You dont tell me my business

I AM THE OTHER

2017-01-21T05:14:00.000-06:00

Today is January 21st, 2017. One day since that man became president, 12 hours since the White House website removed the LGBTQ, Climate Change, Civil Rights, and Healthcare pages, and only a few hours before women and men across the country join together in solidarity to protest the changes about to happen to this great nation. Because make no fucking mistake--America IS already great. Perfect? Of course not. But when I think about all of the wonderfully kind, accepting, intelligent, crazy talented people I know here, when I think about all of the loving families, and all of the grandmas and aunties and friends and people with fame and notoriety that are for the first time in their lives, finding their voices, I know we cant all be as bad as they say we are.

See, Trump and his flunkies, and the Republicans in congress, and the Alt Right Nazis all want you to believe that this place we live is unbearably broken. They want you to be simultaneously ragefully angry and paralyzed in fear. They want you to believe them when they tell you--sometimes directly and sometimes more subtly--that we are broken because of poor people. Because of brown and black people. Because of sex and hormone crazed women. Because of the gays. Because of the atheists. Because of Muslims. Because of Immigrants. Because of the Native Peoples fighting endlessly for our planet. Because of Environmentalists. Because of Hippies/Hipsters/Freaks. Because your fear is money in their pockets, and they will do anything for more of it.

Once they've convinced you of these things, and more importantly, once they've convinced you that it's now ok to think these things and say these kinds of things outloud, it is easy to let your heart grow cold. To not even notice when that tiny flame of kindness and compassion quietly extinguishes itself. When the light that is the ability to truly see yourself in the face of another goes dark. And like a line of dominoes, everything else follows and comes crashing down. Now when you look, all your eyes see is OTHER, DIFFERENT, NOT LIKE ME. And you are afraid. Your fear can present as anger or disgust or arrogance or denial or indifference. But make no mistake, at your core, you are afraid.

I know there is nothing that I can say to make your fear/hate diminish. Like most good, true, important things, it unfortunately has to come 100% from inside of you. You need to notice your heart fire has gone out, and then you need to care enough to want to relight it.

But I want you to know this. Regardless of what the next four years bring, regardless of the things you do in the name of righteousness, regardless of the hurts you may cause us and our families and friends

WE ARE STILL HERE

WE ARE STILL HERE AND WE ARE NOT GOING ANYWHERE

WE ARE THE LORAX AND WE SPEAK FOR THE TREES

WE ARE DEFIANT POTATOES

WE ARE THE GRANDDAUGHTERS OF THE WITCHES YOU WERE NOT ABLE TO BURN

WE RESIST. WE RESIST, WE RESIST

We will not go down without a fight. We will not shut up. We will not allow hatred to be normalized. We will always fight for love and goodness and kindness.

So turn away if you must. Pretend nothing has changed. But know that there are so so so so so many multitudes of us. Some of us you wont even be able to recognize at a glance as Other, but we are there. We have infiltrated your churches and schools and grocery stores and coffee shops. We are all around you. We are America and we are living right next door and we will not go quietly into that good night. We are here. We are here. We are here.

Thank you to everyone marching today. I love you. I love what you stand for. I send you light and hope for your safe return. Thank you for representing the Others.

~Maria

To Liberal White People: Now What?-Written by a fellow liberal white person that doesnt know shit but is trying

2016-11-16T11:02:00.003-06:00

So.

Tuesday happened.

From here on out Tuesdays will just be a reminder of the 7th circle of insanity hell my mind went through Tuesday night into Wed morning as I sat on my couch alternating between ugly crying and utter disbelief and angry yelling at the tv. I waited until PBS called it around 1:40am because even though I started to have the anxious shits at 8pm that evening, and by 10pm I was seriously concerned, and by midnight I knew, but pretended I didnt, I still wanted to wait until it came directly out of someone's mouth:

Donald Trump has won the election for president of the United States.

Weve already all done this rehashing of trauma a shitton the past week. It sucked, he sucks, America sucks, everyone sucks, Im going to go live in a remote mountain hill with my family and social circle and we will learn how to make our own spirits from hillside grown barley and bramble berries and we will all live in peace with everyone in the glorious sunshine. Glorious yes, but that aint happening.

This election has shaken people to their core, and maybe more than ever, it has shaken liberal whites to their core. We who have said this could never happen in our america, because how could the people of this country elect someone who is backed by the KKK??? That said he will support a platform to repeal gay marriages? Who wants us to build a literal fucking wall separating our country from mexico? Who will overturn Roe v Wade?? This is 2016 for fucks sake!!! And our gay, and Muslim, feminist, and POC friends just sadly smile and pat us on the head like the giant dumb puppies we are, because they knew, and have always known what the underbelly of America looks like. Because they are the ones for whom that underbelly sneaks out of dark corners to bare its fangs when no one else is looking. They who know that liberal white America's silence on matters of racist/sexist/xenophobic/homophobic injustice isnt a statement of hatred, but an outcry of apathy. We dont care, because we dont have to care. It stops being an issue for many of us when we turn off the tv, or set down our phones. It never stops for them.

