I just read a report of a man who is on trial for killing the 6-month old baby girl of his girlfriend. Apparently, he was drunk as all fuck, and had attempted to make love to the girlfriend at some point in the evening, but she declined, so, out of anger and revenge…he decided to go and have sex with the BABY.

And killed her in the process.

I’m not sure if it was damage to her internal organs, or if, as I read in my skim, that he suffocated her while lying on top of her. They don’t seem to be sure either. And oddly enough, he’s not even being CHARGED with rape, because…I can’t remember why, some glaring loophole as usual, and I can’t go back to the story to find out for you because really, I just…can’t. I can’t read that again.

I can’t.

All I know is that right now I feel sick to my stomach. The fact that he killed her is bad enough. The how and the why, are what is making me sick and horrified right now. Maybe I’m almost glad she’s dead, because I cannot imagine the damage that would have done to her body and to her mental and emotional state as she got older. There are some things that are just too horrifying to grapple with.

6 months old. Who looks at a SIX-MONTH OLD and thinks, I want to have SEX? Has this FUCKTARD never heard of MASTURBATION?

I have to go. Crimes committed against children are always somehow more awful, and for me the emotional effect has increased tenfold since I became a mother myself. I…I just don’t understand. I don’t. And I don’t want to. There is something very very wrong with people who visit that kind of anger and trauma on a child, even moreso a baby.

RIP, little baby girl. I don’t know your name but you know who you are and God knows who you are. God bless you, little one. God bless you.

Really, it’s scary.

And to make sure that you don’t miss any important moments in my oh-so-scintillating life, let me give you a bullet-point list on what the hell has been going on.

• I dyed my hair dark again again. Yes, I know, I think I said some year or so back that I would NEVER EVER EVER DO THAT AGAIN, but…you know what they say, once you go black…LOL. Seriously, the real fiasco was that back THEN, I did not know how to undo the color once I got sick of it (which I am guaranteed to do, you can safely bet money on THAT). Now, I know how to undo it when I’m bored. So for now…it’s NAVY BLUE, people. NAVY BLUE.
• I am taking on online course (non-credit) with Coursera on the Ancient Greeks. The cool thing is, the class is being taught by a prof at my alma mater. I don’t know if he was there when I was there, but it still makes me feel connected. I should actually be studying RIGHT NOW, but I have a headache the size of Kansas so I’m waiting for the FOUR ADVIL I took to kick on and GOD those fuckers are taking FOREVER. Anyhow, it’s fabulous (the course, not my headache), and it has really done some wonderful things for my…life plan. Because…I realized…I can study. Somehow, although I have always loved school and studying, I just didn’t know how or when I would ever be able to fit in school again, at least not until my own were much older. But…it’s working. I mean, this is one course, granted, and non-credit at that, but I DO have readings and lectures to view every night, and tests, and just doing it in this sort of no-pressure way has gotten me stoked about studying again. So now…
• I’ve been looking at Master’s/Doctoral programs again. And I’m…excited and scared and…apprehensive too, not so much about if I can do it, but SHOULD I do it when I have two children who are going to need college money one day, a day that is coming ALL TOO SOON? But then I think that…I should just have faith. Not that I shouldn’t put thought into it and go willy-nilly headlong into throwing money at a university, but that if I can prove to myself that that degree will MAKE me money, and if I can continue to push my children to excel, maybe between my paycheck and their scholarships, we’ll be okay. MAYBE. I really have to give that more thought, but the bottom line is, I don’t want to cross out doing it without thinking hard about it, and I don’t want to go INTO doing it, without thinking hard about it. But I do know that in some way shape or form, I do want to continue studying.
• I am still trying to find a vet to vasectomize Wolfie. I live close to NYC and so it always astounds me when I cannot find someone who is on the cutting edge of their field IMMEDIATELY. I mean, isn’t NY the center of the universe? Vets in Colorado, Florida, sure, but still searching for one here in the tri-state area. I have two I am going to call tomorrow. If they both say no, then I may contact the one in Florida and see if I can make a road trip. Yes, I am serious. ABSOLUTELY SERIOUS.
• Um…I think that’s it. I mean, school is enough. The kids’ schooling is getting more intense, and Punksin’s swimming is becoming life-consuming in my quest for (her) perfection. Not that I want or need HER to be perfect, I just want to be sure she is doing as well as SHE can possibly do. So she started a clinic yesterday for Competitive Strokes, because she is off for a month. Even though we’re only a week in, even SHE is starting to feel antsy. At the clinic yesterday, the instructor, who HAPPENS to be the coach of the team 2 levels up from her (her team has several levels: Junior, Bronze, which is where Punksin is, Silver, Gold, Senior 2 and Senior 1) saw her breaststroke and was floored. She kept on complimenting Punksin on it and said she can’t wait for her to get up to Gold level. This is good. This is VERY VERY good. So there’s that, and then trying to figure out what the kids will be doing in the summer.
• And, it’s only fair to mention that my adorable Pudding, who has had trouble getting HIS swimming together for so long…well, something clicked. He is taking a class, same Level 2 class that he failed twice and then finally passed, only to have the instructor whisper to me, “I’m passing him but…I REALLY think he would benefit from taking it again, to be honest.” And he was right, he was so so right, my poor Pudding was not ready yet, but I was so so grateful for this teacher’s compassion and concern and although I declared that we were “taking a break” so that Pudding could grow some more and have a respite from this pressure of passing, I was happy that to him, at least, he was going out on a high note. But NOW. You should SEE this kid in the water. His technique is…well, what technique? He has none, really. His technique sucks. But he’s confident, he knows how to move through the water, he knows how to hold his head and get air, and he knows how to stay afloat and get where he needs to go. And THAT, is the beginning. THAT is the beginning, the lack of floundering, the realization that, hey, I can breathe, I can freestyle, I can lift my head, get air, not sink, go back down, and keep it moving, without stopping at a wall or drowning. THAT, is where he is. And he may never be as good as Punksin is, it’s WAY too early to tell, but I want him to be comfortable in the water for his own safety, and I want him to have fun. And if he IS good, I want him to be the best he can be. Right now, he wants to try out for her team in the fall, and…if he is ready, I’ll let him. Because I LOVE THROWING MONEY AT THE SWIM TEAM. It is AWESOME.

Yeah, now that I think of it, I’m here talking about the kids needing money for COLLEGE, Jesus Christ, the swim team alone is worth me getting another job. DAMN it.

Sigh. But…they’re my babies, my two little water babies, (Pisces and Cancer, hello?) so…whether it’s swimming or tennis or…whatever they want to do, as I tell them, I will make sure they are able to get as far as their own talent can take them. It will not be for lack of instruction that they don’t get where they want to go.

Okay, I hope you are all caught up because there will be a test on this later. Extra credit will be given to those giving the instructor (that would be me) a drink with gin or vodka in it.

For now, I need to go and attempt to study and hope I can SEE THE WORDS FROM BEHIND THE VEIL OF THIS MONSTROSITY OF A HEADACHE that I have.

Good night. Love, peace, and cheesecake.

Well, it gets better.

Apparently, Wolfie has an undescended testicle, which for those of you in love with difficult words and tongue twisters, is known as cryptorchidism.

A reputable breeder would either NOT sell a dog with this condition, or would neuter the dog before selling it, ALSO making sure the buyer is aware of the condition. Because it’s hereditary, and that’s not a trait you want being passed down. A dog in this condition that doesn’t get the undescended testicles removed faces a high risk of that testicle becoming cancerous.

I find it hard to believe that they didn’t know Wolfie had this. He was old enough, by the time we got him, for it to be apparent.

Then again, since it doesn’t seem that they were taking such good care of him to begin with, it’s certainly within the realm of believability that they didn’t know. He seemed like such an afterthought to them.

Poor baby.

Anyhow, the current vet  says the answer is to neuter.

Truth be told, until I heard about this condition, I was NOT planning to neuter this dog.

Now, before you get on your high horse and start preaching about spaying and neutering, which has been shoved down everybody’s throats for the last several decades on TV by the ASPCA, Bob freaking Barker, and anyone else who supposedly loves animals, hear me out. Shut the fuck up, and hear me out.

This whole neuter-and-spay-every-fucking-cat-and-dog-alive attitude has come about because of the high number of strays on the streets. And I totally understand that, because I HATE seeing stray animals. Some were born there, some were taken by people and tied to a fence or a tree or some shit and left there, and that ALWAYS breaks my heart to see a wandering, lost animal.

BUT…and this is a HUGE but…that does NOT mean that the ONLY answer is to spay and neuter the shit out of every animal.

I am a responsible dog owner. I have no intention of letting Wolfie wander the streets aimlessly, looking for females to hump on. He never goes out without a leash, he never comes OFF the leash until he is back in his house.

I actually WAS considering beginning my own breeder business with Wolfie as my first sire, but that is not to be. I cannot breed him with that condition. He would pass it on, and the whole business would be fucked from day one, with all his offspring and descendants at risk for carrying the trait or having the condition. Not only would it be bad business, but it would be awful to knowingly bring animals into this world with that.

BUT…having said THAT, I do have SERIOUS concerns about neutering him before he has fully matured.

Testosterone, estrogen, all these hormones that we (and canines and felines) produce…they’re there for a reason. They carry certain benefits, and our body produces and hopefully regulates them, for a REASON. While I do understand the need to take out the testicle that is going to serve no purpose and could in all likelihood harm him if left in, there is no reason that the one that came out and is happily swinging solo, needs to go. Not necessarily ever, and not this early.

The vet estimates that he is about 9 months now. He’s not a full-grown dog. He will be a handful when he is. And here come people waving the AGGRESSION banner, that if I don’t neuter him, he’s going to be a more AGGRESSIVE dog.

Fuck YEAH he’s going to be more aggressive. He’s a dog, and a male German Shepherd, at that. He’s SUPPOSED to be fucking AGGRESSIVE. But I’m guessing that people choose the term AGGRESSIVE when what would REALLY be appropriate, would be…ACTIVE.

And here’s where I’m going to school you. Because some people think, oh, I am such a responsible pet owner, I got my dogs done at 6 months and now they are docile and more manageable and I did what was right for them.

NO.

You did what was best for YOU. You wanted the dog to be “manageable” so you cut off his testicles. You didn’t want to deal with a bitch in heat, so out her ovaries came.

FUCK YOU.

The way I see it, I’m a more responsible dog owner than you are. Why? Because I don’t do things to make MY life easier. If I wanted this to be easy, I wouldn’t have gotten a fucking dog. THAT’S easy. But if I’m going to go out there and get a dog, and then cut his shit off so that he can be GENTLE, then clearly I’m not really capable of handling the dog. It’s like people who put their kid on Ritalin just because they’re hyper. A 3, 4, 5 year old, hell, even a 10-year old, is SUPPOSED to be active. They’re not SUPPOSED to sit on their asses all day being docile. But we let our kids cry it out so they’ll learn to self-soothe at 2 months, and why? Well, we tell ourselves it’s for them, that they need to learn to be independent. At fucking 2 months. Fuck, why don’t we just throw a fucking blender into the crib with some frozen veggies and tell them to make their own food? I mean, shit, they have to learn SOME time, right?

I find that much of what passes for good parenting (and, not so distant, good pet ownership) is making it easy and convenient for the PARENTS. And that, to me, is not good parenting. Or good pet ownership. That’s people being too fucking lazy to handle the pure spirit of what THEY decided to welcome into their lives, whether it’s a child or a dog. I’m not saying we, as parents or owners, should never have a break. After all, we crate train, we housebreak, we potty train. We teach dogs commands, we teach our kids to listen to us. We do this not to help our kids and our animals grow and be able to enjoy the world at large. But when we start putting kids on drugs and performing surgical procedures that are not NECESSARY, and then vindicate ourselves by saying it’s best for the kids or the animals, that’s just WRONG. Because it’s NOT always best for them. It’s EASIER FOR US. And that is completely FUCKED UP.

Reading up on Wolfie’s condition, I found a growing number of veterinarians who are questioning the hardline we’ve taken as a society on neutering and spaying, especially before the animals have matured to adulthood and received at least some of the benefits of having those hormones course through their bodies. Even some hard-core spay-neuter people have come around. The best testimonial I read came from a woman who said she was a diehard proponent of spaying and neutering until one day it hit her that, as a woman, she’d gone through puberty, had her period, and basically come to adulthood, yet she was depriving these animals of the same “process”.

And we’re not talking about adulthood as a rite of passage. Trust me, I don’t want Wolfie to keep his lone testicle because I think he’ll be less of a dog or less of a male. I’m not trying to make sure he keeps his swagger on. This is not for bragging rights, either mine or his. I’m trying to make sure that for his HEALTH, he doesn’t totally miss out on the benefits of having his testosterone.

Will keeping that testicle render him more active (yes, I said ACTIVE, not AGGRESSIVE)? Yes. It’s MY FUCKING JOB TO KEEP UP WITH HIM, not to just SLICE OFF HIS COJONES SO THAT I CAN KEEP UP.

Because he is pretty smart and energetic, I want to sign him for agility training. Just like my other children, he needs to be kept busy and active, using his brain and his muscles. He should have his testosterone to do that. Not saying he can’t do it without it. What I am saying, is that it will help. And that the benefits may well outweigh the risks/downsides of keeping those hormones in his system.

Now, since we do want to avoid mating,  vasectomy is an option – but not one that many vets will agree to do. Why? Because they weren’t taught to. His current vet, when asked if we absolutely HAD to take off the other testicle, breezily responded that “there would be no reason to keep it.” Which told me all I needed to know about how much THOUGHT she puts into her work. Clearly she is just going with the status quo.

