Do I blog to connect with others like me, and unlike me? To write and read experiences and make friendships and have fun? Do I accept reviews and sponsorships and money and what not, but if I had to choose between one or the other I’d hands down pick my the community over any compensation?

OR:

Do I blog so that PR companies will offer me things to review, to go on trips, to get money and other perks and one day parlay this into a fullblown career? Do I use my community to further myself along in this goal, and the friends I make and blogs I discover along the way are secondary? If I had to choose, would I choose cold hard cash over connecting with other bloggers?

If you answered yes, no - congratulations - you have nothing to worry about. You are not one of the people being bitched about.

If you answered no, yes - congratulations - you are everything wrong with ‘mommy blogging’.

Just my personal opinion, of course. And I’m not trashing anyone - I just think it’s bullshit that yet another method of gathering the masses and learning to relate to one another has become distorted into yet another impossible make money now! scheme.

It’s as simple as that I think. There’s no need for a damn PR Blackout or whatever the hell. Just stop reading the people that even need to consider taking part in something like that. They’ll either disappear into oblivion or they’ll cut that shit out and actually blog.

Full disclosure:

I run ads. I do reviews. I love money. But my passion for blogging is not for sale, and yours shouldn’t be either. No one’s should.

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A few weeks ago at the park, the girls were playing on their favorite jungle gym when a host of other little children arrived and started to play too. Ari had been going down the slide, over and over, taking her time and enjoying herself immensely. As she made to sit down and position herself to go down the slide again, one of the new little children, a little girl around 4 or 5 ran up, leaned down and put on the ugliest face she could to intimidate Ari.

“Get out of the way.” she sneered.

Ari looked at her, got up and moved back. The little girl bounded down the slide and Ari watched her disappear into the tube before disappearing herself behind the clubhouse wall where I couldn’t see, but I noticed her bottom lip start to curl before she was completely out of view.

I stormed up the stairs, imagining I was knocking all of the little brats, even the well behaved and polite ones, over the railing as I went. She sat on a tiny bench, arms folded across her chest and head hung low, her dark hair hiding her face. I scooped her into my arms, this tiny little thing that still fits into all my motherly nooks after almost 4 years, and hugged her to my chest. She wrapped her arms around my neck and laid her head on my shoulder, whimpering, and my heart hurt. It hurt especially because I thought she was so tough, that she’d never let another children run over her that way - I thought only her sister was that tender.

We stood under an old oak tree to the side of the sandbox and I leaned back to look at her.

“Are you ok?” I asked.

“No.” she cried, her dark eyes swollen and red.

“Do you want to go to the other part, and swing?”

“Yes,” she answered, wiping her round cheeks off with her dirty little hands.

So we left, The Bella remaining at the jungle gym with her father. I pushed her on the swings for 15 minutes, her big smile returning and her eyes sparkling like they had been before.

She forgot all about the previous incident. But I didn’t.

My eyes stung and I wondered where the hell that little brat’s parent was. Who the hell let her think it was ok for her to pick on other children, to be so rude without any hesitation, to a child she barely knew?

I was angry, angry that children are so mean to one another, that it comes so naturally to some. I was angry that this little girl was rude to my child. And I contemplated searching out that mother, just to glare and watch and see if she even paid attention to how her kids behaved.

As I stewed inside, Ari and I went back over to the jungle gym where The Bella was playing alone. The other children had moved on to the seesaws. Ari reclaimed her slide and I stood with my arms folded, pissed off.

Shitty parents. Rude kids. Ugh.

Another group of children ran up, climbing the stairs and making their way to where The Bella and Ari were. Bella saw them coming and stretched out her arms, grasping either side of the walkway and blocking their entrance. She furrowed her brow at them and said “You can’t play up here. Go AWAY.”

My sweet, easy going, friendly, never harsh to anyone, Bella. Being the playground asshole. Being rude.

And making me eat all the thoughts I’d had over the past 1/2 hour about the parents of, and the little girl that had hurt my baby’s feelings.