I have seen white friends and acquaintances throughout the last week that save social media for only happy uplifting basic stuff, begin to tentatively dip their toes into the waters of dissent and speak up and as a fellow white person I have mentally shouted THANK YOU!! and then have told them so. I also see the blowback from people saying that these gestures arent genuine, are an attempt to garner social media points, dont mean shit if you arent actually out there on the line. That perspective is valid, as it comes from a place of decades and decades of disappointment in how nice liberal white people dont seem to give a shit enough to actually do any of the real work for change. So I get it. As a white person, I think its my job to encourage those of us that are just beginning to be brave enough to get involved. Sure, dont expect a thank you from your black coworker for saying you think its wrong that Steve Bannon (RAGE STROKE skdjfaldskjfa) will be a white house adviser, but I can say thank you and talk to you about what else we can do to let our government know we dont accept this walking shit stain as a whisper in our new president's ear.

So what can you do?

*Continue to post article and videos and pictures on social media that show you dont support the kind of America Trump built his platform on. Dont be afraid to rile up your family. These are the conversations we need to start having and it CAN be done in a way that doesnt result in someone losing a limb (most of the time)

*Talk to the moderate people closest to you in person that dont agree with what you are saying. This will probably result in rage and shouting. Thats ok. Nothing worth doing is easy. Dont give up. Take breaks, come back to it at another time. These conversations are marathons not sprints. We are working on getting people to want to change whats in their hearts and that takes lots and lots of time and energy.

*If you have people in your life that are openly racist/sexist/homophobic because they have been embolden to be since the election, CUT THEM THE FUCK OUT. Your acceptance of their behavior is what perpetuates the cycle. (I get the last two points seem contradictory, but you will know if someone is a lost cause or not)

*Contact your congress people!! Seems silly at first but this can be very effective in enacting them to take a side. Huffpost just did an article about this, which is better than what I could tell you.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/contacting-your-congressional-representative_us_582a0965e4b060adb56f8e95?zc5s5ozyi3eszia4i%3Futm_hp_ref=black-voices&ir=Black%2BVoices&section=black-voices&ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000047

http://www.house.gov/representatives/find/

*Give your money to organizations that are helping to fight in a meaningful way. Ask people who know more than you who they give to. Thats what I do. The ACLU is a good place to start.
https://www.aclu.org/

*Show visibly that you dont support Trump's platform of hate. Pins, buttons, shirts, hats, bumper stickers, flags. Be a walking billboard for justice. IMO I find this especially important in conservative areas. My city went Trump all the way, it wasnt even close. It is more important for me to be brave enough to show people in my city that I dont agree with their indifference or hate than it is for someone on a college campus surrounded by like minded individuals.

*Attend meetings and rallies in your area that promote social justice. Go to a protest. Does that seem daunting and scary? It feels that way to me too. But push that fear aside, tell it to fuck off, and go anyway. If you dont have anything going on in your area, talk to people and figure out how to start something.

*ASK QUESTIONS to other people that are actively involved in social justice movements and who know what they are doing. I dont consider myself one of those people, but I am talking to those people to figure out my place in all of this and how to help.

If you made it this far, thank you. Know that I wrote this from the best place in my heart, and that I am open to being told what I got wrong, or any sources you think I should add, remove. Know that I appreciate and echo your anger for your POC, Muslim, gay, female friends and want us all to cultivate it into something powerful in a way the majority of liberal white people in this country have never done before. Now is the time to stand up and take action, even if you've been too scared in the past. Now is the time to be on the right side of history.

Etsy--SHUT UP AND TAKE MY MONEY

2016-10-12T07:44:00.001-05:00

I don't know at which point one of my asshole friends told me that the money pit called Etsy exists, but Id venture to bet its been a good 8 years that Ive been gracing people all over the world with my hard earned and now my husbands hard earned nickles and dimes. It began as a way for me to support my artist friends but then quickly steamrolled into my current status which Id call a bi-monthly fix. My relationship with this site borders on abusive in that it does things to me that cause me to scream at it, and throw my phone, but then theres this grace period where I cuddle back up to it, and present it with a fresh bouquet of roses and things are sweet and lovely for a while.

Etsy is the Target of the Internet because 100% of its inventory is shit I in no way actually need, but that my heart will tell me I cant live without and before I know it that tiny orange cart in the corner says 3 next to it when all I was trying to do was look up what time TGI Fridays closes on Tuesday nights.

No, Etsy Ap on my phone, ( whats wrong with me ) I do NOT need a "here's more shit we recommend you buy so that your husband flips a table when the credit card bills comes" section. Its not necessary. Knock it off. I already have a problem without you giving me the crack for free.