And I’m not saying the status quo is always wrong, but…when it’s been in place for several decades, it bears some re-examination, if only to confirm that it is still the most sound path. And people don’t do that. They just do whatever they’ve been doing, whatever society tells them to do, and are afraid to step outside the box.

This used to be my bed, but then I tore it to shreds and tried to eat it!

If I were that person, I wouldn’t homeschool my children. But I am that person. I try my best to do what is right for THEM, and even from one child to the next, I may make different decisions, because what works for Punksin may not always be what’s best for Pudding.

And what’s good for millions of cats and dogs across America is not necessarily what’s best for Wolfie. I want a vet who understands that, who will consider that, who will do what is best for HIM, even if that’s different from what the fucking ASPCA has been screaming at us for decades.

I am a responsible pet owner. Wolfie’s monthly health insurance premium costs the same as the health insurance premium for all 4 humans in this house combined, but I do that that I will never have to worry about whether or not I can take care of him when he gets sick. I nursed him from being an underweight malnourished shy pup to a happy-go-lucky big baby of 64 pounds (and still growing) who is active and thriving. I do not let him run the streets. I am taking him to “school” to get trained not only so that he can be a good canine citizen, but because training is good for a dog mentally. Dogs are smart, German Shepherds being among the smartest, and teaching him commands and letting him run obstacles will be GOOD for him.

So with all that said…NO. I am not taking off his one testicle just because it’s what everyone else does. And NOT doing so does NOT make me a bad owner.

It makes me someone who puts thought into my care and love for this dog.

A doctor I wrote to online confirmed for me that, even with cryptorchidism, he does not need to have the descended testicle removed, and can indeed have a vasectomy. Now, my quest is to find a veterinary surgeon that will DO it. If I cannot find one, I may have to make a road trip to Florida, where this vet is located, if she will have us.

Because yes, that’s how much I love this dog.

Related articles

• Health Implications in Early Spay and Neuter in Dogs (thepetblog.net)

But about 90 songs later, most of which include her bitching and moaning and griping and getting her choral revenge on everybody from John Mayer to, most recently, Tiny Fey and Amy Poehler, and it’s like, you know what? Enough is enough. Can you not find ANY OTHER SHIT TO WRITE ABOUT?

Granted, I am not, as I’ve said, a fan. So maybe she does write about other shit and it’s just that these songs, being targeted at other celebrities, are the ones getting the most notice. On the other hand, if she would just stop DOING this shit altogether, then…these songs wouldn’t exist for people to talk about, no?

But every time this heifer has a beef, she goes into the studio and comes out guns blazing. She’s like the country version of rap music with beefs. Except hers are (mostly) to do with romantic breakups, which makes her look like…

A whiny little bitch.

Come on.

We’ve all gone through heartache, and it fucking hurts. But do we all go and sing on the street corner about it? No. I’m not saying she needs to HIDE how she feels. Sure, if she gets asked in an interview if it hurts, well then, admit it hurts. But retain some dignity, and some privacy, and then move the fuck on. Most celebrities relish what little bits of privacy they’re allowed to maintain. She seems invested in pulling everyone into her world of drama, in which the other people are “the bad guys” and she is getting her revenge by outing them and singing songs that supposedly represent some sort of triumph over the evil.

Except, how triumphant are you if you have to keep singing about it EVERY FUCKING TIME?

There’s a concept that if you have to SAY you’re mature, you’re not. Another term like that: classy. No one who is classy actually USES the word classy to describe themselves or other people or events. Classy is one of those words that I fucking hate: the minute I hear it come out of someone’s mouth, I think they’re absolutely NOT.

The same concept goes for Taylor Not-Too-Swift being “over it.” If she were over all these people, she’d be OVER it and not need to rip them to shreds. But she’s NOT over it. So she has to sing about it. And if prancing about on the stage in a wedding dress which gets ripped off to reveal a bad-girl outfit makes her feel better, so be it. You can argue that that is what helps her to get over it, and, okay, maybe. But I think her all-too-public therapy sessions are getting to be a little grating, a lot childish, and calling far more attention to her “you-need-to-treat-me-with-kid-gloves” persona than her talent. If there is any. Because by this point, I really don’t know. And I have no intention of finding out. When I want a soap opera, I’ll turn on the TV.

What I DO want to know is this: what sado-masochistic idiot would consider going out with this woman? Anyone with a head NOT stuck in their ass would have to know by now that getting into a relationship with her is like going out with The National Enquirer. Your business is BOUND to become public. Especially if you DO HER WRONG.

Maybe there are some people who crave attention so much that they’d see that as a cool – and free – way to get some much-wanted publicity. And that’s sad, because if bloodsuckers like that latch onto her, then she’ll have a lot more assholes to sing about, and yet only herself to blame for setting herself up as someone who likes to put all her gripes and business out in the street.

LOVE them. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My final words are this: kudos to Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. They took a jab at her and, in typical behavior, she coyly suggested that there’s a place in hell for women who don’t help other women. That was so incredibly childish. First of all, if you’re in Hollywood, and so open about your business, you’re going to have to expect to be the butt of some jokes, and if you can’t take it, then perhaps that’s one of many reasons you should keep your shit private in the first place.  Secondly, who the fuck said all women need to SUPPORT her? Did she get her face beat in like Rihanna? No. She got ditched by some guys and they may have been assholes and we’re so sorry for her, but FUCKING GET OVER IT. One song, okay. I was supportive. Several albums later, and she sounds like the friend whose phone calls you start to avoid because she’s calling you with the same drama ONCE AGAIN about the guy treating her badly and you wish she would put the fucking phone down, stop putting the DUDES down, and start looking in the fucking mirror. I’m done with her and her fucking whining, and I’m thinking the NEXT person she needs to write a song about is herself, because it occurs to ME, that maybe…SHE is the goddamn problem.

I live in obscurity, so I don’t expect that she’ll be ranting about me anytime soon, nor do I expect to be vilified in song. But I’ll tell you one thing: on the one-in-a-million chance that it DID happen, you know what I’d do?

The same thing she needs to do with all these hell-hath-no-fury-like-a-woman-scorned songs:

Laugh, and LET THAT SHIT GO.

Related articles

• Taylor Swift Can’t Take A Joke, Says Tina Fey and Amy Poehler Have A “Special Place In Hell” (mamapop.com)
• Amy Poehler Responds To Taylor Swift Damning Her To Hell (dlisted.com)
• Taylor Swift needs to rethink her PR strategy (prdaily.com)

AWESOMENESS PERSONIFIED

This is Punksin killing people with her wicked breaststroke. WICKED, I tell you. WICKED. It’s her best stroke. Probably because most of the power comes from the legs, and I know for a fact that her legs are powerhouses, since they’re the SAME LEGS WITH WHICH SHE KICKED THE SHIT OUT OF ME WHEN SHE WAS IN THE WOMB. She would stretch her foot out so far that we could SEE THE OUTLINE OF HER FOOT sticking out of my stomach. It was weird as hell. I never knew that could happen. But there I would be, like a beached whale, and on one side, a FOOT STICKING OUT.

Those are the legs, people, that she is using now. THOSE LEGS, and THOSE FEET.

More on Championships later.

I work SO FUCKING HARD to make sure my kids are NOT twats. They are not perfect. NO one is perfect. But they know to say please and thank you. They know not to be greedy. They know not to be rude to other people. They know not to be mean and nasty to other kids. They know that when you say rude things to someone it hurts. They know that if for some reason you are rude or say something hurtful you FUCKING APOLOGIZE.

They know all this, because I MAKE SURE THEY FUCKING KNOW THIS. It’s my fucking JOB.

Wednesday was Punksin’s birthday. She had swim practice, so I bought cupcakes for her to share with her teammates after practice. (I know, not the best post-workout recovery food, but these kids are between 7 and 11 years old. Their recovery is pretty much guaranteed.)

So I take in cupcakes. On any given day, a few of the kids don’t show up, but given that it was the last practice before Championships, which is coming up this weekend, I figured most of them would be there.

I also had a few extra for those children that are not on the team but that we’ve become friendly with. Punksin’s best friend on the team has a little brother, and he has become close with Pudding. That’s great, I had no problem sharing a cupcake with him. Her OTHER close friend on the team has an older sister; we’ve become friendly with their parents and the older sister is nice so, cupcake for her, okay. Then the Silver Team practices at the same time and we’ve become friendly with a family on that team and supportive of their kids, so I wanted to give their two boys cupcakes as well. Part of the reason I like the PARENTS is that these are all nice kids. They KNOW my daughter and they are nice to her and my son.

Cupcake sharing time comes, and here come a goddamn HERD of little siblings, asking for cupcakes. And you know what? It isn’t just that that I minded…although I DID mind that. Because I’ve taught MY son that when other people bring in cupcakes or Munchkins from Dunkin Donuts or whatever for the team, that he is to SIT HIS ASS DOWN WITH ME and not go begging like he’s goddamn homeless. He’s not ON the fucking team; just because he is there observing his sister practice does not mean he automatically gets whatever the team is sharing out. I have explained to him that there are times when he will not be able to do or have what his sister does or has. And vice versa. They’re SIBLINGS, not fucking Siamese twins. And they’re both old enough now to understand that.

But no one else is teaching their kids this apparently!! We live in an age of put your kids first in everything and give them whatever the fuck they want and don’t teach them any goddamn manners and don’t EVER say the word no, so here come all these siblings. Okay, I could MAYBE suck that up. But what REALLY pissed me off, is that some of these kids are not only NOT FRIENDS with Punksin OR Pudding, but some of these fucking twatty kids have actually been MEAN TO PUDDING. And yet here they come, tramping down the stairs to get cupcakes.

And I wanted to say “FUCK YOU” to all of them. And their lazy ass fucking parents are sitting up in the stands, just letting their kids come up and ask for shit that they have no business asking for. I don’t even know the fucking PARENTS, but they have no problem sending their shitty little kids down. And I held out as long as I could, I was ready to give the cupcakes to the fucking mice in the WALLS if I had to, but finally it was becoming painfully obvious to ME at least, that I was holding out, and I caved. Because I didn’t want to be RUDE. Ain’t THAT some shit? Here I am, I don’t want to be rude by pointedly NOT giving shit to kids who really had no business asking for the shit they were asking for.

FUCK YOU YOU CAN’T HAVE ANY.

And it really pissed me off. Even a mother came down asking, very politely and OH so apologetically, if there was an extra for her son.  Now, I like this woman, and I like her daughter, who is a pleasant, polite child. But her son is a fucking TWAT who is the most miserable little shit walking the earth, and he’s mean to my SON. NO, I don’t want to give him a goddamn cupcake, and even although I like her, I’m annoyed at her for asking, because the I’m-so-sorry-I’m-asking face she made means she knew that really, she had no business asking for one.

I’ve been trying to shake this off and be Zen about it. I’ve been trying to convince myself that, by giving these fuckers cupcakes, I was being the bigger person. But I’m not really convinced of that. I am tired of subsidizing other people’s bad ass shitty kids and reinforcing that it doesn’t matter if you’re a shithead, you’ll still get whatever you want. That shit doesn’t fly with MY kids, why the fuck should I be paying my money to teach it to YOURS? Of course, there are kids on the team that Punksin is not so fond of, but that I can stomach, I bought the cupcakes for the TEAM, and I wasn’t going to single out TEAMMATES. THAT would be rude. As far as the siblings I AM fond of, I was prepared to hand out their cupcakes discreetly. But it turned into a fucking circus with all these kids coming down, and I was horrified, because I would NEVER EVER EVER allow my children to do that. And I realized I’m not happy about it. So, I had to write about it here, and I also had to figure out how to let it go.

How am I letting it go? By planning ahead of time how I will deal with this NEXT year.

NEXT year, I will bring in cupcakes for the team again. But I will send out an email beforehand and explain to parents that the cupcakes are for team members ONLY, and that it would be easier and less disappointing for all other parties involved if they kept their FUCKING TWATTY KIDS UP IN THE STANDS when the cupcakes are being distributed, so that I don’t have to say NO I’m SORRY YOU CAN’T HAVE ONE, because that IS what I will say. And I will still give extra cupcakes to the children that PUNKSIN is friendly with and that are nice to HER AND MY SON, because that is MY AND HER FUCKING PREROGATIVE TO DO SO. Yes, I know it SEEMS unfair. I don’t GIVE A SHIT.

So that’s NEXT year. I’m already drafting the email. I HAVE to, or this shit will stick in my craw and make me ill.

As much as steam was coming out of my ass with this bullshit, it actually got pretty amusing at one point, however, because another kid from the Silver team came and asked, very politely, if he could have one.

He’s 11. I’ve never even SEEN this kid before, but he is friends with one of the two kids on the Silver team that I gave a cupcake to.  I guess he thought that entitled him to a cupcake.

I just looked at him.

“Do you even KNOW whose birthday it is?” I asked.

“No,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Zack, this is Punksin. Punksin, this is Zack. Now you know each other,” I said. Both kids laughed.

“Okay, next? You could at least say Happy Birthday. If you’re coming over here for birthday cupcakes from someone you don’t even KNOW, that’s the LEAST YOU COULD DO,” I said.

“Happy birthday, Punksin,” he said, with a grin.

“AWESOME! NOW, you can have a cupcake!” I said, handing one over.

He said thank you and went on his way. That situation actually didn’t bother me as much because I was able to handle it better since he’s an older child. But these 4 and 5-year olds, how am I supposed to handle it when they’re GLARING up at me, some of them, and I want to shove a cupcake in their face?