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I read a lot of mommy blogs, and I follow many mommies on Twitter. They are my community; I love them. I’ve come to find that really, the good ones? Are completely entertaining and relate-able and always give me something to think about or fawn over or smile because of. And it seems that right now, wine is all the rage.

“The kid is driving me insane with his tuba practicing! Ready for bed so I can break out the vino!”

“Baby’s finally down for the night. About time! I got a bottle of red waiting for me!”

“A glass of wine or two helps me sleep - better than any Ambien!”

“8pm!!! WINE TIME!!! Get your glasses out ladies! I’m sharing!”

“…and the day was so stressful that all I could think about during the parent teacher conference, as my son’s teacher raved about his excellent use of color in his rainbow drawings was the box of zinfandel in my fridge and how grand it would be when I could finally finish it off.”

Ok. That’s fine, right? Have your wine you gorgeous almost alcoholics - you deserve it. Parenting is a hard job.

But you know what really grinds my gears*? The fact that if I were to say something like:

“This day has been hell. The girls are in bed, and I’m heading outside to take a few hits off this blueberry kush that’s been begging me to light it up all day. Peace!”

These same perpetually bragging about being buzzed or tipsy or drunk women would turn their nose up, judge my parenting and wag their little fingers at the audacity I have to do that, let alone say it online.

BlogHer’s coming up. Let me ask you - how many of you have announced that you’ll be getting drunk as a skunk? And thinking I’m a total oddball for not partaking in the drinking? Mmhmm. Now, how many of you would think negatively of me if I said ‘don’t worry about me not being drunk - I’ll be high’? Mmmhmmm.

So, let me ask this question: what is the difference (besides the illogical and completely stupid illegality) between you drinking some fermented grapes and inhaling the fumes of a burning plant?

I’ll answer, it was rhetorical: there isn’t one. There is absolutely no difference. Not one. Not. One.

But, I have to say that the entire new culture of wine drinking moms annoys me. It’s like…a fad, you know? And it’s such crap. The whole 40’s housewife martinis and wine gag is just lame. A few years ago? There were no mommy blogs with titles that referred to drinking. Now, you’d be hard pressed to go through a blogroll and NOT find one. Because it’s…cool? I don’t fucking know, it’s something. There’s a reason why it seems every mom in the blogosphere drinks wine instead of beer, isn’t there?  No one would call you a bad mom for saying you were having a corona, right? But yet, you rarely hear that. It’s always a glass of wine. I’m not the only one that picks up on the phoniness. I know it.

Now I realize that whole paragraph sounds pretty bitchy. I can’t help that. I’m not saying that if you are a blogger that happens to be known to be a drinker or anything that you’re a part of the fad or whatever - I’m just saying that there is one. And if you’re not a part of it, I’m sure you’ve noticed it, probably a lot more so than I do, since it rings the similarity bell, yes?

Where’d this whole blog post come from? Well, it came from a tweet I saw a few months ago (I’m slow, shush!) from someone blasting some woman she knew or didn’t know or whatever for smoking pot and basically called her mothering into question because of that ‘filthy habit’. This same woman tweeted pretty frequently about her fondness for red wine.

The hypocrisy, it boils my blood. The fact that one is so widely accepted and the other so widely rejected bothers me. And the fact that 1/2 of the issue it’s all just a guise, an effort to be ‘in’ is troublesome.

I’m not doing my best to get my point across right now, and I’m covering two different points that should be in two entirely different posts, probably, so I’ll just sum it up with this: I were to name my blog Beer Pong Champ Mommy or Marijuana Matriarch, I’d have fire and brimstone raining down upon me. Because that wouldn’t be very motherly. Or classy. Or…appropriate.

That’d be too much, too honest, too real, too not smoke and mirrors.

It’s all about perception.

And that’s just another way of saying it’s all about bullshitting.

