty tampon on the toilet bowl seat.

Maybe he will flush then.

Dear Toddler: How You Can be a Better Child for me. Love, Mommy

In Uncategorized on February 9, 2013 at 6:37 pm

Don’t get me wrong. My daughter is a seriously awesome little toddler, but there’s always room for improvement, right? Come on, even though every mom thinks her kids’ shits are better than gold, we all know that it’s never too late to work towards perfection, heh heh.

I mean, we parents are bombarded with manuals, books, articles, and seminars on how to be better parents. Aren’t we fantastic as we are? What about a little acceptance man?

Here’s my How to be a Better Child Guide.If I have to read manuals,articles, blogs, and recommendations, it’s time my kid follows suit.

#1 Acknowledge My Feelings

Today my child threw her pancakes on the floor. I was not happy. I said, “Mommy is not happy. Mommy is mad. You made a bad choice. I’m disappointed.”

She smiles until of course, I tell her she has to stay in her high chair while I clean her mess. *another way to be an awesome child is to not throw your damn food, but we will get to that shortly.

I say, “Mommy is mad.”

“No! No!” she shrieks from her chair!

No matter what I say, she says no to me. I feel like I am with a man–another person who doesn’t know how to acknowledge my feelings.

I am told to acknowledge my child when she has a temper tantrum or feels blue. How about she does the same for me, right? I scratch your back, and you scratch mine kid.

#2 Don’t throw food. Your mommy is a terrible cook

There is nothing more horrifying–minus discovering you missed a few pubes while shaving or realizing you are wearing your shirt on backwards–then watching in nail-biting slow motion while your child throws his or her food on the floor.

Listen ladies. I am not like the Pinterest mommies who bake and cook and do it with ease. It takes effort, serious Superman-like effort for me to whip up a decent meal. I finally started getting the hang of some 4 ingredient crock-pot recipes and learned where my broiler is (although I have yet to use it). It takes work when I hand her over a meal that may just take the average female a second to make, while they’re whipping up homemade soups, casseroles, and bread all in a matter of mere seconds.

When my child throws food on the floor, not only do I dread cleaning it, but I also dread the fact that whether later on or now, I will have to cook, again.

While I have to accept the fact that you my child, are short and have the patience of a flea, you must accept the fact that you weren’t blessed with Martha Stewart or even a mid-level chef for your mother. Eat every last drop of food, and don’t complain!

#3 Don’t ask to go on the potty after you’ve pooped, just to see Youtube videos.

Look kid. You’re short. You’re small. You will probably end up going to the prom in your rear-facing car seat, which only means I don’t have to worry about teenage pregnancy. If you would like to get a date before you are 30, please poop on the potty…not right before you go on, and then ask me to show you YouTube videos of Bert and Ernie and/or Charlie Brown. I get your game. You just want to watch the damn videos and have me change your diapers for the rest of eternity.

Just get ready for when I am back in diapers. I get constipated easily, and I will hold the largest poops just for you darling.

The final way you can be a better child…

#4 Stop paying attention to your dad all the time.

I know you’re a girl and that it’s normal to be obsessed with your father, but I suffered through hell for you. I was in the hospital for about 35 days with you, and barely ate. Truth be told, I was scared shitless of dying, and my resting heart rate after lying in bed for weeks was a 150. Yeah, I was not in good shape.

So just remember that when you’re showering your dad with love and ignoring me. He only had to make a quick deposit. Yup, it’s that easy for men.

Also, one day when you get your period and are moody and desperate for French onion dip and end up eating a whole bag of potato chips, just remember who will calm your father down once he realizes he is out of chips. Just remember who will buy you your first bra. Who will be there to show you how to put on makeup–I could teach you to wear tacky hot-pink lipstick with bright green eyeshadow if you keep favoring your father you know– it won’t be your dad.

If you remember this, I promise to never let you go out looking like a fool with a bra way too small or big, or in hideous tacky makeup. I also promise to let you eat all of your father’s junk food too when you’re PMSing, as long as you share some with me.

It’s wise to side with your mother as we truly are the ones who rule the house my dear. A penis-owning person merely believes he is in charge because testosterone causes men to experience senility faster. It’s mere survival of the fittest kid;stick with your mom.