So that’s what’s happening next year, the email to teach people how to raise their fucking kids prep everyone up ahead of time. I’m not doing that to myself again. I thought about it and for a minute I said, okay, I could just get enough cupcakes for everyone. But FUCK that. I don’t know how many siblings everyone has. No. KEEP YOUR FUCKING KIDS AWAY FROM THE CUPCAKES. That’s IT. Everyone can’t have everything. I teach MY kids that and I’m sorry but I’m about to teach your kids that shit too, and if it’s too hard for you to handle then tell your older child not to get one and then BOTH of your kids can go CUPCAKE-less. I’m putting the onus for this crap BACK on the parents where it belongs.

Let that be a lesson to you: if your kid is an asshole, I will not be giving him/her cupcakes. If you’re not SURE if your kid is an asshole or not, chances are, he is. Because you should KNOW.

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I don’t think I told you. Maybe I did but I’m too lazy to go back into my own archives to check.

Anyhow, last December, early in the month, we brought this little guy into the family.

Wolfie

His name  - savor this, because this is the only family member without an alias  - is Wolfgang von Stulpnagel.

I mean, he’s a German Shepherd. How could I not give him a German name? Especially with me being HALF-GERMAN? So, he has my German last name, and I chose Wolfgang because I like it, and I can call him Wolfie for short now that he’s a puppy, and Wolfgang when he’s older and I want him to bite the shit out of somebody. The kids insist on calling him Wolfgang von Stroppenheimer because they cannot pronounce von Stulpnagel properly, which I’ve explained is absolutely unacceptable since it’s PART OF THEIR HERITAGE AND THEREFORE THEY WILL BE TESTED ON IT UNTIL THEY CAN GET THAT SHIT RIGHT.

The long story that ended with Wolfie’s arrival in our home is one I cannot go into right now for the sake of my blood pressure. Suffice it to say that he was purchased from a breeder but I feel more and more like he was rescued from a disreputable breeder. Not that this guy was necessarily a BAD person, I can’t go as far as to say that without more evidence. But at the very least, he has no idea what the fuck he’s doing, and Wolfie suffered for it, and may still be suffering for it. I don’t have a full workup on him yet to see if he has hereditary conditions that are going to affect him later – things that a good breeder would already have tested for. Shit, this idiot couldn’t even tell me when the dog was fucking BORN. See? I’m starting to get pissed already. Not because we paid, but because I don’t like seeing dogs mistreated.

The fact that Wolfie was so thin when we got him makes me feel, in some ways, better about getting him. I know there are loads of dogs in shelters waiting for homes, and I was always one of those people who preferred to rescue one than pay through my ass for a purebred, which Wolfie supposedly is. (Although I did not pay through my ass for him, thank God.) But I really feel like we rescued this dog, if not from abuse, from sheer neglect. He was about 20-30 pounds underweight, and of course with such a weight deficiency comes lack of energy. He was as meek as could be. But now, he’s come into his own, and although I’m still trying to bulk him up with the help of a recipe for a supplement with the absolutely hilariously suggestive name of SATIN BALLS, he’s already doing a lot better on the weight front.

Aren’t I cute as fuck?

So yeah, this is my new baby.

The other baby, the human one…I’m still on the fence with that one. And I know the fence is going to come down pretty soon and that’ll be the end of it, and…maybe I’ll be okay with that. I waver a lot. Sometimes I think it would be absolutely wonderful to have another little one, because my first two are SO FUCKING AWESOME. But the very things I miss are also the things that can tire you out: diaper changes, nursing…do I want to go there again? Or is it time to let our two munchkins grow while we re-focus on each other and the millions of things we want to do?

It’s not an easy decision. I’m also scared that, at age 43, my chances of having a baby with a health problem are higher. I’ve been so lucky – my kids don’t even have peanut allergies, for God’s sake. With the exception of Pudding’s respiratory issues, which are pretty mild, these kids are A-OK on the health front. What if the next one isn’t? Do I want to take that risk? It’s like I’m on Let’s Make a Deal: do I stick with what I have or go with seeing what’s behind door #3? Not to mention that having a baby now while running hither and thither with Punksin and her swimming…I don’t know. I always thought two would be great, but part of me wants to be outnumbered now. I get a lot of love and laughs from my munchkins. A little more…would be wonderful.

But for now, we have Wolfie and…the rest remains to be seen.

It’s sort of my fault…I think. I think I need to upgrade my OS. And until I do that, when I try to connect my phone to the computer to import the damn pictures, the program won’t even recognize that my phone is connected.

I will be working on this tonight so that I can get my ass BACK IN GEAR FOR YOU PEOPLE because I know there has been wailing and gnashing of teeth at my long absences, I KNOW this. I’m sure I’ve even seen some of you parked outside my house and, I’m not saying it’s not okay, but, if you’re going to be out there, could you at least bring me a hot chai latte from Starbucks? Or a medium coffee, extra light, extra sweet from Dunkin Donuts? (Yes, see, I can ROLL like that, I can be white-collar or blue-collar or no-collar. I’m VERSATILE, BITCHES.)

<sigh>

Okay, the Mac and I are going to have a talk tonight. Which hopefully won’t end like the talk I had with a previous PC, may he RIP, where I said told him what I wanted him to do, and he didn’t do it, and I pushed some buttons and he didn’t respond and I took him and threw him on the floor. Not dropped. THREW. As in, FLUNG WITH GREAT FORCE TOWARDS THE GROUND.

That didn’t end well.

I am not going to do that to my Mac because I LOVE my Mac MUCH more, I do have to admit that, but…he better stop fucking around.

Okay people, resume whatever you were doing. I’ll be back soon. And one of you better have some chai waiting.

I DON’T CARE.

I HATE SNOW.

It’s lovely to look at, if by look at you understand me to mean gazing at a picture of it as I sit on the beach of some Caribbean island drinking a pina colada, heavy on the rum, thank you. In that situation, snow is LOVELY.

It is also lovely if it comes the day before Christmas and immediately melts the day after.

But this crap right here that we are getting now?

Noooooooo.

Because then, you see, at some point…I have to GO OUT in it. EMERGE, as it were, from my cocoon of warmth and happiness into cold white crap that will be beautiful only until a dog or a drunk person pees on it, or the cars drive it into brown slush.

THIS is Nemo. The shit going on outside? THAT’S NOT NEMO.

And what’s with Nemo? I read/heard/hallucinated that they are calling this storm Nemo. Who the fuck calls anything Nemo anymore?  There was Captain Nemo, okay. Then, because no one reads anymore and most people have never even HEARD of Captain Nemo, they were able to give the name to someone else, so then there was Nemo of Pixar fame, and that pretty much sealed the deal on Nemo as far as I was concerned. How are you going to name something Nemo when that name is associated with a very cute clownfish? Nemo? Really? Nathaniel, Nate, Nick, Nestor, Nicodemus, Ned, Noah, Nigel, NONE of those names came to mind. You just go STRAIGHT to a name that has already been imprinted in our minds as belonging to a cartoon. NO ONE IN THAT MEETING THOUGHT, GEE, THIS NAME INSTANTLY MAKES ME THINK OF A LOST FISH. I mean, I know weather people might be a bunch of geeky nerds, but what ROCK did you have to be hiding under for the last DECADE to not know that everyone thinks of Nemo as a CUTE FUCKING FISH, NOT A BLIZZARD THAT WILL INCONVENIENCE YOUR LIFE AND BE A BIG NUISANCE?

Gee…what time is it? Methinks it’s time for my afternoon quaff, while I sit here and watch NEMO go to work. You know what, weather people? Fuck you. I am not calling this storm NEMO. Whoever you all are, you NE some MO sense. Go catch up on the zeitgeist and get back to us when you’re caught up. It’s almost 3:00 in the afternoon, and I’m going to put back on my pajamas.

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And so, in a move to oust him, the Diocese or the whole body of the church, I don’t know, moved to cast him out, but did so on the basis of some supposedly misappropriated funds.

To this, my aunt went ballistic, claiming that the Church is only mad that he is not going along with the whole disgusting sinfulness and that he actually refuses to cave in and support the wickedness.

Sigh.

This makes me sad. Because…you know, she HAS gay friends. And I just don’t get that. If you’re so righteously ANTI-gay, then how does that work? You’re friends with gay people but…you think it’s unholy and disgusting. Do the gay FRIENDS know that? Does THAT come up in conversation, that you think they’re perverted sinners in the eyes of God?

And it takes me into the whole hypocrisy thing because this whole incident just fucking REEKS of it. You’re a priest, you follow the teachings of Jesus, but you are anti-gay. WTF? I mean, glass houses? Stones? Ringing any fucking bells here? I’m not saying you have to go wrap yourself in a fucking rainbow, but live and let live. Judge not lest ye be judged and all that, you know? If you really believe in God, and the stuff in the Bible (which no one ever wants to acknowledge was written – and EDITED – by man), then leave it to Him to decide. You don’t want to get bonked in the butt, good for you. Don’t. Why the fuck do YOU care what’s going down in someone else’s bedroom?

So there’s THAT hypocrisy. Then there’s the hypocrisy of the church at large for kicking him out under some POSSIBLY trumped up charges. I say POSSIBLY because this priest is actually a distant relative and my grandmother has always told me stories about him and money, and how tight the two of them are. Now, that doesn’t necessarily make him a thief, but my grandmother, who has admittedly always been suspicious of EVERYONE, seemed to know quite a few whisperings back in the day about his supposed shenanigans. So whether or not this money stuff is true, I don’t know. But, if they really want him out due to his disagreements with the church, then…FUCKING SAY SO. We believe X. You believe Y. We think it’s best if we part ways since what you believe does not fit in with what we believe, and technically, you work for us, so you kind of need to be in agreement with us on some shit. I mean, it’s the church, not an office job. It doesn’t make sense for me to go work for a mosque if I don’t believe Mohammed was the Prophet, right? DUH. Why the bullshit runaround?

So there’s THAT hypocrisy.

Then there’s my aunt spouting, venting, ranting even (yes, it runs in the family), trying to be supportive but saying how he doesn’t support this nasty disgusting lifestyle. Well, okay, if it’s so disgusting and nasty and an abominable sin in the eyes of God why do you associate with gay people? I mean, I just don’t get that. Me, I’m not gay. I don’t “believe” in it or “not believe” in it. The only thing I believe is that it’s none of my fucking business unless I’m sleeping with you. Really. Beyond that, if it’s a sin, well, God will sort that out, but until then, me and you, we’re cool, because guess what, I’ll probably get my ass kicked for some OTHER shit at the Pearly Gates, so what? But these same priests who are so vehemently against gays, they have performed marriages between previously married people, as in divorced. Well, guess what? The Bible calls that adultery. And there’s actually a COMMANDMENT against adultery but…I don’t see one against being gay. So what, we’re picking and choosing what’s okay? How are we going to say the priests refuse to bow to current conventions and support the wickednes? Well, they already are, with the adultery thing, right?  They’re doing it now because by now, it’s socially acceptable (unless you’re Catholic and even THEY have workarounds).

Which is why I say, fuck all this shit. I am very deeply spiritual. I believe in Jesus. I believe in the Bible as a Holy Book but I do NOT believe it is totally the ONLY WORD OF GOD. Sorry, not when I know how many people have gotten their grubby little hands on it to amend it and edit it and take shit out and put stuff in, all so it could say what the fuck THEY wanted it to say. Why do people think there was a King James Version? VERSION. I mean, it’s right there in the word. His VERSION of the Bible, as created by the Biblical scholars of his time. Give me a fucking break. It’s been a tool of oppression and control in the hands of people who do not want to live peacefully, who do not want to love one another as God loved them, who do not want to judge not lest they be judged, but who just want to CONTROL people and put them under their own proverbial thumbs.

Fuck that.

I live in a glass house, okay? So I’m not throwing ANY fucking stones at anyone else and telling them they are abominations in the eyes of God or that they are sinners. If you believe in sin, we’re ALL sinners, it’s just that some of us do different shit. I haven’t killed anyone recently, have you? Okay. Does that leave me in the clear? No.  We can forgive killers on death row but not homosexuals? And who the fuck said they need forgiving? And IF they do, if you want to say they do, well, whose job is that? YOURS? Really? Who died and made YOU God?  WHO MADE ANY OF US GOD?

You know, people used to laugh at the WWJD bracelets and songs and the whole slogan thing, it was like a goddamn marketing scheme, but…it sort of works. What WOULD Jesus do? Maybe if more people considered not just how he died but how he lived (as much as we know of it, of course) and let themselves be guided by that and being more Christ-like and less bombastic and full of self-righteous pomp…ahh, the world could be a better place.

Let the Church say AMEN.

I’m still recovering from the flu madness. I would say I’m at about…oh, 85%? What tends to happen to me when I get sick with a cold is that after the cold ends, I am still left with post-nasal drip. This then leads to a sinus infection.

This is what has happened.

Oh joy.

And I know that’s what’s happening, and because I know it already, I’m loathe to go sit in my doctor’s office for an hour or more waiting to be squeezed in for a sick visit just to get some antibiotics. I know I need the antibiotics – just GIVE THEM TO ME, DAMMIT.

But it probably won’t work like that, and I’ll have to go in. Either that, or sit here with mucus welling up in the back of my throat that I constantly need to spit out. Oh, and having a swollen face.

It’s been so much fun!

Also, the kids were sick. They got sick right as I was coming out of my sickness. That’s always fun. I always feel bad when they get sick at the same time because I’m always a leeeetle bit more concerned for Pudding. Not because I love him more, of course not, but I’m always worried that’s what Punksin will think. It’s because with him, a cold often turns into something more than a cold. We’re pulling out nebulizers and he’s having trouble breathing and I’m watching him through the night to make sure he doesn’t stop breathing, same as I did when he was a baby. I did it when they were BOTH babies. But now, he’s a big kid with what the doctor is conservatively calling a “respiratory weakness,” so I’m always a little more concerned when HE gets sick.