—————-
Listening to: James Morrison - Call The Police

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Last year was so much fun, and there’s something amazing about actually being able to hug and poke and prod these people that you call your friends but you’ve never met in real life before.

There are so many people that I’m excited to meet that didn’t come last year. I won’t name them, because I’ll forget someone. There are so many people that I met last year that I can’t wait to see again.

If it’s your first time, don’t be nervous. Nothing to be nervous about. You’ll have a blast. Unless you allow someone else to make that not happen. So don’t.

This is what I look like, in case you don’t know. Just so you’ll recognize me when you see me:

If you’re not going, and you’d like me to carry you around on a stick like I did for some folks last year (many of whom will be here this year!) send an email with your photo attached to maria @ immoralmatriarch.com.

So, you going? You as excited as I am? Any worries or concerns?

—————-
Listening to: Radiohead - High and Dry

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On my way home from a shitty date with a boy who was younger and more immature than I had anticipated…..but totally hot…and with huge guns….

Sorry, I got sidetracked. So, anyway…..I’m driving home and I call my friend to tell her exactly what a failure it was. As she often does, Yajira invited me over for coffee and a chat. This was not unusual. I can’t count how many times I have stopped at her house in the evening on my way home from either work, my sister’s, or shopping and talked shit with her over café con leche. I drove the half mile out of my way and parked in the alley behind her little apartment. I went upstairs where my coffee cup awaited me.

Yajira and I have been friends for several years and while we are both social workers, we disagree on many things. The biggest being religion. Despite her crass sense of humor and her work at a local agency that is frequented by a primarily gay population…..Yajira remains true to her Catholic upbringing and will frequently spout off about those who will burn in purgatory. Including herself and most of her clients. I generally find her preaching to be comical. She generally finds my lack of belief in the trinity to be sinfully and acknowledges that, as a fellow sinner, she will see me in hell. I frequently wonder how much of that bullshit she believes. This has been the nature of our relationship for years. We agree to disagree, we joke, we drink, and we philosophize.

So as I sipped my coffee and gave her the rundown of all his faults, I was taken aback by her shift in conversation. She asked if I recalled a dinner that we had at a local restaurant several years ago. Well, of course I did. We had a blast. And?…..She divulged that she had seen someone at the restaurant who she knew and the rest of us hadn’t seen her talking to this woman. (where is this conversation going? I wondered…..are you in the mob or something??). Only one of the women at the dinner, which had been mostly co-workers, had seen the interaction. Jennifer was a real live hippie all grown up……pushing thirty, holding down a “straight” job, and still smoking pot every weekend. She was younger than both Yajira and I and particularly enthralled with Yajira. Apparently she had seen this conversation and caught the gist of it and had followed Yajira to her car and asked her about it. (At this point in the story, I’m about to scream “What?! what did she see? were you putting a hit on somebody? and what does this have to do with my shitty date?…….but I waited and listened instead.). Jennifer followed her to the car and confronted her about the conversation with the stranger and Yajira admitted that this was a woman with whom she’d had a relationship.

At this point I’m confused and in hind sight, I really shouldn’t have been. It should have clicked with me instantaneously. This was why the homophobia was prevalent in an otherwise intellectual and liberal social service worker. This was why, despite the fact that she had accomplished more than all of her siblings put together, her very religious mother displayed open disdain for her. This was the missing puzzle piece that made the picture come to life. But it took me a moment to step back and focus. To make the scenery clear.

As if my lack of insight was not already as glaring as it was, she then magnified it by telling that after that dinner and the confrontation, she had slept with our mutual friend, Jennifer. This also should have been an “a-ha!” moment……but it wasn’t. And I was still trying to incorporate this information and reconcile it with the individuals I thought I knew when I heard Yajira say something to the effect of “Well, you’re coming, aren’t you?”. I couldn’t control the slight giggle as I said bluntly, “No, hon. I don’t the time or the inclination for that”. She made another statement indicating that she was expecting me to come to her bedroom with her. Stop playing girl! you know you want to come in…… No, I really don’t. Sorry. and I left.

