My Kid Is a Jerk...

Squirt

2011-10-28T13:55:00.003-05:00

As a woman, you know something about you has changed irrevocably when someone with a penis—while sucking furiously on your nipple—releases the loudest, wettest, most trumpeting fart imaginable and shits his pants…

…and you look down at him, and he smiles a toothless grin, and you fully accept that you’re in love with a tiny, incontinent bald man.

Then you clean the feces from his balls, and you still think he’s charming.

That’s romance.

I shall call him Squirt.

Scenes from a Marriage

2011-10-26T09:57:00.001-05:00

I always want to chronicle conversations I have with That Guy I Married. I never do, despite the fact that we think we are the funniest, dirtiest, most interesting people ever. The problem is, our best conversations happen as we’re trying to fall asleep, and I’m way too lazy to write that shit down.

Still…I might be narcissistic enough to make this a regular thing, blog…we shall see.

TGIM, discussing my still-breastfeeding-titties: “I don’t know…I don’t know if your tits could take it. Not right now. Not your…juggalos.”

Me: “My tits are NOT fans of the Insane Clown Posse. Do NOT call them juggalos.”

TGIM: “How do you know? Have you asked them?”

Me, looking down at my honkers: “No. I don’t have to. They’re not into ICP. They know how magnets work.”

TGIM: “Do you know how magnets work?”

Me: “Touche.”

Okay, so if you were familiar with ICP before this post, this might be funny to you. If you weren’t, I will gladly accept a fruit basket (read: bottle of scotch) for turning you on to the horror.

You’re welcome.

Songstress

2011-10-13T07:56:00.001-05:00

The Daughter’s new song:

“I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves,

Everybody’s nerves,

Everybody’s nerves.

I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves,

And this is how it goes:

“IT’S RAININ’ MEN!

HALLELUAH, IT’S RAININ’ MEN.

IT’S MEN!”

On repeat.

Loudly.

Send help.

Dessert

2011-09-30T00:05:00.001-05:00

Last night, after (for realsie) proclaiming that I make the, “bestest food ever”, The Daughter requested dessert. She had happily eaten all her spaghetti and meatballs, so it was clearly sugar time.

Sidebar: My name is Bitches, and I am a foodie. Mama can cook. I feel it is completely false advertising when a fat woman sucks at cooking. That would be like picking up a chick wearing leather pants and a leopard print halter top at the bar one night, only to come home and find that her vagina is as sexless as Barbie doll poon. It’s just wrong. If your ass is big—it’s cool—so long as you can wail in the kitchen.

Sidebar on the Sidebar: TGIM’s friend—I shall call him Brandon…because that’s his real name…duh—goes on the best drunken rants in the history of alcoholism. He is one of my favorite people to drink with and/or watch drink. When he found out that I like to cook, and that I learned to cook from watching Food Network, he went on a twenty minute monologue about how he FUCKING HATES The Barefoot Contessa. I mean, hates. But he knew everything about her. He had her Wikipedia page committed to memory, and he clearly watched the show. When I asked him why he watched, he looked at me like a total dumbfuck. “Have you seen the food she makes?” he asked. Well, yeah. I mean, that’s why I watch it. That bitch is a kitchen ninja. “Sure,” I answered. “She taught me how to make pot roast.” His response?

“Oh, my God. Her fucking potroast…she is a fat, pretentious bitch…and she thinks she fucking knows everything…’blah, blah, I used to write nuclear policy for President Ford’… God, I fucking hate her…but I would suck her cunt if she would make me that pot roast. I would suck that cunt whenever she wanted me to. Whenever. Just for that pot roast.”

(Ina Garten was a two-term White House nuclear policy analyst before making love to food on television. And—apparently—she has a delightfully suckable cunt.)

Of all the awful things I’ve ever written in my life, somehow “delightfully suckable cunt” was one of the only phrases that made me cringe.

Anyway…back to the story:

“Are you full?” That Guy I Married asked The Daughter when she was through with her meal. “Yes…no,” she replied. “I have enough room for dessert.”

(She saw he was laying a trap.)

As always, we were eating at the kitchen table, and he told her to wait until everyone was finished. “Then I’ll make you something.”

This piqued her interest. “What are you going to make me?”

And herein lies the probably. The Daughter—like her mother—is way too curious. Her dad? After years of actually working at it, he has perfected the art of vagueness. He never offers anything up. Never actually answers questions. I’m fairly certain I’m the only person he willingly tells anything to, and if he wanted to hide something from me he would have no problem whatsoever.

(We have this weird, fucked up relationship based on (1) mutual trust, (2) making fun of each other and (3) coitus. Most people don’t understand it.)

So she kept asking him what he was going to make her for dessert. He kept dodging the question. Finally, he was annoyed.

“I’m going to make you fried beaver tails.”

“Fried beaver tails? Really?” she asked. Please note this was said with sarcasm, and not with wonder.

“Yep,” he answered convincingly. “I’m going to bread them, and fry them, and serve them with some sauce.”

“We don’t have any fried beaver tails,” she reasoned. “Sure we do,” he responded. “They’re in the freezer.”

Being the realistically cynical six-year old she is, she got up to check. “I don’t see any beaver tails.”

“They’re on the right side, on the bottom, in a pink container,” I told her, describing a pack of two pork loin chops. She quickly found them. They were frosted over, so it was difficult to read the label.

“These are beaver tails? For real?” she asked.

“Sure, those are Bieber tails,” I answered. Her response was a look of incredulity.

“What, you didn’t know Justin Bieber has a tail?” TGIM added. Then he provided a detailed description of how Justin Bieber has two flat tails on the back of his ass that he uses like a nocturnal, semi-aquatic rodent with a tendency for building dams on rivers and streams.

And this is families should always eat dinner together, around the table, sans television: it’s a great opportunity to fuck with your children.

Cunty McKid

2011-09-22T22:09:00.002-05:00

Dear Cunty McKid,

First, you little bitch, you should know that I am capable of showing restraint.

Shut up. It happens. You should know this better than anyone. I haven’t cut you yet, have I?

You see, with most of The Daughter’s other friends, I don’t have to pull my dusty, underused self-restraint down from the metaphorical shelf. Most of her friends are pretty cool. Likable, even. Hell, one of them frequently says things like, “Oh, snap!” and can fall flat on her face at a playground and still save her slushie without spilling a drop. I fucking love that kid.

You, however, are a cock gobbling thundercunt and I hope you die.

I DON’T KNOW WHY THE DAUGHTER HAS TO BE FRIENDS WITH YOU.

You’re mean. And I know mean. Yet you’re not the charmingly-sarcastic-funny-kind-of-mean that The Daughter is. Instead, you’re the malicious—spiteful—jealous—twatlike-kind-of-mean.

Yes, I know you’re six. This means little to me. Damien was also six. All sociopaths are six at some point in their sadistic lives. Fuck you.

My super tough kid—the one who bitch slaps boys twice her sizewhen they try and fuck with her—is regularly being reduced to tears by you. Her friend.

You tell her she’s stupid. You tell her she’s ugly. You tell her she’s a loser and no one likes her and she doesn’t have any friends.

None of this is even close to true. And yet you tell her all the time.

And the worst part? The part that makes me want to euthanize you? It’s how she fucking saved your orphan ass when you guys were younger. Over and over and over again.

I mean, remember when you had the social skills of an Asperger’s patient who’d been raped in the face? When simply walking into dance class, or gymnastics, or the library fucking terrified you? When you couldn’t handle other children in even the smallest of settings?

And remember how The Daughter was okay with this, and held your hand and helped you through it?

She would wait outside dance class with you until you could calm down enough to walk in. She would stand up for you when other kids gave you shit for being weird. And she would ignore the other children and play with you because she knew you needed the extra help.

Then, when you started elementary school together in pre-kindergarten, you were extra scared. You couldn’t handle the crowds. At lunch, she would sit at a table alone with you, because you could only handle being with one other person. When your grandmother would show up to eat lunch with you, you even made that old lady eat at another table; The Daughter was the only one you could feel comfortable with. She babysat your stupid fucking neuroses, when she shouldn’t have had to. She never even complained.

And she did all this despite the fact that she loves a group, loves other kids, loves being the center of attention…and she’s awesome at it. She stayed with you because she loves you like family, and wanted to help you.