So thanks to me being sick and them being sick and now me feeling shitty again with the sinus bullshit, I feel like Mrs. Complainy-Pants. I also feel as though I totally lost January. I mean, Friday is February 1st and I’m sort of freaking out. As the song goes, the weather outside is frightful but I already need to start thinking about vacations and summer camp. WTF?

Well, I’m sorry this isn’t my usual scintillating brand of cuss words and ranting, but I will be back in rare form as soon as possible, I promise. Feel free to send…something…to aid the process. I don’t know what I mean by “something.” I was going to say ice cream but frankly with the sinus crap the dairy does not help. Then I thought of chocolate but I realized that’s so cliche because…I don’t even really like chocolate. I mean, it’s OKAY. But I’m not one of these people that is in LOVE with chocolate. I could totally take it or leave it.

Flowers?

I DO love flowers, I have to say. And at this time of year, especially, some nice fresh tropical flowers would be awesome. So feel free to send some over, okay? MAJOR COOL POINTS WILL HAPPEN.

I’ll be back.

THAT WENT ON FOR. E. VER.

I feel as though I have just emerged from a coma and am trying to reclaim my life. The house is a mess. No recycling has been done. My hair is a bird’s nest. I haven’t cooked, showered, written, or done anything beyond deal with Punksin’s swimming. I slept on the couch for 4 nights, watching awful movies alternating with really well-done but completely fucking depressing movies (Melancholia – get it and see it but not if you are, like me, a depressive – it will send you straight into an awful funk).

Now…ugh…I am trying to reclaim my life and remember what the hell I do and who I am. The last week is like a blur of coughing, sneezing, aching, sleeping, TRYING to sleep, and just general yuckiness. After Punksin’s meet, everything went downhill fast. But I’m back.

I think?

Anyhow, whatever the history behind THAT phrase (I’ll have to look it up now because I know YOU won’t), I am THAT kind of sick.

I just came off a crazy weekend where Punksin had a swim meet on BOTH days that required her to be AT the site of the meet, IN the water for warmups, at 7:00 A.M. Meaning that I had to wake up at 5:00 A.M.

On Saturday.

AND Sunday.

You are confusing me with some other heifer if you think that I LIKE getting up at 5:00 in the morning. I don’t even like getting up at 8:30, which is about when I normally stumble out of bed blindly, begging the kids to please SHUT THE FUCK UP while I take an hour or so to revert back to human form.

Punksin did very well this weekend. She dropped time in all of her events except one, the 50-yard butterfly, where she got DQ’ed, because her goggles were coming off and she slowed down to fumble with them and then could not execute the stroke properly at first when she tried to start swimming again. At least, that’s what I THINK happened, I don’t know, maybe she didn’t turn properly, who the hell knows. We didn’t know she got DQed until last night and they don’t really TELL you why, you just see that it happened. Despite the DQ and the missteps, though, she was able to catch up with the other girls and keep pace with them, so that tells me a lot.

Her stamina is building and…I’m so bloody excited for her. She is not tiring the way she would at first. Her strength is growing. She’s only been with the team for 5 months and I can already see so much improvement, and her times are coming down, down, down.

She turns 9 next month, and that’s a bit of a bummer because the age groups at some of these events include 8 & Unders, and she won’t be able to compete in those anymore. Now she’ll be in the 10 & Unders or 12 & Unders or 9-10 groups, and she’ll have girls bigger and stronger in those fields. But…that’s okay. She’ll have 2 years to compete with the 10 & Unders and if she continues to speed up and execute well…

She’s going to be incredible.

Well, I would write more but I am feeling like absolute and utter crap. I have so much more to tell you! But I’m too beat…

Stay tuned!

I am going to start doing around here, the same shit I started doing at my last job when it became apparent that they wished I would just have the baby and fucking disappear.

THE MINIMUM AMOUNT POSSIBLE TO GET OVER.

For the past 8 years, I have devoted my life to my kids and this household. And I’m not saying I have regrets, although I do think there are times I could have made more time for myself. But when I did have some free time I didn’t use it wisely, and then we stopped sending Punksin to school and now free time is about 30 seconds in the bathroom, which is only 30 seconds because within 30 seconds of my ass hitting the toilet seat I hear a little high-pitched male voice outside the door plaintively wailing, “I need to go potty.” And it’s not like there aren’t other bathrooms he could go to! But the one upstairs he does not want to use by himself because I guess to him, our bedroom looks like a huge cavern, and he is not dealing with that shit alone.

So this year, Punksin has her swimming. The Tech Guru has become the Crossfit Lunatic and expects me to shop for all this different food and change everyone’s eating habits on a dime because he joined some eating challenge and FUCK THAT NO.

No. I am tired of MY shit being on the back burner. I am tired of people depending on me to the point where it seems like they can’t function if I am not involved. NO.

Punksin is 8. She will be 9 next month. She likes to help out a lot, so…her ass is starting to help out a lot. Of course, she likes SAYING she wants to help out but when she is actually called upon to do it, much whining and groaning ensues.

I don’t give a fuck.

This has absolutely nothing to do with anything I wrote except that I say “fuck” a lot. This is a sign for a town in Austria and now that I know that it exists, it is on my list of place to visit, if only so I can stand next to the sign and take a picture.

The Tech Guru, he works his ass off outside the house, I get that. But I work my ass off INSIDE the house, hardle see other fucking adults, I’m NOT FUCKING PAID, I HAVE NO LIFE, and FUCK THAT TOO. You need special food, go buy it, cook it, eat it, have a blast with it, and when I get around to figuring out how to incorporate it more and more into our daily diet, I will work on that. But it is not a priority for ME just because it is a priority for HIM.

For me, this year, it is write write write. Do more creative shit that inspires ME, whether it’s listen to my friend play jazz, go to interesting philosophical talks, hang out with my extremely intelligent and equally obnoxious high school friends with whom I can be guaranteed a good time, and DOING MY OWN SHIT. I will also be taking weekend retreats. I am looking for cabins, small ones with heat a bed, a table, and not much else. WiFi not really necessary all the time, since I don’t need to be wasting time on FuckBook or looking at clothes. I NEED to write. I have been praying and praying and praying for the creative muse to hit and she finally bashed me upside the head and now it is MY JOB to take the shit in my head and put it out there.

I didn’t necessarily proclaim this as a New Year’s resolution because it’s not about 2013. It’s about life. Creating the life that I want to live and leaving the life behind that is making me so fucking miserable that the first thought in my mind when I wake up is usually, “Is it time to go back to bed yet?”

FUCK THAT.

I can’t wait. I am nervous and excited and I think it will be good for me to…move on to the next phase.

Here I come.

2012…I don’t even know what to say about 2012.

It was an ass-kicker of gargantuan proportions. In sooooo many ways.

For 2013…my plan is to take matters into my hands, as much as I can. Less passivity and just letting shit HAPPEN, and more MAKING shit happen.

I need to do this, if I am going to break free of the shackles that bind me and get my ass where I want to go.

I’m wishing YOU the same thing, the ability to break free of the chains, especially if they’re mental ones. Those can often be the most stifling, the most paralyzing, the most fearsome: those awful thoughts in our minds that tell us a million reasons why we CAN’T do something, SHOULDN’T do something, will FAIL at doing something.

I’ve had my fair share of failures and they hurt like nobody’s business but my consolation is that I tried. My biggest fear right now is getting to the end of my life and feeling as though I let opportunities pass me by, became paralyzed by fear.

Of course, it’s so easy to have that mindset on January 1st, which is why gyms get huge rises in membership. I’m sure weight loss programs do, and a whole host of other self-improvement modules.

But I’ve been on this track for a while now. It’s just that something about a new year gives me – and most of us – more energy, more hope, more…guts?

The key is holding on to all of that when the novelty of the new year has worn off and 2013 starts to feel like just another path on the slog through life.

It just started. It still has the ability to be your BEST YEAR EVER.

As Picard says…”Make it so.”

Yeah, you read that right. SHIPPING LIES. Not LINES. LIES.

I do most of my shopping online because the truth of the matter is, I hate shopping. Get in the car, DRIVE to a mall, walk AROUND AND AROUND IN FUCKING CIRCLES trying to find some shit that either does not exist, thanks to my eclectic tastes, or exists in every size but the one I need.

I can do achieve that same level of dissatisfaction sitting on my couch. And more often than not, I can actually FIND the thing I am looking for.

So all of that is to say, I do lots of online shopping.

What I have noticed recently is that a lot of companies now like to Keep In Touch with you about your order. They send you an email to let you know they received the order! Yay! They send you another email when it’s been shipped! Yay! And then they send you another email to update you on the shipping status so you Won’t Get Worried. Isn’t that SO NICE of them, to be SO CONCERNED?

Well, yes, it WOULD be, except that EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. I get an email from these clowns to let me know that my package will be at my doorstep ANY DAY NOW…

THE FUCKING PACKAGE HAS ALREADY ARRIVED.

I know. This should not bother me, right? It would be worse if they sent me an email telling me it was here and there was no package, I grant you that. But why is it that EVERY COMPANY is doing this? It’s like a fucked-up version of under-promise, over-deliver, and I was in sales long enough to get that, but COME ON. This is bullshit. It’s like they want me to be all “oh! that’s so awesome that it actually got here before it was supposed to!!!” when I’m really more like, “why are these fuckers telling me to look out for a package that’s ALREADY IN MY HOUSE? Why do they think I am THAT STUPID? They KNOW it’s here. But they want to look good so they’ll tack on an extra few days and think it makes them look good that the shit is HERE already. FUCK YOU.”

I know. It’s a lame pet peeve, as pet peeves go, but it just smacks of more “let’s-fool-the-consumer” bullshit and I am so tired of being dicked around by corporate America, treating us as though we’re all complete fucking morons, and yes, SOME of us ARE. Some of us REALLY REALLY ARE.

But come on already.

There’s been a lot going on at home, and when I get a minute to breathe, which probably won’t be until AFTER Christmas, I’ll fill you in on some of the drama…

But, there’s the Newtown thing.

Things like that happen and I struggle, as a writer, with how to deal with them. It’s easy to take pen to paper (or finger to keyboard, as it were) and add your voice to the millions across the land calling for better gun control. Or mourning the loss of all those lives, but especially the little kids, the…LITTLE kids, the ones who were 6 & 7 years old, whose parents bid them goodbye that morning with no morbid thought that “today could be the last day I see my child.”

It’s like 9/11…whatever there is to say, has already been said. And so when I speak, it’s not to convince anyone of how sympathetic I am. It’s not to prove how deft I am with words, look at what I wrote, it’s so poignant and beautiful and is the best tribute EVER.

Sometimes…is it me? Sometimes, I get that feeling when I these tributes. It’s as though everyone’s fighting to be THE voice of the Newtown massacre – or whatever tragedy we’re facing as a nation in any given week.

Maybe I’m too jaded. Maybe it’s just that…people are so stunned that they have to give voice to SOMETHING. They have to say SOMETHING, even if it’s all been said already…

But the tributes pour in and the bloggers blog and the journalist journal and the anchormen anchor and somehow – to ME – it starts to become more about the tributes than the actual KIDS WHO DIED. And TEACHERS. And, let’s not forget, Nancy Lanza, a woman who, for a reason that we now will never understand, had semi-automatic weapons in a house and available to a son who, it would appear, was noticeably…disturbed? Too quiet?

Who knows?

I started to write about the madness of having semi-automatic weapons available to civilians who brandish the “right to bear arms” as some sort of mantra.

I started to.

And then…

Then I just said fuck it.

Not because I don’t care. I really really care. And I do think it’s appropriate that the people who can legislate on this issue start dealing with it RIGHT NOW, as they are doing, and not wait for the next BIG THING to happen. We’ve had enough BIG THINGS. We’re starting to get too accustomed to BIG THINGS.

But…I’m just sort of numb. Because these were little kids, most of the people who died, and I HAVE little kids, and as much as I say I wish they would never grow up I sure as shit don’t mean that I want something like this to happen. I can tell you RIGHT NOW, if anything like this ever happened to me, I would have to be put on suicide watch. I cannot even fathom that kind of pain. I start to, and my heart catches and my breath speeds up and then I have to remind myself that they’re HERE, they’re RIGHT HERE, huggable and squeezable and kissable and ALIVE.

Those parents can’t do that and I feel so awful for them and that’s why I am numb and don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to say. I know what I begin to feel at merely IMAGINING myself in their shoes and I know what they feel as they live it is way beyond anything I ever want to comprehend.

In the day or two immediately following the massacre, the media kept saying “there are no words.” And then they proceeded to use every fucking word in the dictionary to TALK and TALK and TALK about what there were NO FUCKING WORDS to discuss.

My silence? The silence of the past several days? That is my “words.” Writers and artists and musicians, we craft tributes with music and art and literature and use those to create stunning, sometimes breathtaking tributes to events that have moved us beyond belief. But writers especially, need to know when to shut up. Sometimes, there really ARE no words. Maybe there is art that can embody this pain. Maybe there will be music that will bring us to tears. But words…we use words every day to say funny things, and crazy things, and terrible things, and meaningless things, and it’s because of their very ubiquity that right now…

I have no words. Except, to those kids and their teachers and the principal and yes, to Nancy Lanza, the killer’s mother who was herself killed,

The Lord bless you and keep you;
The Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you;
The Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.

Yup. ALL OF IT.

I stopped the Lexapro, which I believe I actually wrote about during the process.

And then I was just on the Wellbutrin and I felt like I was taking sugar pills, so I stopped THOSE cold turkey, and I guess I could have been taking sugar pills for all the withdrawal symptoms I suffered.

NOTHING.

BUT…I do feel more, now that I’m not slightly anesthetized.

And you may recall that there was a point where I was begging to feel less, I didn’t WANT to feel, I HATED feeling, because I wasn’t feeling GOOD things.