So now she’s not answering my calls. I didn’t intend to bring it up if she didn’t want to talk about it. I only wanted to let her know that as far as I’m concerned, this changes nothing. I have plenty of friends who are lesbians or bi. I would see this as no different. I’ve had friends who were not out before……this, to me, was no different. I had no intention of outing her to anyone, hence the rented blog…….if anything, I think that the whole thing says more about me than it does about her: that I have no gaydar. Despite having numerous friends in the lgbt community…….I only know them when they plaster it on a billboard. Gaydar Schmaydar.

**obviously, names and details have been changed. otherwise I wouldn’t have posted to someone else’s blog. duh.

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Some of those same people are criticizing others’ mourning him by screaming that he was a child molester. That, I do care about.

I would like to reiterate that he was not a child molester.

He was found innocent, remember? There was never any proof, remember? And many, many people have had their lives destroyed by false accusations from children, at the behest of money hungry parents, over zealous social workers and authority abusing police detectives. Or sometimes because the kids themselves are just liars.

I don’t need to give you examples, do I? You’ve got Google.

Let me ask you this: if your son came to you and told you that a man molested him, would you accept that man’s substantial amount of hush money and disappear or would you want to see him burn - either at your hands or at those of a jury? I’d like to inform you that if you chose the previous, you are shitty parent, although I suspect you knew that already.

I do not believe that boy was a victim of Michael Jackson. I believe he was the victim of his money hungry father (remember, the mother always said Jackson was innocent). I believe the second little boy was full of shit too. Maybe his parents were hip to the ‘let him be strung up and found guilty and then will sue him for everything he has in civil suit’ method? Who knows.

I believe they killed him. Or we did. Either his addiction to those drugs he began taking to deal with the pain and stress of those accusations, or his desire to have the public that he spent his entire life pleasing love him again - one of those things killed him, that’s pretty clear.

I think that Michael Jackson was a lonely man. One that was a victim of severe abuse and one that wanted nothing more than to have a normal life, to recreate a childhood that he always dreamed of. I believe that he used his money to try to relive his existence, make one of his own. I believe that the emotional and physical abuse he suffered damaged him and his decision making abilities. If we were to round up and shoot all the people that did dumb shit in the world, we’d all be in line for that execution, yes?

Does no one ever stop to consider why he shielded his children so adamantly? Maybe because he didn’t want them to grow up the way he did. He didn’t want the piranhas and vultures of media and society ripping them apart like they did him. Maybe he was determined to give them a real childhood, one that he never had, so that they wouldn’t end up twisted and confused like he did.

I understand why some people think he was guilty, I do. All I’m saying is for me personally, I don’t take accusations like that lightly, and I am not willing to say that he did anything like that, with the little bit of knowledge we have about the situation, paired with my own ability to use my common sense and reasoning skills.

I believe that he was innocent.

Maybe he wasn’t - I don’t know, just like you don’t. We can sit around and debate all the ‘facts’ all we want to. He’s dead, and I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt. We don’t know shit about that man. We never did. We knew what we saw. We knew what we were told. We knew what many mocked and ridiculed. We knew what he gave us, what we took from him.

I will mourn Michael Jackson without any qualms or hesitation. I will remember him as a man that changed music. That changed history. As a great musician and humanitarian. As a good heart, as someone who brought joy to millions of people, all over the world. I will remember and mourn him as just Michael Jackson. Because he was innocent: never proven guilty. Because I believe that he never hurt a child. Because he himself was a victim, of his father, of his life, of himself, and of us.

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I love them. I love being their mom. Most of the time. Sometimes, I don’t. That’s just the truth.