It’s not even The Daughter’s fault she thinks of you as family. You see, exactly one month after she was born, you were born. Not long after that, your grandparents took custody of you. And your grandma? She happens to be best friends with The Daughter’s grandma. So you two have been put together constantly for most of your lives, even when That Guy I Married and I tried our best to avoid it. Early on it was clear that there just wasn’t something quite right with you, we just didn’t realize that The Daughter would end up taking the brunt of your cuntery.

We just didn’t realize how much it was going to suck to have you in The Daughter’s life.

Or just how much you were going to suck.

SUCK!

It sucks that when you two were wearing bunny ears—and The Daughter happily declared, ”Look! We can both be the Easter Bunny!”—you proceeded to immediately and irreparably tear the bunny ears off her headband with your own declaration: “No, I’m the Easter Bunny.”

And then you laughed. Like a supervillain. I heard the entire exchange. When The Daughter then asked you why you would do that (she really doesn’t understand unreasonable people), you claimed it was an accident.

A fucking accident.

FUCK YOU.

I am so over your shit.

You make her swear that she’ll be your goddamn “assistant” and wait on you at school.

You tell other people not to play with her. Sure, this doesn’t ever work—because The Daughter is awesome—but it’s still shitty.

You gave her so much shit about inviting a certain girl to her birthday party—a very nice girl—that she stressed out about it for three weeks before finally deciding to invite her regardless of your bossy-bitch-pants.

And whenever most adults are around, you act like a perfect fucking angel, so nobody knows how awful you actually are.

Couple all this with the fact that you’re butt fucking her self-esteem every chance you get, and I can’t help but fantasize about a time-traveling Delorean that would allow me to venture back to 2004 where I would share a gross of condoms with your father. If I couldn’t find 144 condoms, I would just buy a paring knife and give him an Extreme Testicular Makeover.

I really want to write every other terrible thing you’ve done, but then this blog entry would be 137 pages. And my fingers would hurt…and then my back would hurt, because I’d just pulled landscaping duty.

(Do anyone else’s fingers hurt?)

And how do you get her to put up with your shit?

Guilt. You fucking guilt her. That’s her fucking kryptonite. You cry. You tell her she’s your best friend. You threaten to tell on her. And she doesn’t want to make you feel badly, and she doesn’t want to disappoint her teachers (weird, right?), so she just goes along with it. Holy shit, the amount of times I’ve heard, “I try to stay away from (Cunty McKid) at school, but she cries and I feel bad.”

Yes, we’ve pointed out that if she plays with Cunty, then she’ll be the one who ends up crying. Sure, it’s later, when she’s trying to fall asleep at night and she’s reflecting on the shittiness of her day, but she still cries. Her answer: “I would rather cry than make (Cunty) cry. And I love (Cunty).”

(This is when my humanity bubbles up, because hearing this shit breaks my heart.)

And I get it…the guilt thing…because I’m the same way. Guilt is a major fucking motivator in my brain. Lame, I know. If I could scrape out this personality trait like an unwanted pregnancy, my junk would constantly be leaking guilt-based stem cells.

(Great for medical research.)

It’s gotten to the point that if I loved her school any less, I would switch schools just to keep her away from you. What isn’t helping is the fact that my mother-in-law is still fucking intent on getting you guys together. With her fucking head-in-the-ground attitude, she just spouts the “kids will be kids” bullshit argument and continues to invite you everywhere she can. Holidays, playdates, road trips. Fuck, you’ll even be on a cruise with The Daughter’s grandma this November. That should totally go well when your fetal-alcohol-syndrome face gets back to school and tells The Daughter, “I got to go on a cruise with Grandma and you didn’t.”

That’s right, you call The Daughter’s grandma, “Grandma”. And she lets you. Guess what, bitch? She’s not your fucking grandma. That sarcophagus you call “Mom”? That’s your grandma. And you know that.

(Okay, she’s not really a sarcophagus. She’s a perfectly normal lady in her sixties. Still, doesn’t the story seem better if you picture her looking like the crypt keeper?)

(Yes, yes it does.)

Look kid, I know you haven’t had the easiest childhood so far. I know your biological mom makes worse decisions than the cast of Jersey Shore. I know your dad is about as reliable as Gary Busey. But you’ve been living with your grandparents since before your first birthday, and they’re good people, and they love you. I’m done trying to rationalize away all your assholishness, thinking, “Well, Cunty McKid has had a hard life…I should give her a break.”

No, fuck that. Fuck you.

I’m sorry your life started out the way it did. I truly am. Every kid deserves quality parents, deserves a chance in life, and I recognize that your immediate family tree has the reasoning power and impulse control of Hasselhoff on a bender without Kit acting as designated driver.

But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with you taking your issues out on my awesome kid.

But I can’t fix it. I’ve tried everything. All I can do is keep trying to support The Daughter, keep trying to keep you away from her, and keep encouraging her to spend time with her real friends.

And in the meantime, I’ll have to be satisfied with knowing that one day you’ll be rubbing your snapper on a chlamydia-fogged stripper pole for dollar bills that smell like scrote and back child support payments.

Cunt.

Things I’ve Learned About Tit Juicing

2011-08-25T14:01:00.003-05:00

1. Children refuse to latch onto nipples that are attached to tits the size of soccer balls…

2. So several times a day I attach myself to this classy machine that pumps the boob juice out so I can bottle feed.

3. I am, in fact, a dairy cow.

4. I am, in fact, strangely okay with this.

5. If That Guy I Married knows my tits are full and I need to pump, there’s a better than fair chance he’s going to grab a tit with both hands and shake it.

6. I am, in fact, not o-fucking-kay with this.

7. After spending thirty minutes hooked up to a breast pump, if I flashed you my nips you could easily confuse them with McNuggets.

8. Squirting people with boob juice is hilarious, but only to me.

9. If I squirt TGIM straight from my titty arsenal, he thinks he has the right to take a bottle and squirt me back.

10. I am also not fucking okay with this.

11. I MADE THE WEAPON. I HAVE THE MONOPOLY ON SQUIRTING.

12. Dick.

13. Juicing my knockers seems way more effective than cardio. Just ask the forty four pounds I’ve dropped since the glorious c-section.

14. So what if ten of those pounds were baby? SO THE FUCK WHAT?

15. It still counts.

16. If God were real, he wouldn’t allow caffeine or amphetamines to be excreted into breastmilk.

17. See also: alcohol.

18. Seriously, if there were ever a time in your life when you needed to abuse uppers, wouldn’t it be when you have a newborn who needs to be nurtured during totally unreasonable hours?

19. And if there were ever a time when drunkenness was necessary, wouldn’t you assume it followed nine long months of sobriety and accompanied the gravity and stress of being responsible for the total well-being of another (quite needy) person?

20. I mean, come on.

Post-Natal

2011-07-29T23:04:00.000-05:00

My uterine parasite is alive and well. The c-section was less delightful than last time (I couldn’t fucking breathe, yo) but it was still successful. The Daughter’s brother weighed in at a whopping nine pounds, five ounces and a lengthy twenty one and a half inches. For non-parents out there, that’s a massive gut nugget. Giant baby. His feet are so big when they foot-printed him they had to angle his feet on the certificate to get them to fit.

(Future big wiener joke should be inserted here.)

(Joke about using the words “wiener” and “inserted” in the same sentence goes here.)

So far, this kid is nothing like his sister…although he does look EXACTLY like her. But from a personality perspective, the two don’t seem related. He is mellow. Sleeps well…like, already on a sleeping schedule well (only waking twice a night! YAY!). He doesn’t really cry, except for when you change his diaper…the kid really hates a cold scrote. Can you blame him?

As a newborn, his sister was completely different. Her pediatrician called her a “high maintenance baby”. A compare/contrast might be necessary, but it’s late…and I have a newborn…and I have to go pump my teets (not a euphemism).

Instead, I’ll leave you with this random-but-awesome conversation:

That Guy I Married: “Are you trying to push a fart out? Stop; you’ll shit your pants.”

The Daughter: “It’s a vagina fart. A bubble pop.”

I shall call her Georgia O’Queef.

Tomorrow

2011-07-19T10:20:00.002-05:00

My son will come out
Tomorrow.
Bet my epidural

That tomorrow,
There'll be blood.

Just thinkin' about
Tomorrow.
Makes me thankful Percocet
Will follow;
I’ll be drugged!

I could think of the lay,
That made
Me gestate,
Or how milk will fill up my tits,
And I’ll wince,
And say,
Oh!