But…I’ve sort of accepted it now. Come to terms with it, as it were.

I don’t feel shitty ALL the time, if I did, believe me, I’d be ingesting pills like water. But when I do feel…down…it seems to be more searing. My birthday, well, I don’t think there’s a pill in the world that could have gotten me through THAT shit, but I just powered through it, went to bed early so it could just be OVER already, and started to feel better the next day.

And that…that’s been my mantra, that it WILL get better, that whatever I’m feeling is temporary, that I can ride it out for a bit if I have to but I don’t have to let it consume me.

The past couple of days have been tough, though. I just feel this sense of…God, how would I say it? Something Wicked This Way Comes, yes, that’s…that’s sort of how I feel in a nutshell. A feeling of dread, a bit of internal and emotional panic.

This is where the pills kicked in, but towards the end there, they didn’t work so much, and I wasn’t so keen on drugging myself up with NO results.

I don’t know how to express this properly  - and it feels like sheer blasphemy for me, a writer, to say that – but, it’s odd. The emotional panic? I feel like it’s coming. And I KNOW it’s coming. And yet…

I’m not afraid.

It’s like a train hurtling towards me and I’m a deer in the headlights and I need to run but I can’t, I’m stuck, and that fucking train is going to hit my ass to the MOON.

But I don’t feel afraid.

It’s not that I WANT the pain. I wish there was something I could do to make it go away, honestly. I really do. But, it’s more that even knowing it’s coming…I’m not running from it. I know that when the train runs me over, I will get up again, somehow, scarred, bruised, but still…ALIVE. And now that the fucking pills are gone, my fiction writing has resurged. Things seem more clear…and unfortunately, the pain is a part of that. But…not all of it.

I know this sounds like a depressing post, but…I don’t want any of you who have so thoughtfully expressed concern to be afraid. Because I am not afraid. I am not crying for help. I am FEELING more but I am not afraid of what I am feeling anymore. It’s like…

You know what it’s like (somewhat)? The Matrix. The Matrix where Neo, who has been running and doubting himself and his abilities, finally turns to face Agent Smith. And he gets his ASS kicked in the process but then at the same time…he really comes into himself and finally BLOWS that fucker away.

That’s how I feel, as though I’m at the getting-my-ass-kicked stage, and if I just remember WHO AND WHAT I AM, I will be fine, and I know that, and I can see that, but right now, the blows hurt like hell. But deep down inside, I’m just holding on.

Sigh.

It’s been a rough year, way way rough. So much emotional upheaval and turmoil and…inner reflection.

But I’m okay. And I’m not trying to convince myself…or you, even. I’m just saying, I’m in pain, and I am learning to live with it, not that I am not trying to fix it, but I know that there will always be…something there.

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson

Kim Kardashian’s kitten…

HAS DIED.

WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO, PEOPLE? WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO??? How will we EVER RECOVER from the absolute devastation? I’m SO GLAD YOU TOLD ME, MEDIA. I mean, I know there’s shit happening in Egypt and there’s an internal war going on in Congress about whether or not we’ll all get fucked by higher taxes next year. I know this. I know that kids are missing across America. I know that kids are going HUNGRY across America. I know that, although no one is talking about it anymore, people in Haiti are still FUCKED. I know that a lot of people here in the States were screwed by RunMotherFuckerRunRainPocalypse Sandy and are still trying to get their lives back in order. And I guess it’s because YOU know that I already KNOW all that shit, that you decided to bypass all that nonsense and get straight to the IMPORTANT stuff: the death of Kim Kardashian’s fucking CAT. Which apparently wasn’t even really HER cat anymore because she discovered she’s ALLERGIC to cats, so she gave it to her assistant, but…SHE STILL LOVED THE CAT, and she is WAY more famous than some assistant probably making minimum wage, and if we talked about her assistant’s cat dying, then there really wouldn’t be a story, and we need there to be a story, because it’s Kim Kardashian, and dumb asses like me will click on the story, although some dumb asses will be clicking on it from GENUINE INTEREST, whereas I click on it because I am completely FUCKING ASTOUNDED that this is even news and I can’t tear my eyes away because it’s like a car crash except there are no cars and what is crashing is the FUCKING INTELLIGENCE OF OUR SOCIETY.

I should point out here, that I love cats. I love dogs. Really, I love animals. You know where you stand with a fucking animal. If it likes you, you know. If it doesn’t, or it’s scared, maybe it pees on you or sprays you or shoots quills at you or something. Or in the case of a larger animal like a bear or a tiger, you get mauled to death. But even as your entrails are being pulled out of you like Silly String, you KNOW: this animal DOES NOT LIKE ME. (Or, this animal is very hungry.)  I like animals. My great-grandfather always used to say that the more he dealt with the human race, the more he liked dogs. I SO get that.

But this is NEWS? I mean, what next? Kim Kardashian Wipes Her Ass After Pooping? Really? And then it’ll be a whole article about how she needed to use extra toilet tissue because her ass is so ginormous and lovely?*

Oh yeah, speaking of news and current events, Happy Hanukkah to all my Hanukkan friends. I know you guys are busy celebrating but put down the latkes for ONE MINUTE and PLEASE OBSERVE A MOMENT OF SILENCE FOR KIM KARDASHIAN’S CAT, okay? Stop being so goddamn selfish. I mean, Jesus.

Oh wait…you guys aren’t really so into him, huh? Being Hanukkan and all. Well, whatever. Just…stop the celebrating, which is EXTREMELY INAPPROPRIATE when someone is GRIEVING, and send Kim Kardashian some love. I mean, the cat was named MERCY, for God’s sake. If that doesn’t prove how humanitarian and wonderful Kim is, well, I don’t know what does. I bet YOUR cat isn’t named Mercy, you bastards. Right. So THERE.

* - I have to say, most of the men who are into Kim’s ass really aren’t as discerning as they should be. It’s a nice butt as long as it’s encased in something. But throw her into a bikini and whoa, there goes the cellulite and the flabbiness. It’s not that tight, guys. And I’m not hating on her, not at all. Good for her AND her ass that they are both so popular. I hope her ass is insured by Lloyds; that and her vagina, given that her rise to fame came on the release of a sex tape. I mean, she doesn’t sing, dance, act, write a fucking book or, from what I can tell, read one. All she does is sleep with Black men. And that’s awesome but…FAMOUS for it? Really? I’d be a lot more likely to engage in a menage a trois impressed with her butt if she was tight back there. God knows she can certainly afford a personal trainer. I mean, if you just want a woman with a big butt and you don’t really care if it goes all to hell once the jeans come off, shit! Go to the mall! There are LOADS of them out there. Big butts, big boobs and a truckload of makeup. JUST LIKE KIM. 

I’m just saying.

When we became a couple, we did everything together: food shopping, we both went. Any kind of errand, we were both there.

You would think that would have changed with the arrival of Punksin and Pudding, but as much as we’ve been able to, our default has always been to do everything together as a family. Punksin has swim practice? We all go. If we are all available, we all…go. That’s just…how we do things.

Of course, this approach has drawbacks. Many things don’t get done as quickly as they should, because when one of us could be doing one thing and the other something else, we’re both doing…one thing. Another drawback is that the kids don’t get to spend as much one-on-one time with a parent as perhaps would be nice. Not only that, but it would be good for THEM to be apart sometimes.

And so yesterday, when the Tech Guru came home from work and his doctor’s appointment, he had to run back out to the pharmacy to fill a prescription. And Pudding asked if he could go, and we said yes, and off they went.

Punksin immediately came to me with a request.

I gave my consent, and on my computer she went.

About an hour later, Pudding came in, clutching a small bag in his little hands. He came to me in the bathroom where I was getting ready to go out, and whispered to me.

I smiled at him and took the bag.

I know they get on each other’s nerves. I know this. Punksin is the bossy big sister and she often thinks she is filling in for me even when I am RIGHT THERE. Pudding is the rebellious baby brother, striving to be independent and not be told what to do, reminding his sister all the time that “you are not the boss of me!”

They constantly argue. They constantly fight. They constantly bicker. They constantly drive each other insane.

Yesterday, for a few precious moments, they were apart. They had space to breathe, space to be themselves without the shadow of the other, space to be with one parent, uninterrupted, unrivaled.

And what do they both decide to do?

Christmas shop.

For each other.

Punksin went online to look for a toy that her baby brother wants, that she wants to get for him – with her own hard-earned money.

Pudding came in with a bag holding a book of crossword puzzles that he wanted to give his big sister for Christmas. It’s one of those books you see close to registers, a small paperback book filled with celebrities, most of whom I am sure Punksin will not know.

And yet…he thought of her. And wanted to use this rare time apart to get her something.

As she did him.

This is not quite O. Henry’s The Gift of the Magi, for sure, and yet, it still warms me through and through.

May they always love each other this way.

“Mommy, how come a lot of these houses don’t have up Christmas lights?” she asked.

“Because everyone’s too fucking broke from RunMotherFuckerRunRainPocalypse Sandy,” is what I SHOULD have said, but better sense prevailed.

Yup. This is for KWANZAA, yo.

“Well, not everyone wants to put up lights,” I said, merely meaning that some people choose to decorate and others don’t.

“Oh yeah,” she replied. “Maybe they’re Hannukan.”

There you go, Jewish people. If you ever feel unsafe and you want to sidestep the whole Jewish thing because you don’t want to get picked last in dodgeball or, shall we say, KILLED, but you still don’t want to feel like you TOTALLY wussed out because it sort of sucks to be all Jewish and proud and then when the shit hits the fan you’re all like, who me, Jewish, no way, that menorah-looking thing is really a Kwanzaa candle-holder, well now, you can just tell people you’re HANUKKAN. It’s like a code word or something. OTHER Jewish people will know what you’re talking about but hopefully the non-Hannukan psycho bastards that want to hurt you won’t.

I’m so glad I could help.

I would ask one of you fabulous folks to call me so I could locate it, but the ringer is off, which it always is, because although I have a phone, I don’t really like TALKING to people.

I JUST had it a minute ago, I swear, and now it’s AWOL.

So then the Tech Guru, who was on the potty when I first began looking for it, decided to HELP.

This is the conversation while he is HELPING:

“I just hope it’s not in the washer.”

I eyed him darkly, assuming he meant the dishwasher, which I had loaded about 30 minutes previously. “In the washer? How the hell would it be in the dishwasher?”

“I’m just saying…”

“How would it be in the DISHWASHER? I washed an iPod, okay, that was because it was IN A COAT. How would my PHONE, get in the DISHWASHER? Was it in a CUP? Jesus, I’m not STUPID.”

“Not the dishwasher, the WASHER.”

“Well, seeing as how I haven’t done a load of clothes since 7 PM, and it is now 12:30 IN THE MORNING, and I just had the phone a FEW MINUTES AGO, I’m not sure how it would be IN THE WASHER.”

“Okay, well -”

“Just go to bed. Please. GO. TO. BED.”

He went to bed.

You wash ONE FUCKING IPOD and all of a sudden, you just can’t be trusted not to throw the fucking TV into the washing machine. Gee, my computer looks dirty. Maybe I’ll send it through a rinse cycle. Oh wow, the iPad has fingerprints all over it, let’s soak that fucker in hot water.

So now I can’t find my phone, and I’m pissed that I can’t find my phone, and I’m pissed that the Tech Guru even remotely hinted that I had fucked up yet again. Like, okay, I am absent-minded and prone to do…UNUSUAL things. But washing an iPod ONCE in the whole HISTORY OF IPODS does not mean I should now be suspected of this whenever a piece of technology goes missing.

I’m going to look for my phone. I need it to get to sleep. I listen to audio books and although I never make it through the full 15 minutes before the sleep timer kicks in, if I DON’T use it, I’m lying there tossing and turning. Besides I need to make an early exit and the last thing I need to be doing is spending an hour in the morning looking for a goddamn PHONE.

UGH.

Let me go check the WASHING MACHINE.

NOT.

UPDATE: After a furious half-hour of stalking around the house being disgruntled, I said fuck it and went to bed. Which is when I found my PHONE, tucked under my PILLOW, where I must have stashed it in preparation for going to bed and then promptly FORGOTTEN. I am really getting worried about how forgetful I am, but aside from that, it should be noted here that my pillow was NOT IN THE WASHING MACHINE AT THE TIME. THANK YOU.

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I don’t know if this happens to other people, but I get where I’m so tired that I can’t eat.

This little quirk of mine is an awesome weight-maintenance tool. That, and the complete lack of desire for food when I’m stressed, which, given how often I get stressed, also helps me to stay at college-level weight, give or take 5 pounds.

Today, I ate breakfast at about 2:00 p.m. And I haven’t eaten since.

Exhaustion, not stress.

So, anyhow, let me get to the fucking point here before I keel over onto the keyboard.

Dead in the water: that would be the two fish the kids got earlier in the week when we went to a Family Talk at the Meadowlands Environmental Center about building a home aquarium. WORST TALK EVER. I mean, it was interesting, but this guy clearly forgot that he was talking to kids. He was an older retired man who got waaaay into his slideshow about his garage-turned-aquarium, and he was just talking about 1000 miles over these kids’ heads. Obviously he didn’t hear the classic sounds of boredom: the shuffling feet, the fidgeting in the chairs, the increasing whispering. I mean, one kid actually raised his hand and asked “When are we going to get to build the aquarium?” and then his mom was shuttling  him out of the room all apologetically and meanwhile, I’m thinking, kid, I have the SAME FUCKING QUESTION.

And they never DID get to build a fucking aquarium. I mean, come on, people, you ask kids to show up and just sit there and listen to this dry shit? Really?