—————-
Listening to: Modest Mouse - Fire It Up

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1. Do you have the same threesome fantasies that we do and if so, what’s the right way of going about making a threesome happen?
I do. My fantasies are for two men, and I sometimes think that most guys are less ok with that than the alternative. I don’t blame them, really, I’m definitely too straight to sleep with another woman. I’d fondle her boobs, but that’d be about it, so I’m sure the dude would be all “this is lame”, zip up and walk out. Making it happen? Is by presenting it, making sure you reiterate constantly during said presentation that it’s totally on the woman’s terms and walking away from it.

2. And how do we make it happen with your best friend?
You ask the best friend, see if she’s down, and if she is, we stop being best friends and you have a better chance. If she’s not, we stop being boyfriend/girlfriend anyway and then you’re a stranger, which also gives you a better chance.

3. If I leave the door open when I’m peeing because I don’t want to miss the game, are you going to be upset?
No. I’m all about being open with natural bodily functions with your partner. At least the dude being so. Pissing is cool. Filling the house with your death cloud is not though.

4. Can you pay the bill if I leave my wallet at home?
I can try, or I can run really fucking fast if you leave the table under the guise of taking a piss but are really starting the car up.

5. Are you really turned on by having sex during your period?
No. Not at all. I’ve done it before, but it was on the last day, it was his bed/sheets/towel and his idea. Worked out well.

6. Who would you side with, me or your best friend?
It totally depends on who’s right. Or who has a Green & Black’s bar to bribe me with.

7. Why do you have to tell me about how hot Johnny Depp is?
The same reason I have to gush about how hot every other hot guy is. I’m a lustful creature.

8. What if I can’t remember your mom’s name?
I could care less.

9. Should I call your mom, “mom”?
No. I will never call your mom, “mom”. You may call mine by her first name.

10. Does body hair really bother you so much that you’d make me go through the same amount of pain that you experience when you give birth? If you think that’s an exaggeration, think about the fact that you think giving birth is the most painful thing that could happen to you and recognize that we can’t understand that pain so how can you say that a guy getting waxed doesn’t nearly equally giving birth.
I will be the first woman in existence to admit that the comparison is valid. But my contractions were completely painless, so what do I know? And yes, back hair bothers me that much. All other hair, as long as I can see your skin beneath it, is totally fine.

11. You check out other guys too, don’t you?
All the time.

12. If yes, does that mean that your gender is naturally hypocritical?
No, it just means we’re liars.

13. Farting is a natural biological operation. I realize that’s not a question but I thought you should know.
I totally agree. Feel free to let one rip.

14. Is it the size of the boat or the motion of the ocean?
Heh. You’re asking me? I would say that I’d prefer a big’un if I had to pick.

15. Do you poo?
Regularly.

16. How do we make the first kiss less awkward? Standing there, waiting for you to go in your door and wondering if we’re supposed to kiss you or walk away isn’t easy for us.
Just fucking do it. Be smooth though. Let your arms linger around our waist after the hug should be over, fingertips on the small of our back. Reach up with one hand and pretend to move our hair behind our ears, or just stroke our cheek. Cup our jaw and go in for the kill. That romantic, sappy shit totally works.

17. Can I have a gun?
Can I shoot you with it?

18. What if my best friend accidentally sees the naked pictures I took of you?
Don’t care.

19. When is the appropriate time in our relationship to start calling you my old lady?
Never.

20. Roses. Do you really want roses?
No. How about a gift card to the local movie theater, or

21. If we have a fight and I know you’re wrong and you know you’re wrong, why do I still have to be the first one to apologize?
Because you probably said some really fucked up shit that supersedes my wrongness in the heat of the argument. And even if you didn’t, I think you did.

22. Can I still be friends with my ex?
Depends on whether she still wants you/you talk about her like she’s the hottest thing walking or you still love her/you have kids/etc. It depends.

23. Do you believe in the Sasquatch?
No. But I don’t not believe either.

24. If I can devour a Big Mac in 45 seconds, is that hot? My buddies think it’s pretty cool.
Not hot, but really fucking impressive.

25. Speaking of my buddies, if I go out with them one night, what time should I come home? And don’t act like my mother about it.
Whenever you want.