My son will come out,
Tomorrow.
Gonna have a c-section

Tomorrow.
And not a vaginal slay!

Tomorrow! Tomorrow!
I love ya, tomorrow!
This song

Sure sounds pretty

Gay!

One Child Wrap Up Montage

2011-07-13T11:18:00.001-05:00

Still pregnant. Scheduled for a c-section on Wednesday, July 20^th. My vagina (it’s very polite) has already written a thank you note to modern medicine.

The Daughter is ready to be a big sister. Still, she is greatly enjoying shaking my belly while declaring, “Leon’sgetting LARGER!”

I’m afraid my complete and total suckage in the blogosphere as of late means the world has missed out on some truly wondrous The Daughter moments. I’ll try and highlight a few of the more memorable conversations and events for your enjoyment:

We bid on this Nerf gun party at her school auction. With a few whiny, non-participating exceptions, the Nerf fun was The Daughter and about 20 six and seven year-old boys. At this party, I discovered another level of my kid’s awesomeness. She fucking REIGNS at Nerf assassinations. She creates alliances, and jumps over obstacles/other children, and then hides and shoots people from unseen locations (maybe one day I’ll be the proud mom of that woman on the grassy knoll who assassinates President Bieber). My favorite part? When this older child shot her at close range…in the neck…and she then shot him at close range in the face, “And that’s for starting some shit.”

(After this we had to have a conversation about what language is appropriate for home, and what is acceptable around her school friends. “Okay, I know I’m not supposed to say that word unless I’m only around you and dad, but that guy really was starting some shit.”)

We also had a very wise conversation with The Daughter when she had a few questions about vegetarianism. When we explained what it was, the kid again showed her wisdom. “I love to eat chicken and shrimp, but it is mean to kill animals…but I would love to kill a bear.” Follow up remark? “Mom, have vegetarians ever tried bacon?”

Music has also been prevalent. All I’m saying is this: I don’t want to listen to “Hey Jude” everyfuckingtime it comes on the radio (hearing that song only once in karaoke ruins it for at least a decade). But when I try and change the station, I get this: “Mom, come on, that was The Beatles.” She also sings “Highway to Hell” more or less constantly (at least the chorus), and has unintentionally but hilarious rewritten a few older pop songs. The new (and soon to be widely accepted) lyrics to “Step-by-Step” by NKOTB:

Step by Step, ooh baby

Gonna get in a gir-ir-irl.

Prince has also been edited:

You don’t have to be rich

To be my girl

You don’t have to be a bitch

To school my world.

Easily the most entertaining but frustrating (for me) development over the last several months is how apparent just how much her brain works like her dad’s. She asks me questions, and I answer…and then she proceeds to look at me like I’m the dumbest fuck alive. She asks me how contacts work, and I tell her you put them in your eyes and they help you see clearer. Oh, fuck. That answer is not acceptable. She wants to know exactly how they’re made, and what they’re made from, and how they were invented, and the fucking chemical process behind it. We’re at Target, registering for baby shit, and she wants to know how the zapper-gun-thingy works. “You point it at what you want people to buy you and then it records that information for people to look at later.” Well, fuck you, mom. She wants to take the gun apart. Wants to know the mechanics behind it, how it was engineered, if it could work any other way. Why don’t I get this? Why won’t I let her take it apart? Why am I so fucking stupid?

On Monday she wanted to know where (seriously) centaurs go to the bathroom. She was very perplexed at the issue of forest shitting v. indoor plumbing. My answer? “Dude, centaurs aren’t real.” Her answer was full of contempt. “I. Know. That. Duh.”

Her follow up? “Where is dad? When is he coming home?”

I told him about the conversation. I assumed he would understand. I mean, if one accepts that these mythological creatures are fucking make believe, then why does it matter where the fuck they defecate? His answer…

“Because she needed to understand the answer…I wonder where they would go to the bathroom?”

Whuck?

“It doesn’t matter that it’s not real,” he argued. “It’s still something she didn’t understand, so she needed to know how it works. Haven’t you ever been concerned about something that wasn’t actually real?”

Um, no. (And my obsession with Hogwarts doesn’t count…I’m still waiting on my acceptance letter…that shit’s real.)

“Yes, you have,” he tried to fight back with. “You think about what to do with Powerball money, and that’s not real.”

Whatever. That shit could happen. I could win the Powerball. Not likely, no. Duh. But it’s (barely) in the realm of the maybe-fucking-possible. I could win the Powerball.

I’m never going to have to analyze the bathroom habits of a half-human, half-animal composite race of creatures. Yet, if I don’t want my child to think I’m as low functioning as Michelle Bachman, apparently I’m going to have to start thinking about this type of shit.

Countdown to Jerk #2. May he be every bit as hilarious and find me every bit as stupid.

One week left.

28 Weeks

2011-05-30T15:28:00.000-05:00

(Friends and lovers, here's a blog I wrote a month ago and never posted...I'd say "you're welcome", but it's barely adequate. Once I go down to part-time at work next week maybe I'll tell some The Daughter stories.)

. . .

Oh, my goodness...today my job is gayer than Elton John's fluffer.

Gayer than Rosie O'Donnell's labia unfolder.

Gayer than Andy Dick giving Nathan Lane the Rusty Trombone while watching a Hugh Jackman movie that wasn't part of the X-Men franchise.

Sidebar on "Gayer": I went this small, liberal arts college. Very cool, very writing intensive, very open-minded teachers. Once I had to write a paper about a socio-cultural phenomenon in modern culture. What did I write about? The evolution of the boy band. What was my paper titled? "N'Sync: Are They Really Gayer Than Broadway Cowboys?"

(This was one of the best parts of college...seeing if I could choose the most ridiculous subject ever and still make an A. Ask me about the Abnormal Psychology paper I wrote about how women are legitimately crazier than men.)

Anyway, I had serious, grammar nazi issues when it came to deciding whether or not the accurate form of gay was "more gay" or "gayer". It was a dilemma. Not long after that, a friend came out of his very well-groomed closet and I decided to abandon using the word "gay" in any kind of negative or comedic way.

That lasted about ten years. Then I decided the statute of limitations had run on my PC-ness...and that being PC about one thing and only one thing was really pretty gay.

Anyway...gay...gay...gay.

And here's the part where I randomly try and blog about my pregnancy, since I haven't blogged much about about my uterus turd:

Being knocked up is going as well as can be expected. Zeus the Deuce (my fetus name) is growing well, measuring big, and flipping constantly. His list of favorite things: burrowing down any time I try and walk so I waddle more than Danny Devito; kicking hard enough to pop my belly button in an out like some sort of red rocket; evading the nurse every time she tries to check his heart rate (she can always find it, but he never stays still enough for her to actually get an accurate rate).

He's also settled low enough that I'm rocking some serious hip displaysia...which I thought would never happen. I mean, even if I had 5% body fat, I would still have some momentous hips. From a strictly skeletal perspective, I have a...womanly...build (read: annoying). How the fuck a 28 week old infant is massive enough to displace my hips is pretty befuddling.

Another pregnancy-unrelated-but-still-funny health issue as of late: I tore my rotator cuff. How? I'll never tell. So far, my stock answer has been, "Um...not really sure...just cleaning, every day stuff, you know." The only person I've confided in is That Guy I Married. It's one of those instances where I feel selfish for not sharing...because it's fucking funny...and people would gain laughter and joy from the story...but even I have a boundary line when it comes to oversharing. Sure, the boundary is pretty outreaching...pretty infinitesimal...but it exists. You know, it's real even if it totally seems imaginary...like God, or capitalism.

(Translation: one day I'll get drunk and tell the world and until then fuck you.)

So knocked up + torn rotator cuff + hip displaysia + normal pregnancy crazy brain = suckage.

But my belly is officially too big to be able to wash dishes, so that's a win.

A Mother’s Prayer (even though I'm not religious at all)

2011-04-22T15:11:00.001-05:00

“First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the beauty.

When the crystal meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the drums to the fiery rhythm of her own heart with the sinewy strength of her own arms, so she need not lie with drummers.

Grant her a rough patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, for childhood is short—a Tiger Flower blooming magenta for one day—and adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers and the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a bitch in front of Hollister, give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, for I will not have that shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a mental note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.”