5 Signs the World is Ending, according to my Toddler

In Uncategorized on February 8, 2013 at 7:08 pm

Nothing is worse than a toddler having a temper tantrum. Sure, you can argue that losing money, getting an STD, getting red wine all over a white blouse, or running a marathon in six inches heels might be worse, but a toddler meltdown is akin to what I imagine the second coming of Christ looks like to a holy roller.

#1 First Sign that the world is coming to an end…

Super Why’s Dog, “Woofster” will not be appearing on the episode.

Woofster is the single most retarded name I can think of to name a cartoon dog. It certainly isn’t memorable, and worse, his voice is irritating, but she loves the show and I think it’s cute…mostly, so we watch the show.

“Where’s Super Why’s doggie? Where is he?No!!!!”

My toddler crumples in her little seat in a dramatic gesture similar to ones made by Italian Grandmothers at funerals. I want to curse PBS and my DVR for giving me an episode without Wyatt’s famed new dog. I want to stamp my feet and scream because I just want to take a shower for a minute, possibly even shave my you-know-what’s, while she bathes in Boob Tube bliss. The absence of Woofster has made it so my shower is pierced with complaints.

#2 Second Sign the World is Ending: Her mother tells her what to do.

Doodlebug, take off your shoes please.

Mommy, take off my sweater. No sweater.

Okay, just take your shoes off first please.

No Mommy!

She flings herself into the cross position, and wails. She kicks her legs when I remind her that she knows how to take off her shoes, and cries even harder. She begins to hack slightly as if she might throw-up, trying to show me how serious she is about her feelings.

Suddenly, my adorable child turns red and speaks tongues close to the Hebrew language. I see the signs of stigmata. I wonder why I didn’t just shut my uterus down for business in the first place. I hide in the bathroom praying she won’t remind me of my sins.

She cries for what feels like forever, and then finally gives up. I take off her sweater.

#3 Signs the World is Ending, number 3:

No Cantaloupe

My daughter could eat about 4 whole cantaloupes a week, maybe more. I fear she will turn into a large round orange boulder of a girl, and she will have to wear colorful stickers to the prom, instead of a dress.

When the cantaloupe runs out, you better leave town or prepare yourself to listen to her lament and shriek.

“Cantaloupe Mommy! Cantaloupe!”

“But I don’t have anymore.”

“Daddy buy more Cantaloupe Mommy!”

This goes on until finally, she cries and repeatedly asks me for cantaloupe. My ears start to bleed, and I wish I had joined the circus instead of had a child.  I wish that all the cantaloupe would magically disappear, so then she could just fixate on another fruit instead.

#4 Fourth Sign that the End is Near:

Charlie Brown’s Mayflower Episode is gone

I have no idea how many ways she has asked me–maybe thirty different times?– but my daughter keeps asking me to show her the Charlie Brown Mayflower episode. I cannot stand it. It is boring as hell. I’m not watching it again, at least not until next Thanksgiving. I keep telling her the Mayflower has set sail…she keeps asking anyway, and searching through the DVD’s for the disc.

I am an evil mommy.

#5 Final Sign that the Second Coming is Near:

Can’t find her Tinkerbell Washcloth

“I want the Tinkerbell towel Mommy.”

“Okay, we will find it. Do you really need it now while you eat?”

Screams for this stupid little Tinkerbell rag ensue. I tell her TInkerbell doesn’t want to get dirty. Tinkerbell wants to stay in the bathroom where she belongs. I petition for Tinkerbell’s right to stay food-encrusted free.

What the hell is wrong with me?, I think. It’s a damn towel. Tinkerbell isn’t a real person.She doesn’t think. She doesn’t exist, minus in drawings and television/movies. Why is my daughter turning shades of fucshia over a silly washcloth? Will she throw up this time? (No)

She is a good girl, my little bug, but sometimes I feel I am living with a Neanderthal. I suspect one day she will be clobbering me over the head with a wooden club, and asking me to go hunt for some food. It’s part of toddlerhood, and a totally understandable phase, but sometimes when she starts to develop horns and speaks in an evil tongue, I wonder if she isn’t possessed somewhat.