26. Will you still love me when my six pack suddenly becomes a keg?
Definitely.

P.S. if think my tits are worthy of winning a contest, vote for #23 over at Lotus’ place.

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“Bella, you have to hold your head up straight or your hair won’t look right.” I said. She sighed heavily and positioned her right arm beneath her left elbow once again. Tiring of that quickly she looked at me in the mirror’s reflection and moaned, exasperatedly, “I can’t with this arm! This arm doesn’t work right, it’s not perfect!” She let go of her hair and lifted her arms in the air, the right one extended straight up and the left one bent, and no higher than her chin.

“See!” she exclaimed, “this one doesn’t work right, why do I have to use it?”

My tongue tripped over my words, caught off guard by her sudden proclamations of disability. “Well, you have to, so that it gets stronger and one day it’ll be perfect like the other one.”

I frowned at myself, a bad taste in my mouth. I’d lied to her. The physical therapists, the pediatricians, the neurologists, the others - they’ve all told us the same thing: at best she’ll have 80% use of her arm. It won’t ever get much better than it is right now, the therapy won’t do anything more than prevent it from regressing or becoming so stiff and tight she loses all use of it completely. My mind raced, wondering if I should admit my lie, knowing how against being dishonest with them I am, or if I should let it stand. Maybe it could encourage her to work harder when she starts therapy again in a few weeks. But, maybe she’d come to me in a few years and remind me of what I’d said, and how it wasn’t true. How she’d been trying and it didn’t work. How she felt like a failure because she couldn’t make it better.

“Well, it may never be as strong as your right arm, but we don’t want it to get worse, do we?” I backtracked. She looked down at her toes and then back up at my face in the mirror. She looked from side to side, at each arm, holding them up slightly and then back at me.

“Well, I want it to be perfect too.” she said quietly.

“But baby, even your imperfections are perfect. You’re beautiful and you know it, so don’t worry about it.” I answered. She smiled her silly little chipmunk smile and crinkled her nose at me, flattered. Her right hand once again took it’s place under her left elbow, pushing and holding it up. She grabbed that piece of hair. I fought back the tears burning my eyes and imitated her smile, making her laugh and ending the conversation.

—————-
Listening to: 311 - Love Song

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My grandfather, whom I call daddy because my grandparents raised me, has colon cancer. That would suck enough, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s been fighting prostate cancer since I was 17. He starts chemotherapy in a few weeks, and then he’ll have surgery.

My mom is in jail. She’s probably going to prison. For a long time. Hopefully not, but most likely so. She’s been in for a couple of weeks now, and no bond has been set.

My grandfather built the house that my grandparents raised me in with his own bare hands. My grandmother dreamed of this house and he built it. Total love story, I know. They are now close to losing it. His medical bills are piling up, and the only income is from my grandmother, which is minimal. Right now, I have no idea how they’re staying afloat. I don’t know how much longer they can.

This house that they’ve had for 20+ years. This house that I’ve always called home, even after marriage and children. This house that I was happy to come back to every time J. and I split. This house that they saved for and built without taking out loans, that they had to take money out against just a few years ago because they were scammed by a horrible criminal that nearly took them for all they had, and would have taken the house too had they not financed it.

The idea of them losing this house, this physical manifestation of their love and hard work and everything they’ve accomplished in life, after all these years. When they’re approaching the end of their lives…it really hurts me. I wish I could help, but I can’t. They say the Lord will pull them through it. I say nothing, but I hope something does.

The idea of seeing my grandfather, a pillar of quiet strength weakened and sickly, the idea of my grandmother having to live with out him…it’s too much to think about, so I try not to.

The idea of my mom going to prison, leaving my sister to be raised by her father, giving my grandparents something else to worry about, not being able to see her grandchildren grow up or maybe accept my brother’s sexuality and mend fences with him…ugh.

It’s ridiculous around these parts.

—————-
Listening to: Joe Turner & Pete Johnson - Roll ‘Em Pete

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