-the incomparable Tina Fey (she can do no wrong…)

Letter of Resignation

2011-04-12T20:58:00.001-05:00

Dear Lady,

I was initially happy to support you, but you have done nothing but increase my workload in the preceding months. I can see the writing on the wall, and must inform you that I will not be able to continue providing you with my current services; I regret to inform you of my plan to resign. I will temporarily continue my employment for the next few weeks, but would suggest you find a suitable replacement no later than this summer.

Hopefully we can continue our working relationship next year after your projected workloads have returned to their previous standards.

Respectfully,

Your Bra

***How does my bra know that attaching my teets to a breast pump to feed this little demon is going to result in my breasts looking as if I’ve hot glued McNuggets to silver dollar pancakes and then adhered them to my milky orbs?

****Please note this was a love letter from That Guy I Married, posted romantically on my facebook wall.

Insane in the Membrane (of Amniotic Fluid)

2011-04-04T02:28:00.001-05:00

Can’t sleep.

Itchy. Achy. Having-to-pee-a-lot-y.

Duh, that’s pregnancy.

Doesn’t help that Jerk Baby—affectionately being called Zeus the Deuce—is a fucking flipper. The Daughter, she was a puncher, a kicker, a fighter. She beat the shit out of my ribs when she was a fetus/parasite. This one never stops moving, but it’s always in a very fluid, motion sickness kind of way. Like I’m on a rollercoaster, or really drunk and trying to walk.

I can tell you this already, blog: this post has no point. No plot. No climax. Much like a Lifetime movie, or the lifespan of a reality television star.

I’m just feeling talky. Haven’t really documented this pregnancy much, despite the fact that it took two mother humping years to get knocked up.

(Do you know how much ovulation sex that is? There was teenage-coitus-like chafing. Thank Allah for being schmazzly.)

But it’s going reasonably well. Some icky health issues aside, it hasn’t totally sucked. My second trimester hasn’t been nearly as pukey as I expected. So that’s a win. Until recently, the pregnancy crazy hadn’t really even been too noticeable.

Now, mothers and/or pregnant bitches out there, listen to me: if you’ve ever been pregnant, you’ve been crazy.

I fucking hate it when I hear people spout the fountain of crap about saneness and pregnancy… “Really, I wasn’t any different. Not crazy at all.”

Bitch,please. You locked yourself in your bedroom for seven hours because your husband wanted to watch football instead of rub your feet. That’s certifiable. Your feet are gross. The fact that you don’t think that was crazy means you either need a good hate fucking or you should just go ahead and kill yourself.

(No, I never locked myself in the bedroom for seven hours. My roommate doesn’t even like football…)

Sometimes I wonder if the fact that I’m aware of my rapid descent into insanity actually makes it worse. Wonder if I overcompensate with (an attempt at) reason, and take things to another level of irrationality. This weekend I voiced this concern. That Guy I Married’s response?

“Jesus, NO. Don’t ever stop fighting the crazy. That’ll make you like every other woman.”

(Is it weird that I found this comment endearing?)

His follow up: “Sure, yeah, I’ve noticed that the part of you that makes you you is slowly ebbing away, the reason and the logic, but it’ll come back. It did last time. And if it doesn’t all come back, well, then, I guess that’s kind of okay, too.”

For the record, hormones, that shit is not okay. Me not wanting to watch movies like Machete is not okay. Me needing to go to sleep at 9:00 every night is not okay. Me almost crying over an episode of a show that I would fucking judge other people for watching is NOT OKAY.

(I will never admit what show it was…I fully believe it doesn’t matter what you are like, it just matters what you like…Rob Gordon/John Cusack told me so…and if I don’t have my unimpeachable taste in television/movies, then who the fuck am I?)

Um…your mom?

FAG!

2011-03-17T19:44:00.002-05:00

The liberal in me feels the need to make this annoying disclaimer: I am a whore for gay rights. Really, civil rights in general, but still. I mean, the fastest way to get me to angrily tell someone to go suck a fuck is if that someone is being a fucking intolerant homophobe.

Now, that disclaimer made…let’s think about things we know about this blog’s author:

(Other than she must be into talking about herself in the third person…pretentious bitch.)

Okay, here we go:

Things We Know

1. I have an offensive sense of humor.

2. Really offensive.

3. I share that sense of humor with That Guy I Married.

4. We like to fuck with each other…

5. …in ways that normal people[1] don’t always understand.

Today, while we were sitting next to each other watching TV, I started texting TGIM. I wasn’t really paying attention, I was just playing with the new phone he bought me (score). I’ll admit, it wasn’t my best work, nor was it my most creative. It wasn’t something that would make him laugh out loud, or even really respond. I was just bored. That’s why I didn’t really think about it when he didn’t talk shit back. It was a message thread that I never would have thought about again…

…until I realized I hadn’t been texting the man I’ve been doing dirty things to for fifteen years. Nope. Who was I texting?

The mother of The Daughter’s best friend. A PTA mom. Someone I like, but not someone who I know very well…and definitely not someone I would have purposefully shared this with:

· “Fag.”

· “F

…that spells you.”

· “fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag fag”

· “You are Fagator, butt astronaut of Uranus.”

· “Shit, anal astronaut. Alliteration.”

Lucky for me, I got distracted and started doing something else before I could make any racial slurs (The Daughter’s best friend is an adorable halfrican).

Now, blog, I want you to be proud of me. When the (very confused) woman responded, I didn’t lie. Sure, I considered ignoring the text and then telling her my phone had been stolen. I considered saying I had left my phone out at work and one of the guys there had raped my outbox. I even (briefly) considered blaming it on TGIM (she’s seen him drunk…she would have believed me).

But I didn’t lie. I owned up to it. Apologized copiously. Explained truthfully.

Did anyone out there major in Philosophy? If so, how’s that job making coffee at Barnes & Noble going? Also, can you riddle me this:

Am I an adult because I admitted fault and accepted blame for my (embarrassing but hilarious) mistake? Or am I a child because an astronaut named Fagator was born from my thumb typing?

Endnote: The best part of the woman’s response to my faggotext: “I can’t wait to show this to my husband!”

[1] Squares, duh.

Auctioneering

2011-03-13T19:33:00.003-05:00

This weekend The Daughter’s school had its annual auction.

(Unnecessary background: she goes to this awesome, hard to get into magnet school that's really small and takes a fuckload of field trips...very un-traditional, un-public-school-like...think overnight field studies for first graders and bean bag chairs and bunk beds in the classrooms. This auction raises most of the school’s field trip money every year, somewhere between a “shitlot” and a “fuckwad” of cash for school programming.)

Essentially, the auction is a big deal for the school. And pretty awesome. Fancy-ish. Open bar, lots of food, dressed up parents, held in a wedding reception type hall, DJ, dancing, general old people debauchery. Of course I helped out a little with the planning committee...I obviously have self-worth issues.

But…the only two words you needed to get out of that last paragraph? Open bar.

That Guy I Married was drunk pretty close to immediately (hello, there were JELLO SHOTS...in five different flavors, “PINK! I wonder what pink tastes like? Watermelon!”)

I’m not sure if I should make fun of his Jello shot consumption by likening him to a high school girl getting drunk for the first time (Zima, anyone?) or if I should just note that his two favorite shot flavors were watermelon and grape…despite his whiteness, the man’s taste buds could be racially profiled.

But here’s the thing about a drunken TGIM: he doesn’t really change much. You know those people that turn into totally different people when they drink? Or get slutty? Hateful? Emotional?

He’s not one of them. Instead, he just tends to say all the wondrous things he usually only thinks to himself, or mutters quietly to me. But when he’s drunk, he’s an announcer…amplification system unnecessary.

*Begin scene.*

"Jesus, I wonder how so many kids go to [The Daughter’s school]? Who would have sex with all these ugly moms? How did they get laid in the first place?"

Please note the above statement was made loudly, and was both overheard, and then tweeted (by him). When I pointed out his hypocrisy ("I've been fat for 2/3rds of our relationship; I don't know if you get to shit on who other people bang..."), he responded very romantically: "But you have a pretty face, and big titties. And you're easy."

Then, whenever someone made a reference to me being pregnant, he responded with this, "Oh, she's not actually pregnant. She just had a big lunch."

And when I was helping tally bids on auction items at the end of the night, he ran over to the sanctioned off check-out area, pointed at me, and yelled, “THE PREGNANT ONE’S A THIEF!”

Then he ran away. Only to return later, to heckle us as we tallied closed bids so we could organize the winners. Instead of heckling me, he chose to taunt a mother who didn’t know him, didn’t know me, and likely didn’t understand humor. “Hey…hey…hey. I would like to bid on an item that has already closed,” he began. “Can you help me with that purchase?”