But then I feel better, because I know she didn’t inherit that from me. She most likely inherited that from my mother-in-law. I’m only responsible for the bossiness.

Lessons from my mother, part 1

In Uncategorized on February 6, 2013 at 4:05 am

My mom hasn’t been feeling well lately. I am not going to be pessimistic as I don’t have enough information to be pessimistic or worry unnecessarily, but I started to think about some of the things I have learned from my mother, both the frivolous and the important things.

Lesson One: Speak loudly, and carry a stainless steel army-issued spoon:

My mom liked to threaten us with this huge stainless-steel spoon. I remember getting smacked, but not with the spoon. It was more for decorative threat or role play. Not the kinky kind of role play, but the role play of “I will kick your ass you little piece of you-know-what” if you misbehave, except my mom always inserted the curse words. Mom was always forthright with people who she felt were threatening to her children. I remember the countless times when my mom, in jeans and sweatshirt, took her tall, stick legs over to my neighbors’ homes to remind them that if they didn’t stop teasing me, she would have her older daughters kick their pathetic male asses.

“Just wait til you go ta’ school, and the kids say girls kicked yaw ass. Leave my kid alone.”

She’d speak her mind, and slowly walk away, a cigarette dangling from her mouth and a romance novel in her right hand. A woman needed muscle and sweat if she was going to survive four girls.

Lesson Two: If it’s got Tires or Testicles, it’s gonna give you grief

That was a slogan found on a keychain I bought for my mother for her birthday when I was 12 years old. Yup, I knew already that men were trouble, and cars an expense and bitch to maintain because I had seen my parents milk and nurture the lives of the vehicles they had. Men? I know their deal because I grew up listening and watching while the older females around me complained or bemoaned the treatment or behavior of men.

My mom always seemed to be bickering with my dad, and so I knew that carrying a set of balls, literally, meant you were a totally different breed from the XX kingdom I was raised amongst. While I have a huge love for men and their mysterious, albeit usually simple ways, I still find them to be intriguing as if they’re another species.

Mom would gather at a table of her friends for a game of mahjong when I was just a wee kid still, and I’d hear the ladies gab away about their men problems while I smoked my pretzel rod cigarettes, and sat with my legs underneath me in an attempt to reach the height of the kitchen table.

I bought her that keychain as a token for her hardwork attempting to figure out my father and maintain a car properly. I felt that one day, I would understand the strains, stress, and hopefully, joys of love. Watching my mother as she dealt with my vertically-challenged dad in his Alfalfa “He-Man Woman Hater’s Club” t-shirt, I felt the battle between the sexes would be an endless war for life.

Lesson Three: Good Posture

Once I got boobies, my posture went to utter shit-ola. My mom constantly lectured me, “Shoulders up, back, and down! Come on!”

I heard her commands like a military sergeant, and reluctantly did the motions while sighing and hoping no one within five feet of us at the mall heard her. Now as an adult, I know good posture, a supportive bra (another lesson from Claire to be told soon), and chest presses would help out my ladies. Mom wasn’t kidding. Thanks to her, my boobs may look good for awhile. At 80? I don’t think so, but hopefully the guys in the old age home won’t mind since most of them will be senile and blind anyway.

More lessons from Claire to come soon…

I cherish the time we had together, as since my sisters were 6-10 years older than I was, I had more alone time with her than any of them. I fondly wish back to those days, and sometimes wish we could relive them. Thinking about some of those days makes me heartsick. Sharing a mom with three other people is always hard at times, and I will never forget the time together.

I am sure she would like to forget the numerous times I made her listen to gangsta rap, death metal, the Dead, terrible pop music, and other musical stages.

How she survived listening to King Diamond, one will never know!

I’m going to stick my head in an oven: How to go Clinically Insane While Home with a Child

In Uncategorized on February 1, 2013 at 5:41 pm

I love my time with my daughter. She is the only one I will probably ever have unless quite a few things change for me, and so I appreciate my time with her. I am a hands-on parent, and really try to give her as many varied experiences with the world and people around her. I believe in learning through play, so we play quite a bit, and I always get whatever needs to be done, done, that way I can spend most of the day playing with her.