It was a shitty night weather-wise, which meant only a few families showed up, so the 12 fish that they had to raffle off ended up being given out to the 12 kids that showed up. That was the only redeeming factor about the whole night, although I had serious reservations about it, due to prior experience. I warned the kids that…this might not go too well.

And ours are already dead.

NOT EVEN A FUCKING WEEK.

People always talk about these bettas as though they are the easiest fish in the world to take care of. This is our second set of bettas, and this will be our LAST set of bettas. Pudding’s died yesterday, and Punksin’s died today.

The good news is that both of the kids took this in stride. Last time, it was major tears and Punksin was pretty much on the couch in quiet grief all day.

Today, she shrugged and went to flush Puffer, as she’d dubbed him, down the toilet. I heard her saying “Good bye” and next thing she was laughing and telling me she’d called him “Flusher” by accident.

No more fucking bettas. I would love to get an aquarium but it’s going to have to be one of those deals where the people come in and clean the tank and basically help the fish to stay alive despite my complete incompetence.

So that was that.

Who was NOT dead in the water?

PUNKSIN, THAT’S WHO.

Go Punksin! Go Punksin! It’s your birthday! It’s your birthday!

She had her 3rd meet today.

Can you say…FUCKING AWESOME, boys and girls?

From a times standpoint, she shaved 6 seconds off of 2 events and 2 seconds off the 3rd. From a place standpoint, she came in 3rd in 2 heats and 2nd in another one.

I was so so happy for her.

OH! And NO DISQUALIFICATIONS!!!

So today? Today was a good day.

As I said, I just wanted her to do better to feel better about herself and her performance.

Still no medals though and that was a downer for her, because what happens is, they run all the heats, compile all the times, and that IS your final. So although she did well in her heats, she still wasn’t in the top 6 for the overall event. BUT…she wasn’t last in any of them either. And as we looked at the sheets with the final results, we saw all the DQs and she saw for herself that it happens all over, all the time.

We even stayed for the second session to watch some of the bigger kids and it was pretty exciting. We were sitting less than 2 feet away from the pool so when some of those 15, 16, 17-year old boys came powering down lane 6, the lane closest to us, doing the butterfly, well, we got plenty splashed. I made myself hoarse screaming for our team. And it was great for Punksin to see how fast the older girls stroke. Also we saw some of them getting DQed too and she saw…it happens to everyone, not just little 8-year old girls who are new to competing.

But she HERSELF moved faster today. Today, Punksin looked as though she was COMPETING. Especially in her breaststroke, which is the one I saw most clearly, since I worked the event. She was powering through, up, down, up, down, but she looked like someone who knew there were girls to the right, girls to the left, and a wall to get to with the quickness. She was ON.

It was awesome.

I am exhausted, but I am…happy. My daughter had a good day. Tomorrow I have annoying things to deal with that I already know I will need to dig deep into my Zen place to deal with, but today…today was a good day.

And for that I am truly grateful.

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Apparently, there are DESIGNER VAGINAS.

NO ONE TOLD ME.

Did YOU know there are designer vaginas?

I found out that there are designer vaginas when I came across this article which is about how poorly designer vaginas are explained on most websites….websites ABOUT designer vaginas, that is. Which was news to me, both that there ARE designer vaginas, AND that they have websites.

My vagina does not have a website, I have to say, but that could be because it’s not a DESIGNER vagina. I’m not saying it’s COSTCO brand or anything, but it’s not like my vagina was designed by Alexander McQueen or something.

What the fuck is a designer vagina?

Because I was feeling very left out and wondering if my vagina should be sent to the Salvation Army while I shop for a new one, I figured I would do some research. The same article above sent me to DrMatlock.com, which, just the name had me worried because I had visions of surgery being done by Andy Griffith. And he died back in July, so as much as I loved him on the Andy Griffith show, I really don’t want him performing surgery on my vagina. Or anywhere else.

Dr. Matlock offers me the promise of a WONDER WOMAN/MOMMY MAKEOVER, which according to the site:

usually involve choosing an appropriate combination of breast, body and vaginal rejuvenation procedures, including: breast augmentation, tummy tuck, breast lift, breast reduction, mini tummy tuck, Brazilian Butt Augmentation and liposuction.

You see that? Buried in there, VAGINAL REJUVENATION.

Apparently, they have discovered THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH FOR VAGINAS. AWESOME.

And here I always thought of my vagina like a Timex watch: takes a licking and keeps on ticking. But eventually, when it runs out, I can get a DESIGNER VAGINA!

I sort of get it. After I had Punksin, and the 3rd degree episiotomy that almost left me cut in half, my GYN had to do some minor surgery of her own to literally sew me up. And admittedly, when I looked down there after just a few days, I cried. It didn’t look…the same. And even now, I can tell the difference between pre-Punksin vagina and post-Punksin vagina. (NO, I will NOT BE POSTING BEFORE AND AFTER PHOTOS.) It’s not something I ever thought of FIXING, but…maybe I should? Maybe I should ask The Tech Guru if he’s okay with the Target Vagina or if I should upgrade to Vagina by Oscar de la Renta. What if I’m all “my vagina is just fine as it is” and HE’S all “goddammit, I make enough fucking money, could she just get a brand new designer vagina already and stop dragging that old thing around“?

Yikes.

I have to tell you, though…the website? THEY have before and after shots. And I have to say…the after shots? Well…you can sort of see why someone would want a vagina to look like that. But before I go getting me a designer vagina, I want to know: who’s the designer? Does it have a label on it or something? Was it made in Milan? Can I see it on a runway? Do I get a money-back guarantee or a powertrain warranty up to 100,000 miles or something?

And most importantly, do they sell knock-offs?

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Yeah. That one.

You may recall that my sinuses are evil and trying to kill me, since I wrote about it in a post called, oddly enough, My Sinuses Are Evil and They’re Trying To Kill Me.

So Punksin saw the commercial and ran to me excitedly.

“Mommy! Mommy! There’s this thing? And it’s called something like Ghostbusters? And it’s supposed to be really good for sinus problems and you ALWAYS have sinus problems so you should GET it.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, something was niggling. A..distant memory somewhere…about…something.

I opened the closet where I keep all my illegal mind-altering drugs medicine and lo and behold, what did I see? SINUS FUCKING BUSTER. Apparently, I had purchased the damn thing way back and just…never used it. I’m thinking my reason for NOT using it had something to do with the warning on the label:

Upon initial use, you will experience a powerful sensation which last for a few seconds. This sensation is inherent to the process that allows the capsaicin to work. Temporary discomfort such as burning, stinging, sneezing, or an increase in nasal discharge may result.

Yes. This certainly gave me pause. For those of you who are blissfully ignorant, capsaicin is what makes peppers hot. So basically, this was going to be like stuffing jalapenos up my nose.

But, my daughter was urging me to try it, since she knows how much excruciating pain my sinuses give me, so….

I took a deep breath and gave it a shot.

Perhaps, sometime over the last week or so, you have been sitting quietly at your desk doing work. Or maybe you were playing with your own kids. Perhaps, you were at a music concert, or a jazz club. Maybe you were driving on your way somewhere, listening to NPR on the radio. Maybe you were fast asleep, dreaming peaceful dreams or wonderful dreams of winning Powerball. Maybe you were at church listening to a sermon. Or at school listening to a lecture. Maybe you were at Starbucks writing, or in conversation with a good friend over a venti double mocha soy latte with sprinkles on top. Maybe you were in your kitchen cooking, or deeply engaged with a good book. Maybe you were cleaning your house, or washing the dog, or at the movies with your significant other.

And somewhere, deep in one of those moments, you…stopped. You cocked your head to one side, a bit…puzzled. Puzzled as to why, in the midst of whatever it was you were doing, you heard…something. An…ODD sound. Something that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. What was that, you wondered to yourself. And just when you were about to shrug your shoulders and accept that you’d been hearing things, there it was, again,  that…noise, that sounded vaguely like…

a bellowing BULL?

That was ME, people. THAT. WAS. ME.

I can’t say I wasn’t warned. They did mention a “powerful sensation,” but hell, an orgasm is a powerful sensation and I don’t complain about THOSE. THIS? THIS RIGHT HERE? This was like someone had taken two hot pokers straight from the fire, and SHOVED THEM UP MY FUCKING NOSE.

I’m not really sure how it helped. Or IF it helped. Yes, the weird pain in my sinuses subsided, but it was replaced by the aforementioned POWERFUL SENSATION, which was akin to being SCALPED ALIVE. I swear, it felt as though my nose was on fire, and my scalp was being peeled back. I was literally ON MY TIPPY TOES, HOLDING ONTO THE SINK (I am not sure how that was supposed to help), and BELLOWING FOR BLOODY MURDER. So what you heard, people, was ME.

The pain did temporarily go away. Then I had another sinus attack about 2 days ago, and I tried it again, and went through the SAME shit, except this time when my scalp finally felt like it had been sewn back onto my head, my sinuses still hurt. In ONE FUCKING SESSION, they have ADAPTED, people. My sinuses are like mutating viruses or something. They are not the LEAST bit fazed by this SinusBuster nonsense.

The bastards.

So, I’m not endorsing it, but I’m not against it either. Maybe it will work for some people. Maybe there are some people who like the thrill of feeling like their freaking brains are on fire, and if you’re one of those, I’m here to tell you, you don’t need to eat spicy food, just get SinusBusters and send that shit on the express track STRAIGHT TO YOUR BRAIN, and you’ll be thrilled.

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• Your Questions About: Diarrhea After Quitting Weed (smokebloke.com) (no, this is not even REMOTELY related, except maybe in the fact that we’re both discussing physical ailments. that’s about it. But how could I fail to promote a post entitled “Your Questions About Diarrhea After Quitting Weed”? I mean, really? This is mind-blowing to me. Does that really happen? I’ve never smoked weed myself (I know, hard to believe, but true), so I’m not very up on either the effects OR the withdrawal symptoms. Diarrhea? Wow. That sucks. Sounds like you need to keep smoking, dude. Seriously.

But every now and then while I’m farting around on the interwebs I see an article and I click on it out of curiosity and more often than not I find myself shaking my head and wondering how I’m going to get that 5 minutes of my life back.

Today’s regret was brought to me by Chris Brown and Jenny Johnson. I am familiar with Chris Brown, not because I’m a fan of him or his music, but because he beat the shit out of Rihanna waaay back when.

Jenny Johnson, I don’t know her, and it’s apparently not because she’s not famous but because I’m out of the loop.

Anyhow, to make a long story short, Chris Brown tweeted that he looks “old as fuck” and he’s only 23. To which Jenny Johnson replied that “being a worthless piece of shit can really age a person.”

CB had to reply, of course, because when someone pushes your buttons, whatcha gonna do? So HE told HER to “take them teeth out when u sucking my dick, hoe”, to which SHE replied that it’s HO, not HOE, which I totally get because it absolutely kills me when someone is insulting me and can’t even spell shit properly, it’s like, wow, you think you’re that awesome but you can’t even fucking SPELL? So I totally get her response, it’s absolutely something that I would do with complete scorn. And then HE wrote back a lot of shit about shitting in her retina and farting on her or in her face and she said some stuff about his mom being so proud of him and he said some more stuff and then next thing you know his Twitter account was gone.

And now everyone is pissed at Chris Brown. Which I sort of don’t get, even though I am no Chris Brown fan.

First of all, based on what I am reading, SHE started it. He tweeted something that had nothing to do with her, and she chose to reach out to HIM and remind him that he’s a piece of shit.

Even if you agree that he’s a piece of shit, what was the point of taking the jab? I mean, really, did she think that after saying THAT to him he was going to fess up and say you know what, yes, I AM a shitty person and that MUST be why I look so old and thank you SO MUCH for reminding me?

She started it, plain and simple.

And he replied, and yes he got down and dirty and took it some places it REALLY didn’t need to go but…he’s 23. And although there are many 23-year olds imbued with maturity, I’m gonna take a wild guess at saying that, based on his history, he’s not one of them. So to think that he was going to handle this with emotional dexterity is really taking a huge leap of faith. One could even say she KNEW he was going to respond like a raging bull. So whose fault is that? Emotionally mature or not, how is someone supposed to feel when someone else tells you, and maybe a gazillion OTHER people that follow you AND them, that you’re a shitty person? We can all say he should not respond, or maybe he could have said something classy like “thanks, and have a nice day to you too” and left the whole exchange with the upper hand, but…did we really expect that? You know, this idea about turning the other cheek sounds real nice in theory but when someone lashes out at you completely out of the blue, well…it’s not that weird to feel like you need to say something hurtful back. Especially when you’re a walking mass of rage already.

And now everyone’s blaming Chris Brown for being a classless individual and saying the things he said, and yes, I agree that most of what he said was disrespectful and disgusting. But you know what? Calling him a shitty person out of the blue – I mean, am I missing something here? He has a whole HISTORY of questionable behavior, to be sure, but I’m just not sure how calling him a shitty person in response to the one thing he said that was harmless, that just seems…I don’t know. It’s like poking a rabid dog who happens to be having a calm moment, with a hot iron. It’s just…not going to end well, you know?

And now he’s deleted his Twitter account, which is probably the best thing for him and all the other people who were probably gonna get shat on as they continued to call him out, and his publicist must be earning his/her keep and then some right about now. And for the record, if I WAS Chris Brown’s mother, I would smack the shit out of him, even if he IS 23. That poor woman must expend a lot of energy cringing.

I’m not defending Chris Brown, but I’m just not taking the irate moral stance on Jenny Johnson’s side either. That being in the public eye thing works on both sides. If Chris Brown is going to do stupid shit, I guess he’s going to provide lots of material for writers and comedians like Jenny Johnson. But she’s also in the public eye, and to think she’s going to say things like that and not get a response from someone who has already shown how he rolls, well, I’m just not sure what she or anyone else expected to happen that was any different from what DID happen. It’s not like she called out Prince William and HE said that stuff.  If THAT happened, sure, let’s all be shocked and horrified at the UNEXPECTED. But Chris Brown? Really? What, we all thought he was going to go meditate and then reply from his place of Zen? Really?