The woman thought he was serious. She was trying, with no luck, to explain to him that bidding had closed an hour ago and that he couldn’t bid on any more items. He pretended (convincingly) that he had no idea what she was talking about.

So I intervened. Even before I spoke, as I walked towards him, he started backing up like a puppy who was caught going through the trash. I told him to either help tally or quit being a douchebag. Then he fled, laughing at me.

Then, after he was gone, I had to have a conversation with this woman he had punked…you see, she thought I was just calling a random auction-goer a douchebag. She found it to be rude, unprofessional, and unhelpful. I think she was even more confused when I explained that the random douchebag was the one responsible for the watermelon I was harboring under my sweater. “That douchebag is the one who put this [motioning to my gut nugget] inside of me.”

Still, my favorite part of the night was when TGIM noticed a man with a long, gray ponytail wearing a Cosby sweater. He tried to point him out to me, but I never saw him. So he took a photo, and posted it on facebook (social networking is clearly his lifeblood). Not long after that, TGIM found himself in line for the bar behind Mr. Cosby Sweater himself. I mean, what was he supposed to do?

TGIM responded in the only logical manner available: "Excuse me, SIR, what can you tell me about pudding pops?"

*End scene.*

It's a Boy!

2011-03-10T16:41:00.003-06:00

I'm officially growing a wiener. The Daughter shall have her nemesis.

That is all.

***UPDATE: The Daughter--my kindergartener practicing the art of spelling and insults--just brought me her magnetic doodle board where she had written, "Mom has a penis."

Sounded out "penis" all by herself. Color me proud.

Zombieocalypse*

2011-03-06T19:20:00.001-06:00

*[Please note the word “zombieocalypse” was coined and patented by Mr. Says Me Anonymously…and by “patented”, I mean I have to give him credit or he’ll give me shit about it.]

The Daughter has never really been much for believing in monsters. At least not the supernatural kind (yes, we have had many, many conversations about stranger danger…I’m that mom…she knows to punch a stranger in the throat and run like hell if necessary). Still, she’s just not that willing to believe in crazy stuff. Guess she’ll never be a Scientologist…

Regardless, she’s still pretty entertained by the idea of zombies. Can you blame her? No, no you can’t. They’re awesome. I mean, have you seen Zombieland? The Walking Dead? Some other third thing?

Once, I even heard her ask her Magic 8 Ball this question: “Magic 8 Ball, tell me the real truth. Is my dad a zombie?”

For the record, he’s not a zombie. He’s not nearly focused enough to be a zombie, nor is he needy enough to be a vampire, or manipulative enough to be an incubus…

Dude, monsters are kind of douche bags, right?

There was another time recently she pretended she was afraid, and couldn’t sleep… even alleged there might zombies in her room.

And when I type, “pretended”, that’s exactly what I mean. She wasn’t really scared. She just wanted us to think she was scared so she could tell us she needed to watch this video one more time to get her mind of the zombies. It worked.

(Riding on a pig, baby monkey…you’re welcome.)

Then, yesterday, The Daughter was playing in the backyard. She rushed in, out of breath from playing/running/laughing, and sighed (jokingly), “I had to come inside. Thought I saw a zombie out there…”

I just laughed. I was making dinner, and therefore busy enough to not take this opportunity to fuck with her.

That Guy I Married wasn’t as occupied.

“A zombie? In the backyard?” he asked, seemingly worried. She just nodded skeptically, unsure where the conversation was going.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” her dad assured her. “Zombies eat brains, and you’re really smart, so you’ve got plenty to spare.”

I guess she looked less than convinced.

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. You have so many extra brains, a zombie couldn’t mess with you too badly. You’ll be fine.”

You know a person is going to grow to be adept at sarcasm and cynicism when, at age six, these kinds of shenanigans don’t even phase her.

I would also like to submit this wisdom for the parenting journals: Hey, parents out there, you know how getting your kid up from school can be a less than pleasant experience? You do? Of course you do.

Well, if they aren’t getting out of bed, and you’re too tired/lazy/nice to yell at them, let me suggest this: just open your child’s closet door, and exclaim, “Okay, monsters, go get [insert kid’s name here].”

This gets kids out of bed the way Jagermeister gets sorority girls into bed.

You’re welcome. And, thanks, monsters!

Emu-sing

2011-02-27T16:50:00.001-06:00

The best kind of friend with benefits: the kind who writes a guest blog post for you when you're working too much at your real-life job and busy writing character summaries for a real-life-literary-agent for your real-life-wannabe-novel.

In other words, enormous thanks/kudos/non-erotic-but-friendly-thoughts to one of my seven favorite people on the planet, Kate, for writing a guest blog for me today. Do yourself a favor and visit Kate, also known as GDC (or Goddamn Caitlin, she's a G-D-C) over at Fat Ass to Fit Ass.

Here's her post...not only is it about something I have on the brain lately (siblings!), it will also show you why she and I are brain twins. You'll have to find out about our boob twinsiness elsewhere.

______________________________________________________________

I am not your typical sister. First of which I didn't grow up in the same house with my siblings. They lived with my Mom and I lived with my grandparents, so our relationship is a little different than your normal siblings. One of my favorite things to do was to tell my sisters random stuff to see if they'd believe me.

A smart person might say I was abusing their youthful trust in me for my own amusement. That person would be right.

Once when I was having trouble trying to sleep I told Cassidy my eye teeth were pointy because I was a vampire and that when she slept I would suck part of her blood, not too much though. I told her the whole story in a bad Transylvanian accent. She was about 7 and I was about 14. She stayed awake all night and I thought it was hilarious.

A couple years later I was a chaperone for my youngest sister's field trip to the zoo when she was in the 4th grade. I'm about 13 years older than her, and I had a flexible schedule so I became her go to field trip chaperone.

So she's 9 and I'm taking her and a couple of her very best friends around the Tulsa Zoo. I'm trying to be as polite and intelligent as I can, filling their tiny heads with my impressive knowledge of all animal species. Let me tell you it was fascinating.

But I got bored. I can only go so long being proper, not accidentally cursing or making references young children shouldn't know about... so I got creative.

We had just finished seeing all the scary big cats at the zoo and were winding up our tour when we came to the Emus. As you know, the emu is not a graceful or pretty bird and I knew absolutely nothing about them. So when Camryn turned to me and said "Katy, what's that?" I looked at her with my most serious face and said, "Camryn, that's the most dangerous animal in the world."

She of course believed me, so I kept going. Explaining to her that the emu would kick a person square in the chest and their heart would explode. Camryn and her BFFs took about 4 steps back from the emu habitat. I felt accomplished and we finished our zoo tour.

Honestly I never thought of it again.

Then about 5 years later when Camryn was older she and I went back to the zoo with a couple of my friends just for fun.

We were walking around for the day and were wrapping up when we got to the emu exhibit. My friends and I stepped up and were reading about the birds, Camryn was not.

I turned around and asked her why she was so far away. She looked at me with her solemn face and said "Katy, that bird could make my heart explode."

I stood dumbfounded for a minute... then nodded and said, "That's right. Good girl."

And I've still never corrected her. I hope that's not a question on some important test she has to have for college.

Who am I kidding, that'd be hilarious.

_________________________________________________________________

Thanks, Kate, not only for the blog, but for being sadistically awesome. Also, thanks for cross stitching "Irony is not dead" as a craft project complete with bunnies and ducklings.

Ronald Wilson Reagan

2011-02-15T09:40:00.001-06:00

Oddly, most of the time I’m pretty confident about my parenting decisions. I usually stand by my choices.

Then there are the times when I question myself…am I pushing her too hard with reading and numbers? Should I be pushing harder? When she asked me how gravity worked, was it wrong that I tried to push her down to explain the concept memorably, and not just with words?

(For the record, she thought it was hilarious…and she didn’t actually fall down…because she’s a ninja ballerina…and now she really understands gravity.)

Others times I know I screwed up. Made a bad call and reacted impetuously. No, I should not have let her watch that episode of Family Guy when I hadn’t seen it before. No, just because I told her to do something seven times doesn’t mean on the eighth time I should have yelled like Bill O’Lielly. No, I shouldn’t have told her that her real dad is a monkey, and we had to have her tail removed when she was born…

(Okay, I take that last one back…that was amazing.)

Now here’s my confession: last week I made one of my worst parenting decisions in six years.