With that said, I am not a woman that should be confined to the home. I am not a never-ending cup of patience. Someone asked me if I wanted to nanny children while home with my doodlebug, and to that I say, “Hell, no.” For a day? Absolutely. Randomly for a few hours, here and there? Sure, I’m your girl. But there is no way on this earth that I was meant to care for a bunch of little ones at one time, unless of course, it’s in a classroom. I don’t want to wipe another kid’s ass, or have someone ask me to give more emotional energy, when I am running on very little myself.

I’m not designed that way.

I feel guilty because while I love my time with my daughter, I am not a homebody. I could never not work. I don’t know how people do it…I have been sick for three days, and haven’t left my house in four days. It’s a modern miracle I have not stuck my head in the oven.

I guess, like my father, I am a bit selfish. I think when people grow up not having their needs met, they become selfish to survive. That’s me. Selfish to survive. Of course, does this “survival” or coping skill work for me anymore? No, I’m a mom. I have been meticulous and scrutinizing and gone above my skill set to be a better mom. It is the one thing no one will ever put me down for. I am a good mother. I may be a pain in the ass, neurotic person. I may be an average worker or maybe an average writer, but I am a good mother according to my values and morals. No one will tell me different.

For some reason despite her being healthy again (she was sick), my daughter has been very demanding today. Nothing is suiting her needs. I feel like I am living with a miniature me.

I mean, a very blonde Napoleon.

I mean, a little me.


She knows what she wants, and how she wants it, and normally, she will make her demands, yet be reasonable about things. She’s a fairly easy-going kid, but she is opinionated.  She is so independent. She doesn’t even want to sit near me, unless of course, she’s feeling snuggly, or some other kid comes to sit in my lap. If that happens, she just walks over and tells the kid, “No–move!”  She wants to read on her own, color on her own, and sit in her own spot while watching Charlie Brown. She is more than I could have expected, and has more of a chance of being a confident and happy girl because she has two secure attachments with her parents. I guess I’m not doing so bad.

Right now, I have the ability to be home mostly because I cannot find suitable work that will cover daycare, and pay my bills. I manage with part-time teaching and freelancing, and haven’t quite gotten enough work yet to where it’s financially successful, but it keeps me from going down a rabbit-hole.

Some days, like today, I feel like a horrific mother and person because I just don’t want to be some domesticated housecat. I feel like my talents and resources are just barely used, and goddamnit, I want to do something with my brain. I don’t care about recipes, home remedies, or laundry.  I’m young still!  I have ideas damnit! I am not just a uterus, cook, nurturer, or  nurse! I am more than how I am currently being defined, and more than how others define me.


Other days, we both are so very fulfilled through play, art, and socialization that I feel as if we are the luckiest people to be with each other daily. In fact as I write this, I realize my own kid might just be bored to tears with me. She might just be sick of this damn house like I am. Maybe she just can’t take coloring or painting anymore, and needs to do something else with her day, but I have been too sick to take her anywhere.

Maybe I am creating a mini-Laura.

I feel like I am drowning sometimes, and that I am trying to get myself to the surface. Other days, I feel as if I am managing everything and everyone just fine. I feel hopeful and know that my life has seasons, and that one day all my talents will be used accordingly and that if I just work hard enough, I will see the rewards, and have the benefits of a well-adjusted child with a secure attachment to her mothers. I know I will not fail myself or her.

Other days, I feel hopeless and wonder when my time will come. I have yet to even construct a really meaningful sentence about the end of our daughter’s potential sibling’s life.

I can’t write anymore about that, not because my heart will break, because it’s already shattered.

I do the best I can, and truly believe experience shapes the precious strands of DNA each person holds. I don’t think my daughter is smart necessarily because of what I do with her each day, but I feel she is smart because her genes wills it as such, and the experience allows her to develop these particular intelligences. (That’s where I come in, and of course, her father and social experiences).

I just hope on these days when I am not so patient, and not so understanding that one day she can turn to me and say, “It’s okay mommy. I know you’re nutty, but I love you anyway.”