And believe me, I’m not saying he can’t change. I refuse to say that people can’t change or will NEVER change because…well, I don’t like to write anyone off as hopeless. Some people have shown an astounding capacity to rise after hitting severe lows. Look at Robert Downey Jr. I can’t fail to be proud of him and happy FOR him at the way he’s bounced back after hitting what everyone was SURE was a dead end. So I refuse to say people cannot change, because I think we’re just putting spiritual blocks in front of their ability to do JUST that when we say that. Now, that doesn’t mean I need to endure all the bullshit they go through to GET to change, I’m not advocating THAT either. Sure, CB can change, but I’m not going to get trampled on waiting for it to happen. But even as I get out of the way on his stormy path, I can wish him well and keep some small hope that he’ll see his way to making a better life.

Having said that, the sad truth is that most people…don’t change. I read somewhere very recently that people don’t really want to change, what they really want is to become comfortable with their faults and fears. As I’ve bemoaned a million times, they want to keep doing the same stuff and get different results. And that’s just not the way life works, you know?

Oh, poor Chris Brown. I actually feel sorry for him, not because of this most recent exchange, but because he’s young and has the world in his hands and yet…he’s just continually fucking up. There’s a lot of rage and anger in that kid, a lot of hostility, and I don’t know why it’s there but if he doesn’t find ways of letting it go, there will always be some level of tumult in his life, and he’ll not only continue to get unsolicited (but not necessarily unwarranted) comments about himself, but he’ll continue to respond the way he did, and the cycle of madness will continue, much to the delight of the media.

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• Chris Brown’s DISGUSTING Attack On Female Comedy Writer (NSFW) (huffingtonpost.com)

Yesterday was Punksin’s first OUTSIDE meet.

I’m trying to think of ways in which it could have been worse.

I’ll start with the good news, though, because there is some. The good news is, she’s over it. The good news is, her breaststroke is KILLER. The good news is, she learned to put shit in perspective. The good news is, yesterday was a GREAT opportunity for her to see how “you are only racing against yourself” comes into play.

So, yesterday, we get to the meet. Which reminds me, the OTHER good news is that, unlike most meets, we did not have to be there until 12:30. For someone who usually grunts and speaks into mono-syllables until at LEAST 11:00 a.m., this was fabulous news. Punksin and her dad are morning people. Pudding and I…are NOT.

So that was good.

Punksin had 3 events she was entered in: 100-yd freestyle, 50-yd backstroke, 50-yd breaststroke.

Needless to say, I was a nervous wreck. I know my child is resilient and yet I cannot HELP but feel for her at these things. It’s not that I want her to win, win, win. I just want her to perform well enough to feel good about herself.

So the first event comes, the freestyle. And I notice that her friends on the team are in heats 4 & 5, and Punksin is in heat…12? Hmmm…I thought it was odd but didn’t realize what it meant.

Until it came time for her to swim.

Her coach went and talked to her and then came hurrying up to me. “Is she okay? Ready to go?” I asked with a smile, thinking she’d just offered her some words of encouragement.

“Yes, she’s ready, but…I just had to let her know there was a mistake,” she replied.

What the fuck does she mean, a MISTAKE? That was what my BRAIN said, but my mouth did some editing, thank God. “A…mistake?”

“Yes. I put her time down for this event as 2:06. For some reason whoever put in the info put her down for 1:06. So…she’s going to be swimming against girls a lot faster than she is. She’s okay, though, she knows what happened,” she said quickly, trying to erase the look of horror on my face.

I mean, do you realize what happened? They basically shaved a WHOLE FUCKING MINUTE off her time, putting her in the pool with girls that actually SWAM at that pace. And they were HUGE, or so they looked to me. Only later when I looked at the heat did I realize that they were all 11 years old, and my little 8-year old, who normally seems so tall to me, suddenly looked dwarfed and vulnerable.

The buzzer went off and…in she dove.

Punksin’s freestyle is slow enough as it is, because she is uber-focused on technique, which her coach and I have agreed we actually need to get her out of. I mean, she still has much to learn, and it’s great that she wants to get it down perfectly. But she often sacrifices speed because she over-concentrates on technique. She’s so busy THINKING about what she is doing that she slows herself down from DOING it. She has to learn to trust her body to do what she has trained it to do.

Now, in the pool with 11-year olds who all of a sudden looked like grown women next to my little girl, her pace seemed almost glacial. I watched her, my heartache for her overcome by pride as I watched her head down the lane. There was no way she could catch these girls and yet…out she went.

The other girls hit the wall and were back down the lane before Punksin even reached the end of the pool.

Down and back they had to go, twice, for the 100-yard event. The other girls made their final turn while Punksin was still in her first lap. Then in what felt like the blink of an eye, they were at the finish, waiting, unable to exit the pool until the final swimmer came in. And there she was, my girl, still in her last lap, not even having done her flip turn yet, while the rest of the field was finished.

But on she went, steadily, determined, and finally she reached the far wall, flipped, and then…there were a few claps, a few shouts of encouragement, and…it wasn’t me. It wasn’t her dad. It was other parents, other coaches, other people who maybe understood what had happened, some who maybe didn’t, but for whatever reason were encouraging my daughter to make her way to the finish line no matter how long it took. The clock for her lane was still running, long after the others had stopped, now she was swimming alone, and yet…she was not alone. We were all in there with her, urging her on, pushing her as much as we could without physically getting in the pool.

That brought tears to my eyes. And I was grateful, all the more so when she told me in the car, today, that she heard those cheers and claps and shouts and it made her feel good to know that people were rooting for her. I didn’t think she realized, being focused and being underwater at times, but…she knew. She heard, and she knew it was for her, and…it helped her, just as we all hoped it would.

I watched several other races yesterday, and in more than a few there was one kid lagging behind the others, clearly outpaced, not keeping up. And those were the kids we all cheered for the loudest, because at that point, as I explained to Punksin today, it’s not about athletic prowess, it’s not about skill, it’s about…heart. It’s about being out there, knowing you are behind, and still having the courage to finish and finish STRONG. It’s about not giving up. And you don’t want ANY kid to lose that. So hearing Punksin tell me today that she heard it and felt it and used it, that made me feel wonderful, not just for her, but for all the other kids out there that we cheered for and that I hope got SOMETHING out of knowing that they were winners in an entirely different and ultimately more life-serving way.

So there was that. And it sucked ass that she had to swim in the wrong heat, but it gave us the perfect chance to concentrate on HER time. There was no way she was going to beat those girls, but she could improve her own time. Which she did.

The second race, the backstroke, she seemed a little off. I think it was nerves. Her stroke wasn’t clean, and there were several times when she bumped up on the lane lines or the wall, which meant she was moving sideways instead of straight down the lane as she’s supposed to.  She wasn’t WAY outpaced, she kept up, but still, SOMEONE has to come in last, and in that race, unfortunately, Punksin did.

Then we get to the 3rd race. The 50-yard breaststroke.

Her breaststroke has improved drastically in the last 2 months. When she first began swimming with this team, she could do it, but there was no glide, so she was coming up basically every 6 inches or so, it seemed like. There was no movement and she was wearing herself out with all the up and down.

But something clicked recently, I love to see when that happens, when something just CLICKS into place, and she has been MOVING in the water. I mean MOVING.

So yesterday, she lines up for the heat. She was in lane 6, the lane closest to where I stood on the side, watching. I expected nothing; all I hoped for was that she would not be last. Because I know that as much as we are supposed to be focused on improving time, when you are 8 years old, you don’t want to be last all the time, no matter HOW many goddamn seconds you shave off of your time. My daughter is smart, and she gets the importance of bringing her time down. But still…she is 8 years old. She is focused and determined. But…she’s also 8 years old.

The buzzer went off, and in she dove.

Down the lane, up, down, up, down, I saw her head bobbing, bobbing, bobbing.

She hit the wall first. Turned. Headed back down the lane.

I saw her coming towards me. This stroke, and the butterfly, always look so predatory to me for some reason, especially when the swimmers are coming towards you. Perhaps it’s the up and down motion, and the way you see their faces emerging out of the water, only to submerge again and rise up once more, closer and closer, sort of like…Jaws. It is beautiful.

And there she was, coming towards me.

And she was in front.

The other swimmers were close. Could she hold them off, I wondered, or had she gone out too quickly only to tire at the end?

She held, she held, she held…

And reached the wall first.

She looked at the other lanes. Realized no one else had arrived at the wall yet.

Realized what that meant.

Looked at me and broke out in a HUGE grin.

I was SO DAMN EXCITED AND HAPPY for her. She would not always be first, but this win would give her something to hold onto, would give her some hope. Would make her FEEL good.

She came out of the pool and immediately went to her coach to discuss her performance, win or lose, you’re supposed to go to the coach, see what you did right, what you did wrong, evaluate immediately so you can get better.  I waited for her, ready to hug her and congratulate her on an AWESOME swim.

Then she was coming to me and…she was CRYING?

“What happened?” I asked, wrapping her in my arms.

“I got disqualified,” she sobbed, burying her face in my chest.

“Why? What happened? What was wrong?”

“They said my feet were wrong,” she mumbled in between sobs.

In further discussion with her coach today, I learned that her feet were supposed to be turned outward at a 45-degree angle as she kicked. Instead, only ONE foot was turned out, with the other foot facing the same direction, resulting in more of a scissor kick.

The irony is, her kick probably slowed her DOWN. Had she kicked properly, she probably would have won by a larger margin.

The other irony was that had she been swimming in an inner lane, her kick could very well have gone unnoticed; many small infractions (and by small I mean visually, not unimportant) go unnoticed in the inner lanes. But those outer lanes, where the official walks alongside with a much clearer view? Those lanes can get DQ’ed quite quickly.

Of course, some small part of me wishes she HAD been in an inner lane, that she could just get the win under her belt already for her own confidence. But rules are rules; protocol is protocol. And I don’t want to depend on poor vision for her wins, nor do I want to take wins away from anyone else who deserves them.

But boy did that sting.

“I wanted to win so badly,” she said, her voice still muffled as she cried into my chest.

“I know, baby. It’s okay. You just made a small mistake. What’s good is knowing that you didn’t come in first BECAUSE of that mistake; it’s not as though you gave yourself an unfair advantage with your kick. You didn’t get disqualified because you won unfairly. You got disqualified because the breaststroke just…has to be done a certain way, is all. And the way you were doing it probably slowed you down a little. So we know that the capacity for the win is still there, in you, and we’re going to fix that kick and get it right,” I told her, rubbing her back through the towel draped over her.

“I know, but…but I wanted to give you my medal if I won. I wanted to give it you for your birthday.”

And to that, I could at first say nothing, because my own voice would have broken.

How wonderful our children are, aren’t they? I know she wanted to win for herself, and she SHOULD want to. But to know that she felt extra disappointment because she wanted to give me the medal just…I don’t know. I don’t know how to describe the bittersweetness, the poignancy, of the feelings that my children inspire. How I can feel proud and afraid and protective and encouraging all at the same time. How I want them to be strong and tough and at the same time I want to shield them from the very experiences that will make them so. How I want them to accomplish so much but hate the disappointments they will inevitably face on the way to success. How I want them to be sweet and loving and yet can still rue the days when those very qualities are abused or disrespected by other people.  How I love watching them grow and am so incredibly proud of each milestone they reach and pass, and yet wish I could stop the ever quickening pace on the road to adulthood. How I love that she wanted to give me that medal and at the same time wish that that very desire hadn’t made her loss more searing.

Oh, the things that run through my heart and my mind with my children. Oh, the things…

We learned today at practice that when you’re just starting out, and when you’re 8 years old, DQs are common. Because although you’re young and your technique is not yet refined and perfected, the judges don’t cut you any slack. The only way to reach that stage of perfection is to have it expected of you from day one, right? I can respect that, I even agree with it. I just wish we’d KNOWN ahead of time that DQ’s are given out so freely and accumulated almost like badges of honor. It would have made this first one a little less painful, I think, if we’d known that she was in fine company and had nothing to be ashamed of for being singled out, that it happens all the time, at every meet.

Sigh. So, this may not be her last DQ. But as the first one, coming at the cost of a 1st place win, coming when we didn’t yet know how common they are, and, for Punksin, coming on my birthday and costing her the gift she most wanted to give, it was a really painful first one.

But…I guess the other good news is…we’ve passed that hump now. We know now that DQs are common. We know how she got it, and in practice today she made the change she needed and voila, it was corrected. And…the next DQ will NOT be on my fucking birthday, making her feel worse and making me feel like my whole birthday was a total jinx to one of the two people I love the most in this whole world.

AND.

She has another meet next weekend.

I am trying to stay calm. I am not going to tell her its in the bag. The Tech Guru says something along these lines to ME at every meet and I swear it drives me batshit because I feel like HE’S jinxing it, like he’s not taking into account that no matter WHAT the fuck she does at practice, the actual race is a whole other story, because she’s not a seasoned athlete accustomed to the big time, but an 8-year old girl who doesn’t yet have nerves of steel or loads of experience competing, furthermore winning. It will all come. I have faith. But I also know that even the best athletes start…somewhere. And it’s very rarely in first place at the finish line from day one.

Next week, I’ll hope for the best. I’ll hope she is in heats with girls she actually has a fighting chance against. I’ll hope her backstroke becomes more even. And I’ll hope that all the aspects of her breaststroke come together to give her, if not her first win, at least, a non-last place performance that doesn’t get DQ’ed. Because she’s 8 years old, you know? 4th, 3rd, for now, I’ll take those, even, because even those, like our cheers of support, will lift her up a little.