It requires a little back story…and a little too much information. You’ve been warned.

In January, I went through a threatened miscarriage. We talked about this briefly, blog. In the aftermath, my doctor wrote me a verbal prescription for no orgasms. No sex of any kind (no fun of any kind). Boo. Hiss. I considered finding That Guy I Married a concubine of some sort…

Fast forward four weeks. My doctor—the cautiously sexless führer—lifted the ban on fun since everything with the pregnancy was looking golden. So the second The Daughter was asleep for the night, it was time to drive the pork truck to tuna town.

We thought she was asleep. And…in the beginning…she was asleep. Still, apparently our enthusiasm woke her up.

No, she did not walk in on us. Thank you Jesus, Allah, and Tom Cruise.

But she did overhear. “What were you guys doing? What were you yelling about? What was that tapping?”

Please note that when she inquired specifically about that “tapping”, TGIM responded under his breath with, “Dat ass.”

Like most parents who have to answer questions in the middle of the night, our answers were complex: “Go to bed.”

The next morning was a snow day from school, so TGIM went to work and I stayed home with The Daughter. She woke me up, crawling into bed with me, again wanting to know what she had overheard the night before.

Now, blog, I’m not saying the parenting decisions of the previous night weren’t questionable…but here is where they go from questionable to reallyfuckingstupid.

I was barely awake. I was less than functional. Due to being preggers, having to pee every thirty minutes, and the insomnia I’ve been friends with since childhood, I haven’t been getting much sleep. I wasn’t exactly at my best when The Daughter started her inquisition.

So when The Daughter asked what the tapping was, I ~~lied~~ explained that the dog must have been scratching, hitting her paw on our wood floors. You know, because that makes total sense…

I thought the conversation was over. It wasn’t. “What were you yelling about, mom? Were you having a nightmare?”

Nightmare, sure. Good idea. Sounds plausible. Let’s go with that one.

“What was your nightmare about?” she asked, genuinely concerned. Why the fuck couldn’t I have gone with ANYTHING other than what I went with? I mean, I’m bright. My MENSA exam alleged I’m smarter than most of the population. Yet, I wasn’t quick enough, or awake enough, to tell her I was having a nightmare about a monster, or a bear, or a zombie. No. Not me. What the fuck did I have to tell her I was having a nightmare about?

Ronald Motherfucking Reagan.

In my defense, I was mostly asleep. In my defense, TGIM and I had watched that HBO Reagan documentary the night before. In my defense, I’m functionally retarded.

Also: R-O-N-A-L-D W-I-L-S-O-N R-E-A-G-A-N. Six letters in each name. 666. I submit this as proof he was the antichrist.

Naturally, my curious child wanted to know all about Reagan and the nightmare. But instead of backtracking, instead of telling her I was kidding, instead of being smart…I started talking about Reagan’s presidency.

Trickle down economics, Iran Contra, Ollie North, AIDS. What the fuck is the matter with me?

And while I’m obviously daft, I was still smart enough to realize this was a colossal fuck up. Still, I couldn’t stop talking. My worst personality trait...when things get awkward, I just keep talking.

Oddly, I tried to smooth things over. I tried to keep from villainizing the Republican party (I want The Daughter to learn to do that on her own). I want her to make her own political decisions, so I was backtracking, trying to explain that Reagan wasn’t a bad person (maybe) but that he just made some decisions that mommy thought were wrong.

Oh, fuck.

This is what she got out of it: some guy named Ronald was supposed to be protecting our country and instead he gave a bunch of people AIDS, and they died.

I could not get this out of her head. I couldn’t correct it. Situation? Unmitigated.

Finally, two days later, after this was really the only topic of discussion in our house as TGIM and I tried to alleviate her worry, she asked this, “What did Ronald look like?”

I told her. Old white guy.

Her response, “Oh…I thought he would be brown.”

Maybe she’ll grow up to be a Republican after all.

Six...(not just that character on Blossom)

2011-02-10T00:49:00.001-06:00

As I write this, it’s 11:59 pm, February 9^th, 2011.

That means The Daughter has precisely one minute left as a five-year old.

Much like tonight, six years ago today, That Guy I Married had already gone to sleep at this time. And, much like tonight, six years ago today I couldn’t sleep.

Six years ago I was furiously finishing my last minute thank cards for my last minute baby gifts. Then I was rechecking the diaper bag and my hospital bag for the 12,343^rd time. Busy knowing I should sleep—considering my alarm was set for 4:30 am because of the scheduled c-section—but still knowing that sleep would be a fickle mistress (much like someone Charlie Sheen would lock in a bathroom). Essentially, I was freaking-the-fuck out.

Six years later, I still can’t seem to sleep, but it’s not because I’m freaking out.

You see, blog, I just baked her birthday cake. Chocolate cake, chocolate frosting, the edges piped with pink vanilla icing and a giant pink number “6”. Her presents are wrapped, her new bike is hidden in plain sight for her to find, and the birthday banners are strung. The invitations are out and the RSVP’s in for her Saturday slumber party, we have tomorrow’s snow day itinerary planned, and I have everything laid out to bake the chocolate chip muffins she requested for breakfast in bed.

And I think…when the fuck did this motherhood racket become such second nature?

I wasn’t one of those people who became a mother and everything automatically fell in place. As far as loving The Daughter, taking care of her, trusting my instincts…well, okay, that stuff was natural. The rest? Not so much. At home, with The Daughter and TGIM, I was golden. With everyone else? I felt like a total fake.

Those first few years of motherhood, I tried to figure out where I belonged. My friends without kids seemed totally freaked out by the fact that I had bred. Our common ground seemed to entirely disappear. I tried making friends with other mothers…seriously…I tried. I joined a (wait for it) Bunco group of other mothers.

(That happened. On the serious.)

These were women who were in Junior League and paid $17.00 for a single hair bow for their daughters and hadn’t had an orgasm or given a blow joy since the Clinton administration. Not that some of them weren’t really cool, or fun to talk to…but, come on…motherhood isn’t enough to make me connect to people I have nothing else in common with. It’s just not. And they didn’t really feel like I belonged, either. I didn’t.

Then I gave up. There was some health-related bullshit taking up my time and energy, so trying to figure out what kind of mother I was supposed to be took the backseat. I’m glad. I stopped even thinking about how another mother would parent, or what the books say to do, or what my mother-in-law would approve of.

I guess that’s when I stopped feeling like a fake.

I parent different than other mothers. And I’m glad, because my kid is different than other kids.

Yes, she’s mouthy. Yes, she will defeat you in an argument. Yes, there’s a better than fair chance that she will be explaining sex, death and why Republicans are wrong to her fellow elementary school students years before these children’s parents are ready for them to hear those sorts of things.

But she also cleans her room, brushes her teeth, and gets dressed by herself. She hasn’t thrown a tantrum in years (I don’t negotiate with emotional terrorists). She uses reason and adorableness to get what she wants, instead of tears or whining (again, I don’t do reasonless crying). She even helps around the house without me having to resort to psycho hose beast-like antics.

So to all those comments I read that say things like, “The Daughter is funny, but I’m sure hoping [stupidly named child] won’t be anything like her!”, here’s what I have to say to you: You should be so lucky, muthafuckas.

Happy birthday, best kid ever. Thanks for teaching me how to be a mom.

My Niece is a Jerk

2011-02-06T19:05:00.001-06:00

It shouldn’t surprise you, blog, but my kid isn’t the only jerk kid in the family.

(Go ahead and file that under “obvious exposition”.)

I have four nieces (apparently we only abort male fetuses in our extended family). One is an infant, so her jerkiness—while most certainly there—has yet to be unequivocally proven. And my two eldest nieces, ages seven and almost ten, are beacons of well-kept politeness and order…

(Those two aren’t actually related to me by blood…you see, That Guy I Married strangely has a sister who is a polished, proper, church-going Republican…and it’s nearly impossible to tell they’re related unless my sister-in-law is D-R-U-N-K.)

And then there’s my other niece…

…the one who recently called her great-grandmother a “buck nigger”.

(If you’re unfamiliar with that term, consider yourself lucky. Also consider yourself a better person than I am.)

When you think about the type of child who would say something like this, what do you picture? And older child, maybe a little dirty, a little unkempt, definitely with some sort of urban flair? Probably.

I’m guessing you don’t picture a cherubic, suburban, four-year old with waist-length platinum blond ringlets, big blue eyes, and the most pinchable cheeks you’ve ever seen…

That’s her. That’s Evil Niece. That’s the kid who once dropped an unannounced deuce in my backyard during a playdate.

That’s the kid who hid under my piano when she was three, focusing a constant, evil death stare at my usually-impossible-to-intimidate husband until he lamented, “Honey! Make her stop…”

And the kid’s eyes…I mean, she has the clearest, most childlike eyes you’ve ever seen…until she gives you the death stare. Then she makes the kid from the Pet Sematary, that one from The Ring, and Chucky seem like a trifecta of adorability. My niece can make Hollywood’s best creepiness seem about as threatening as Justin Bieber.

I once saw her affix this death stare to a mall Santa at Christmas. I’m confident he immediately converted to Judaism.

This is a child who has repeatedly spit in people’s faces, including her own grandmother’s. This is a child who called her grandpa a “stupid asshole” when he took her swimming. This is a child who insists that black people are just really, really dirty white people.

When my niece and I get together, it’s entertaining. Why? She is STUBBORN. I am ALPHA. Yes, I once got into a, “Yes I am/No You’re Not” fight with my niece at three-years old that lasted approximately thirty two hours (or, maybe like six minutes). She insisted she was in charge. I insisted she was not.

(I won. Duh.)

The thing is, she doesn’t know who she’s dealing with…I once sat at my kitchen table for four and a half hours because The Daughter (age three) refused to take a single bite out of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when TGIM and I told her she had to.

(Yes, four and half hours later, The Daughter had finished the sandwich, I had finished two Phillip Pullman books, and she was starting to realize that her parents are big enough assholes to demand respect and obedience…in our own kind of way.)

This might be why my niece responded the way she did when her mother was asserting her own dominance with her daughter:

My sister: “You’re not the boss. I’m your mom; I’m your boss.”

Evil Niece: (looking pensive) “You’re not the boss, Auntie (my name’s) the boss.”

Fuck yeah I am.

Blah, Blah, Blah...I'm a Whiny Bitch

2011-01-26T08:28:00.000-06:00

I don't like this blog template. I was sick of/annoyed by my last blog template (the four and a half people who read this blog seemed to agree). But when I start to work on it, I end up feeling like I've already spent way too much time on it (read: any), so I think, "Fuck it. This is adequate. I'm okay with all things adequate."

Also, there's the added problem that I know less about web design than I do about restraint, Asians, and hymens combined...

(...I'm pretty certain I broke my hymen during cheerleading practice...years before any romantic-like penetration.)

Essentially, I'm just trying to tell you that this blog is likely going to look lame and inconsistent until I get decisive/inspired/drunk.

(Shit...I can't get drunk...I'm preggers. How do sober people make things pretty? And why am I not one of those pregnant women who thinks it's acceptable to drink wine constantly when you're knocked up?)

(Oh, right...because I'm not a dumb fuck.)

Can a magic computer fairy just fix it for me? Any kind of fairy, from Tinker Bell to Clay Aiken. I'm not picky.

Twisted Sisters

2011-01-24T21:04:00.001-06:00

I’ve had siblings on the brain lately. Maybe because my baby sister just turned 26 and recently gave her own daughter a sister…maybe because as an adult (adult…weird) I’ve found that the few friendships I actually care about enough to maintain are all very sibling-esque…or maybe because I just went through some nasty coochie carnage that left me wondering if I would be able to give The Daughter a sibling, after all.

For the record, Jerk Baby is still hanging on and dominating my ute(rus), despite what the doctors cleverly called a “threatened miscarriage”. Nice creativity there, medical community. Nice. See, if lawyers were responsible for coining that medical event, we would have gone with something fancy, probably in Latin…perhaps Territo Vestri Uterus[1], or In Terrorem Vaginis[2] or maybe even Vaginis Ploro Scelero.[3]

I wasn’t sure what was happening there for a little while. It…sucked. Exclamation point. But Jerk Baby told my body, “Hey, ute! Fuck you! I’m staying. This place is warm, and cozy, and awesome. I’ve got squatter’s rights, so suck it.”

(I am SO GRATEFUL/ECSTATIC/SHITBALLS HAPPY that I am only capable of gestating jerks…hopefully this baby keeps up the jerkiness until July…and then onto forever.)

But this post isn’t supposed to be about my Grossus Cattus Crudus[4]. It’s about how when I thought I was losing the baby all I could think was, “[The Daughter] is going to be an only child…I’ll never give her a brother or sister.” This is a post about siblings (despite the way-too-long intro).

I always wanted a fuckload of kids (and by “fuckload”, I mean, like, three…ish).Yes, I’m well aware of the fact that this astounds people who know me slightly, or even better than slightly…I mean, how many times have I heard, “I can’t picture you as a mother…”? Too many times. I guess people must really have problems with picturing awesomeness personified, right?

So I always wanted kids, and I always wanted them to have siblings. I guess I just wanted The Daughter to have what I had: a cherubic looking baby sister who plucks the head off of all of your Barbies and then artistically adds nipples and pubic hair to the sexually vacant dolls…and then denies it.

I want The Daughter to have a sibling to help her sing this jaunty little tune she penned last night:

“Daddy is a wie-ner slave.

He plays with his wiener ev-er-y-day!”

[Repeat infinitely; add dance moves as needed.]

And every older sister or brother—hypothetically—deserves to have a younger sibling they can taunt…have someone they can practice their non-real magical powers on. All I’m saying is this: on your fifteenth birthday, when your sister barges into the bathroom for the 164,546,893^rd time while you’re blow drying your hair, you have a constitutional right (thanks, unenumerated liberties of the 9^th Amendment!) to make her believe you’re a witch through any means possible. Then, once you’ve scared/scarred the ten-year old so badly that she’s hiding in the garage, and you finally convince her that you’re not—in fact—married to Satan…and she agrees to come back inside the house…and then shortly thereafter trips on a rake and falls on her face up the garage stairs…thus PROVING your powers of dark magic…I mean, every person should get to do that.

(Aren’t my reasons for wanting to give The Daughter a sibling compelling?)

After all, only siblings could very nearly get into fisticuffs at Easter lunch in front of their entire family because one of them WOULDN’T STOP putting jello eggs down the other’s shirt…and then the other responded in kind, by trying to force the original offender to eat said jello egg…

(Hello, 2010. We were 29 and 25, respectively, when this occurred. We were also sober.)

And The Daughter is ready to be a big sister. At first she was insistent about having a baby sister, maybe even certain it would happen. I mean, she asked a Magic 8 Ball (not the fun kind that gets you Rick-James-high) if she was getting a sister…and its sources told her yes.

(What are these alleged “sources” a Magic 8 Ball claims to have, anyway? I mean, it’s b-l-a-c-k, and black people totally hate snitches, so what kind of sources could it really have?)

Now she says she wants a brother, primarily because “…a little brother wouldn’t steal my clothes, or take my toys, you know, stuff like that.”

(If she does indeed have a brother, and he’s flamboyant, she is going to be so pissed when she finds him in her old ballet tutus.)

But, mainly, I want her to have a brother or a sister so she never feels alone in this family. So she has some solidarity. So—when she’s wondering why the funk her parents do shit like tell her she’s half monkey and we had to have her tail removed when she was born—she has someone to bitch about us with. Someone to complain about the oddities of her childhood to. Someone who gets it, without advising her to have us committed.

And maybe someone to help her have us committed…maybe in fifty years or so…when That Guy I Married is sitting on our front porch, sans pants, shooting neighborhood cats with a potato gun…while I lounge next to him…my tit hanging out the bottom of my shirt as I shout vaguely racist but overtly sexual slurs at every twelve to seventeen year old who has the misfortune of walking within yelling distance of my porch.

That’s why siblings can be necessary.

[1] To frighten your uterus.

[2] Terrified vagina.

[3] Vagina weeps with blood.

[4] Like, really gross pussy bleeding.

Made Up Words

2011-01-05T08:57:00.002-06:00

The Daughter likes to make up words. She has, from the very beginning. Which I guess isn’t surprising, since she started speaking insanely early. How old was she when she spoke her first word? Six months. For the non-parents out there, that’s—like—really fucking early. Most kids? Between nine and twelve months. But she had to learn to talk quickly…I mean…That Guy I Married and I never shut up.