Oh, my precious girl. I love seeing you grow and DO and ACHIEVE, and yet…and yet, I wish you were my chunky baby still, with heartache and disappointment still lightyears away.

My baby Punksin at 2 days old…

But, my wounds are internal, unseen, untended.

Sigh.

Today the dragon came and he did not find a white dragon waiting for him. I tried SO hard to be that white dragon, today of all days, but…I failed. At every turn, I encountered his reinforcements. And the worst of it all was that he did not bring in outsiders. Those, I could have fought, beaten, slain.

But when he uses your own people against you…the sheer surprise of it leaves you breathless.

They say that it is the people closest to you that have the power to wound you most deeply. The ones you love, the ones you trust…when that love and trust is broken, when the gashes in your side have been delivered by your own troops, those you thought to keep you safe, secure, those whose love and loyalty you depended on…well then its often hard to tell which is worse, the wound itself or the surprise of its bearer.

The only good I can say is…the battle is over. The dragon has flown away. Recall, he never kills me, he likes to toy with me, in much the same way a cat plays with a mouse. He left, not because I bade him go, not because I bested him, but because I simply had no fight left today. Not today. Perhaps another day, but today…today I have nothing left.

And so today, he has left, not because of pity or respect but because I forfeited pretty early on. This morning at 3 A.M. I had an anxiety attack and the day only worsened from there. I simply gave up because I knew that today, of all days, I would be vulnerable and unable to fight.

Not that that stopped the dragon immediately. He laughed with derision at my weakness and sent an onslaught of fire my way. Blow after blow rained down…things that were said, things that were done, things that were NOT said, things that were NOT done. The more it rained, the more bowed my head, the heavier the droop of my shoulders, the deeper the scorch wounds to my heart and soul, until finally I slumped on the rampart, tears streaming down my face, and it was then that he saw my defeat. I had no fight today.

I had no fight.

TODAY.

It is not over. Today was not a fair fight because he knew I would be weak today. He knew I would be frail and vulnerable and unable to summon the strength to fight with bloodlust in my eyes and a smirk on my lips. He knew this. And he took those on whom I depended to carry the day for me, and turned them against me, taking those who could have salvaged the battle to use as weapons in my own downfall. And because it was they wielding the swords, and not strangers, the wounds run very deep.

So be it, dragon. So be it.

Tomorrow is another day.

Well, I’ve been a little slow about it.

The photo shoot that needs to happen for the re-do…hasn’t happened.

The artwork that needs to happen…hasn’t happened.

Both things are kind of my fault, because I haven’t SCHEDULED the photo shoot OR pursued the artwork, and I need to get on that pronto, so…thanks for the reminder!

But part of what I was going to be doing in here was an advice column.

After you stop wheezing with laughter and laughing so hard that you wet yourself, let me know.

<drums fingers while rolling eyes>

You done yet?

Yes. I do give good advice. I can solve YOUR problems without batting an eye. It’s my OWN fucking problems that seem to be freaking impossible to navigate. Maybe what I’ll do is, call one of YOU guys, tell you my problems, and you can submit it here to the site all ANONYMOUS-LIKE, and then I’ll answer it, and then you’ll call me back and tell me what to do and voila! My life will be perfect! Mother doesn’t like you? Fuck her. Friend lies to you all the time? Why the fuck are you still bothering? Drop her ass like a bad habit and keep it moving – you probably don’t even know her real name. Husband won’t give you a baby? Fuck someone else! Husbands come and husbands go, but kids are yours forever!

Do you see how fabulous my advice is?

Really, I wasn’t going to begin the advice column until the whole makeover was complete, but I was moved to after I received this unsolicited question from what I can only hope was a 13-year old. Actually, I hope not, because 13-year olds should really not be reading my site. Maybe I should do like the liquor companies and make them swear they’re over 21 before they’re allowed in. Although…they can’t really think that works, can they? I mean, I know our education system is going to hell in a handbasket but most kids are savvy enough to know when they were SUPPOSED to be born to thwart age limits.

Anyhow, here was the question, I swear to you this was REAL. It wasn’t a question, it was a search term, and somehow the person looking this up ended up on my site, which proves that I am a TOTAL AUTHORITY ON THE SUBJECT:

Dear Leila: Is it normal to have hair on your vagina? Sincerely, Scared in Vagina Virginia

Dear Scared:

It is totally normal to have hair on your vagina, especially in the winter months when we gals need all the fur we can muster up to stay warm. During the summer, however, and particularly if you have a sexual partner who is willing to pay close and personal loving attention to your vadge, you might want to take some hedge clippers to that sucker. There’s nothing worse than looking down and seeing your partner pull a machete out of a back pocket as though he needs to cut his way through the Amazon Rainforest to find your clitoris. I mean, he/she is already doing you a favor, the least you could do is do some de-forestation to make it easy to get around down there. It’s also a mood-killer when your partner starts choking on your pubic hair. I mean, picture this: things are going well, you’re just about to climax – wait, no, maybe not, try again – okay, NOW…no, wait…a little longer…well, you’re sort of on your way if only whoever’s down there would KEEP DOING what you LIKE and stop doing that OTHER shit that just annoys you to fucking distraction, you slap him/her in the face and they finally get the hint and things are going swimmingly and all of a sudden just as you’re coasting into la-la land and seeing fireworks and fairies and the dark side of the moon, all of a sudden your cat sits next to you and starts coughing up a fur ball. And it sounds really disgusting and it totally kills your mood and you reach over to smack the cat off the bed and then it hits you.

You don’t even HAVE a cat.

EMBARRASSING!!!

So yes, hair on the vagina is normal. If you’re a GUY and you’re wondering if hair on a woman’s vagina is normal, then yes to you too, and I can only hope that the sight of a hairy one didn’t scare your testicles back up into your abdomen. I mean, YOU have hair down there, don’t you? The same places you get hair, WE get hair, just usually…a little less. If your female partner is sporting a thatch thicker than ZZ Top’s beard, it could just be that she hasn’t had any in a while and you’ve surprised her. Or she could be one of those chicks that never shaves anything and that’s okay too if you’re into dating Sasquatch. Whatever floats your boat. But hair…down THERE…is not extraordinAIRE.

Love, peace and Xanax,

Leila

P.S. – It occurs to me that, due to the brevity of your question, I really had to make some assumptions in order to come up with an answer. Like assuming you were talking about humans. But maybe you WEREN’T asking about humans, maybe you wanted to know if dolphins have hair on their vaginas, or, I don’t know, proboscis monkeys. The truth is…I really don’t know. And I’m a little worried about why YOU want to know. I mean, even if you’re doing a doctoral dissertation on the mating habits of the proboscis monkey, I’m thinking you can still get by without that tidbit of information. Regardless of why you might need it, I really can’t help you. The only thing I can suggest is sidling up to a proboscis monkey or a dolphin in a bar and buying it a few drinks and then when the conversation is nice and flowing you can just sort of THROW it out there: Hey, do you have hair on your vagina? That could get really interesting. Be sure to bring friends because I know for a fact that dolphins can KICK ASS when they get pissed. I’ve seen it happen. Not to me. I would never piss off a dolphin, which is probably why I never asked one if they had hair on their vagina. Maybe if they’d ask me first, I would have. You know, tit for tat sort of thing. But in general, I try not to have those conversations with non-humans. It just gets a little…weird.

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• A Voice for Men fights the rising tide of loose vaginas (manboobz.com) (Um, I’m not really sure what this article about, not having read it yet, but it sure SOUNDS interesting. I’m not sure how you “fight the rising tide of loose vaginas,” though. Seems like the only way to fight the loose vagina is to stay out of it altogether. I mean, let’s face it, if you’re a dude who is sexually active, somewhere along the way you have CONTRIBUTED to this whole loose vagina problem. If you kept your MEMBER in your pants, (and why they hell do romance novelists refer to it as a MEMBER? Does it belong to a club or something?) maybe there wouldn’t be so many loose vaginas flopping all over the place like discarded whoopee cushions. Also, if a woman just gave birth to YOUR BABY, it could feel a little cavernous in there for a bit until things shrink back down to something approximating normal, but give a little respect that if she delivered through the vadge, she just pushed a whole BRAIN and accompanying body out of there. You should be glad things got a little loose, although trust me, we’d be a lot happier if babies came out like those little pill things that you throw into the bathtub and they blow up into animals? That would be awesome: out comes this thin sliver, you dip it in water, and BOOM, instant baby and your vadge no worse for wear! But I gotta tell you,  this whole “fighting loose vaginas” sounds like more ammunition in the War on Women. Maybe women should fight back…start sending a petition around for Pricks That Are Thick. There’s always 2 ways to skin a cat, folks…)

The dream was a recurring one that I used to have constantly when I was approximately 4 years old. I’m not sure at what point it stopped, but I remember having it several times, and I remember the incredible well of fear that it inspired in that 4-year old girl.

Like most of my dreams of terror from that age, the dream was simple. Its very simplicity was what made it frightening, that and of course the fact of having it over, and over…and over…

In the dream, I am standing in front of a brownstone, one we used to live in on the Upper West Side when I was little. The sidewalk, from my 4-year old perspective, is very wide.

The brownstone is in the middle of the block. I stand there alone and looking towards the corner, I see my mother.

She stands there, wearing a floor-length black coat with a hood, fitted through the bodice, while the waist flares out to create a graceful skirt around the legs. The cuffs and hood are edged in black fur. The coat is stunning, and its style, my 4-year old perspective and my mother’s straight back and proud carriage make my mother appear statuesque and regal.

My mother also looks beautiful. Her hair is pulled back into a bun that sits on top of her head. The entire look is one of severe but cold beauty. What happens next does nothing to diminish that.

I see her and she is already looking at me. I begin running to her. I do not yell out to her, for I know she has seen me, and I know she sees me coming. I race towards the corner, my 4-year old chubby legs carrying me all too slowly. People pass in front of me, blocking my line of sight for a second here and there, but when they pass, I see she is still there, looking at me.

Waiting.

I am afraid, something prescient in me is very very afraid. She is not crouched down with open arms awaiting my final burst into her arms. Her hand is not held out, beckoning me lovingly. She is just…standing there, and she is…smiling. I see the smile, my eyes are locked on that smile, but it makes me cold with fear, because it is not the smile of a mother happy to see her child. It is the smile of someone who does not like you, the smile of someone who is about to do something wicked, a cold smile, an…evil smile. It is a smile that, on any face but my mother’s, would make me stop short and perhaps, perhaps, I would even…run. Away from that smile and all the cruelty it promises.

And still, I run to her. For where else am I to go? She is my mother, and if I see her on the street, it means I was lost and have now been found. I am running to my rightful place, with my mommy. I am running to the one person I love more than anyone in the world. Even as I run, her smile fills me with dread, but I am 4 years old. What else am I to do but run and hope that when I arrive, that smile will be a silly mistake, the result of my imagination gone into overdrive? What else am I to do but hope that when I reach her, that cold smile will suddenly fill with sunlight and finally, finally, reach her icy black eyes?

So I run and run, and the crowds of people making their way across the street continue to block my vision so that I see sporadic glimpses of her, almost like freeze frames from a photo. As I get close, one final bustle of crowd activity obscures my view right up until I reach the corner, and I arrive there breathless and looking frantically…

And she is gone.

My mom.

I look down the sidewalk around the corner. She is not there.

I look back to see if she could have passed me.

She has not.

I stand on the corner frantically looking in every direction, eyes open wide in fear, chest beginning to heave in panic, and my heart begins to beat in that terror that every child feels when first realizing that they have somehow become…lost.

Except this feels worse, because I was not lost. I was not a child daydreaming as I walked away while my mother spoke to the neighbor. I was not chasing a butterfly with no care to where its wings beckoned me.

I was running TO MY MOTHER. And she had smiled that sinister smile as she saw me approaching, a smile that told me that when I arrived…she would not be there. Intentionally, deliberately, purposely, she WOULD NOT BE THERE. And I would be there vulnerable, confused and utterly alone.

I had this dream when I was 4 years old.

Several times.

When I first told my mother about this dream, she hugged me and rocked me and told me that it would never be so, she would NEVER go away from me, certainly not with that sinister intent, not of her own volition, it would never ever ever happen.

And yet the dream persisted for a time, and I would wake up, nervously looking around until my eyes rested on her.

I was doing laundry a few days ago and this dream literally slammed into me with such impact that I stumbled and then stopped as my mind fast forwarded through the dream. I dropped the clothes, my hands going to my heart, my mouth open in a mimicry of Munch’s The Scream.

It had taken decades, to be sure, but…it had come true, hadn’t it. Coldly, cruelly, lovelessly, she had turned away from me…and disappeared.

It hurt the woman of 35 no less than it did the child of 4.

It hurts today still.

My birthday is coming. She will not call. She will not write. She will not acknowledge my existence. I will be 43, on the outside a woman who is now a mother herself, inside, on that day especially, a 4-year old still, who feels bewildered, confused, lost and unloved.

Perhaps this prescient dream and its coming to fruition were what compelled me to look my children in the eye and remind them when THEY were small that MOMMY ALWAYS COMES BACK. MOMMY ALWAYS COMES BACK, I told them, they could repeat it like a fucking mantra until I arrived, because nothing short of DEATH would stop me from coming back to them wherever they were, to pick them up and hug them and kiss them and hold them and reassure them that they were secure and loved.

Because I know what it’s like when your mommy doesn’t come back, oh, I know all too well what it is to have that ghostly apparition of dread take on the flesh of reality, to know that Mommy did NOT come back, not because she couldn’t…

but because she didn’t want to.