(The Daughter’s first words, in order: 1) Dada, 2) Dog, 3) Milk, 4) Book, 5) Mama. Number FIVE. I’m pretty sure her dad paid her off to screw with me. What’s worse is that not only could she say these words, she knew exactly what they meant. She would point at the object/person, name it, and that meant, “Hey, get that shit for me. Like, now.”)

Since then, she started making up words. When she wanted to get a point across, and she couldn’t figure out how to do it, she just made up a word. My favorite?

Confearation: [cahn-feer-ay-tion]

—Noun, singular.

—As defined: When one is lying in bed, attempting to sleep, and a bad and/or frightening thought occurs to him/her.

—As defined: The feelings one experiences in the direct aftermath of a nightmare, although he/she is now awake.

—Usage: “MOM! I need you to come into my room…I had another confearation…could a bear get into the house and bite my neck?”

For another example of her made up words, click me.

Anyway, The Daughter likes to make up words. People do it all the time, I know…it’s just that she does it in a charming, hilarious way, not in a Jessica-Simpson-too-stupid-to-read sort of way.

While we were driving home during the holidays, (Happy Holidays…is what terrorists say. Merry Christmas!) I noticed for the 324,989^th time that TGIM and I also tend to be make-up-wordy.

He and I were discussing this epic photo my childhood best friend posted on facebook.

Legen…

…dary.

Our following conversation:

TGIM: “That picture…hilarious…it’s so…Rockwell-esque.”
Me: “Rockwellian.”
TGIM: “Shit. That’s better. You think you’re better than me?”
Me: “Yes. Duh. But your kid gets the making-up-words-thing from both of us.”
TGIM: “No—she gets it from me. I make up words all the time. I do. Like schmazzled.”
Me: “Really? And what does ‘schmazzled’ mean?”
TGIM: “That’s what it’s called when your pubic hair is too short.”
Me: “So are you saying that my lack of pubage is schmazzled?”
TGIM: “Yep, you’re schmazzly.”

Flowers and wine and make-up-sex aren’t romance. This shit is romance.

Later that night, our conversation again shifted to some make-up-wordiness. We were lying in bed, trying to fall asleep. That’s when the most random conversations happen:

TGIM: “You’re warm, like a space heater.” [This coming from a man who once, while spooning, likened the heat my cooter gives off to an exhaust vent.]
Me: “Wanna fill me up with some liquid spooge to cool me down?” [It’s just pillow talk, baby.]
TGIM: “I don’t think that’s how it works.”
Me: “It might be. You don’t know. You’re not a…vagiantist.” [This then evolved into a brief conversation about how I was going to write a blog about the preceding conversation.]
TGIM:"You can't write a blog about this, dude, you can't even spell it. And nobody but us would think this shit is funny, anyway."
Me: “Seriously, do you think it would be ‘vagiantist’ or ‘vagientist’?”
TGIM: “Depends. Are you talking about someone who exclusively studies vagiants? Or are you talking about a scientist who’s part vagina?”

In case you're confused, foreign, or vaginally challenged, a "vagiant" is someone with a HUGE vagina. It's also perhaps the best named band since the advent of music.

TGIM assures me that nobody else in the world will find these conversations amusing. I assured him I didn’t give a fuck. I’m blogging it, anyway.

Because you know who will think it’s funny? One day?

The Daughter. And possibly even the eleven week old fetus taking cover in my ute.

Like God, I Have Created Man

2010-12-20T21:26:00.000-06:00

Dear Blog,

On Friday, I found out my oven is no longer bunless.

It’s about fucking time.

You see, reader(s), I’ve been trying to get knocked up for nearly two years. Wanna know how many times I’ve peed on a stick only to get shitty news? Afuckinglot.

Also, could they make pregnancy tests anymore demeaning? Yes, yes they could. It’s called the digital pregnancy test. You know all those fucktards out there who are too stupid to read a “traditional” pregnancy test? (“One line? Two lines? I’m so confused!”) Well, now there’s this gaywad digital test that includes a digital read out that either says “pregnant” or “not pregnant”.

Now, I don’t know what it’s like to take a positive digital pregnancy test; maybe that shit is glorious. But I will tell you that you haven’t been shit on by something you peed on until a urine stick declares “NOT PREGNANT” in bold, threatening, judgmental letters.

My pregnancy test of choice? That one from the Dollar Tree that they’re probably selling illegally. I mean, it does say “Not for individual retail sale” right there on the box…at least that’s what it says when I can read it…because most of the time all the writing is in Spanish.

So on Friday, armed with a day late menses and two dollars worth of preggo tests, I expelled urine from my urethra. I used said urine to determine the emptiness of my uterus. I have gotten quite used to my uterus being as empty as Rupert Murdock’s soul…so I was fucking ecstatic to find out otherwise.

Sidebar: Uterus is one of the grossest words since the advent of language. Also, I just did a search of my email to find a list of the most horrible words ever that I had discussed with a very funny friend via email (kewl, gal, fridge, chat, anecdote).This led me to look over the subject lines of emails I’ve sent/received over the last year, from a few of my favorite people. I thought now would be as good a time as any to list some of them for your entertainment: “Squaresville”; “Never Nude New Year”; “Motorboatable”; “Doucher”; “Essay for My Ese”; “Q-beer” (as in, queer beer); “Throat Punch”; “My Bald Pussy Drips for You” (sent to a girl; also used in a different email to TGIM); “Keeping it Real(ish)”; “Glenn Beck Loves to Fuck Goats”; “Glenn Beck Eats the Souls of Orphans”; “Harry Truman”; “All the Girls in the First Two Rows Just Got Pregnant”; “Fucktard”; “I Got One Eye on Rob Thomas”; “You Never Really Know a Woman Until You Meet Her in Court”; “Book is One Letter Away from Boob”; “Caillou Blows Goats; I Have Proof” (only the parents of small children get that one); “Spaghetti Cat”; “I Like Shit”; “White People Like Wayne Brady Because he Makes Bryant Gumbel Look Like Malcom X”; “You Could Be a Part Time Model”; “Truthiness”; “Negrodamus”; and “Hurry Up, Meow”.

You’re welcome.

(A fair number of these emails are much, much funnier than this blog could ever hope to be.)

Anyway, I’m pregnant. Or, as my sister would say, “I’m fucking pregnant.” (That’s how she’s announced all of her pregnancies to the family.) I expected that since it’s been a struggle to get this way, the pregnancy would take its sweet time sinking in…but I’ve known three days, I’m four weeks along, and I’m already puking my fucking guts out.

(You know how epically gay it is to throw up and be thankful for that vomit? GAY. But I am, so fuck you.)

Wait, I can use the word “gay” now, right? That’s okay? I’m liberal, so it must be cool.

So after I found out I was incubating, what did I do? Tell my husband? Call my mother? My doctor? My shaman?

Nope, fuck that shit. I told The Daughter.

To her credit, she thought I was fucking with her. “For real, mom? Are you being serious right now? Are you telling the real truth?”

Is it weird that I’m proud of raising a five-year old cynic? Is it weird that I hope to raise another?

Then I let her tell her dad. He called me a fucker. Then he hugged me. That’s romance.

Then she called the grandparents/aunts. “Guess what? You are going to be so proud of my mom…”

Apparently, getting pregnant is something to be proud of. Tell that to black teenagers everywhere…and Bristol Palin.

Of course, The Daughter finished her conversations by telling family that she already knew what the baby’s name would be, “If it’s a boy, it’s going to be Jack, and if it’s a girl, it’s going to be Lucy.”

For the record, I have no idea where the fuck that came from. While solid names, they’re not really names I ever considered. We’re not even talking about baby names yet, duh. The kid is a liar. She just wants us to decide on names already, and fucking stick to it. Not going to happen.

But she is excited. So excited, it’s rehtarded.

So am I…and terrified. Thought that since I’ve done it before, a second pregnancy wouldn’t be scary.

I was wrong. Like, Clay Aiken wrong or toddler beauty pageants wrong.

And as much as I want to post this blog immediately, I’m going to sit on it. Wait until I’m farther along. If I thought I was brave enough to be able to write a miscarriage entry, I’d go ahead and post it. But I’m a little bitch. I’m afraid if I posted this, and then something happened, the following miscarriage entry would be as vile as Glenn Beck.

So I’m waiting.

That means if you’re reading this, I made it to my first ultra sound…and that the baby is—in fact—a baby…and not some wooly, sharp toothed demon seed signifying the impending apocalypse.

Jerk kid is going to be a jerk big sister…BOOM!