My main areas of concern:

1) Rings. I have so many silver Etsy rings that Ive run out of fingers to put them on and soon will need to start wearing them on my toes in case I want to look even more like a Gypsie than I already do.

2) Pendant necklaces that I feel represent me as a person to the extent that if I was forced in a hostage situation to be identified by the jewelry I was wearing anyone who knows me would instantly says "yes, yes they have Maria, that's so something she'd wear".

3) ALL THE WALL ART. PUT IT ALL OVER ME. IF I WAS A STRIPPER ID ASK PEOPLE TO MAKE IT RAIN WITH WALL ART.

4) Tiny animal statues made of anything. I have 2 kids under 5 I cant have nice tiny things, what is wrong with me? I need a room just filled with animal statues I can go meditate in forever.

5) A kintsugi cup I'm not supposed to actually use. Again, where do I display this without fear of it being destroyed or someone spitting a mouthful of chewed bacon into it (a thing that actually happened in my house)

6) GRAPHIC TEES because I refuse to dress like an actual human adult and I need these shirts to let everyone know how I feel about GoT or Duck Duck Grey Duck.

7) Moscow Mule cups so I can pretend I'm in a Renaissance storyline when I'm drinking ice water

8) Tarot cards to become a fortune teller when I grow up

9) Enough Ceramic/Pottery to open up my own Etsy shop selling other peoples Ceramic//Pottery Ive collected

10) Front back earrings that I will inevitably lose the back to and then have to spend the next 3-4 days frantically searching for and hoping not to find it in my baby's diaper.

11) Hooded sweatshirts with mythical creatures printed on them

12) A spoon with a saying embossed on the scoop that truly serves no purpose whatsoever other than being able to say, hey did you see this cool spoon I own that has words on it?

13) A mermaid tail blanket. I shouldn't have to explain this to you if you don't get it, get on this level.

14) 8 small Japanese glass terrariums that I will for sure end up killing because I never read the directions

15) This fucking sweet lamp made out of a gourd

16) A custom pet portrait

17) A rhino or reindeer mounted head made out of corrugated cardboard that my husband and I will never agree upon a place to hang it so it will sit in my closet sadly for 4 years.

18) Gifts for others...?? Right that's why I logged in the first place

Etsy--I hate you I love you I hate that I love you.

Etsy Sellers--Stop being so creative and beautiful and glorious and way over charging me for something that literally cost you 1/10th of what I bought it for without question.

Husband--I'm sorry. It could be worse, I could be addicted to meth or Kate Spade bags (are those a thing, I think so?) Thanks for working so hard and being so smart that we have expendable income for me to be selfish with.

In conclusion, my Etsy life motto:

Hey NRA....FUCK YOU

2016-06-13T15:50:00.000-05:00

So here we are again. At this place that doesn't seem to be going away no matter how many times we rage against it internally, out loud, on social media, while holding a sign at a protest, in an impassioned email or voicemail left for a political representative. Here we are again.
And here we continue to be.

It doesn't seem to matter who we are. We can be a friend or relative of a victim, or a famous person, or an average citizen that's just tired, so so tired of this continuing to happen over and over and over and OVER without any actual changes being made. We are the collective Sisyphus but instead of at least getting to enjoy the accomplishment of getting the boulder up the hill in the first place, our fucking boulder doesn't even budge. Its immovable. Its cemented to the fucking earth with iron pylons a mile deep. We have dug deep trenches and grooves with our feet because even though we know this boulder is stuck, we are driven to at least keep trying because we know that our errand is right. It is just. Something has to change; we must keep trying until our feet wear away and all the muscles in our back break from the strain. But here we are. Here we continue to be.

I am not saying I have the answer locked away in my head. I do not claim to be a magician. In fact, I am aware enough to know that this problem, this disease, this implanted parasite needs a solution far more detailed than a group of people in a tiny room could come up with given the time and money and resources. I get that its become a part of the social structure of America and that dissecting it and cutting away the bad parts and making it new again will take more social momentum than I can imagine right now. But that doesn't mean we don't try. It doesn't mean we simply give up and walk away because the solution to the problem is too hard.

Let me make this very clear--We are fighting against an enemy that does not care about you or your family or me and mine. Even though they may claim otherwise, they do not see the importance and need for unity and community on any level within our country. They do not understand why being a collective of different kinds of people working together is always better than an individual working alone and against. Their culture is a breeding ground for the very people they say they are trying to stop. The ideology of the NRA has more in common with the ideology of ISIS than it does with whatever moral code you live by, I promise you that. Fear mongering, emphasis on only looking out for yourself, absolute devotion without question, irrationality when presented with logic and facts, incalculable stubbornness, an overall psychological need to be RIGHT, and most importantly, money. Money money money, bitch. They control the money, so they control the laws. The cycle of power and wealth that loops and never ends. Any change to the system means a loss of control or income or both, so they will continue to be immovable and irrational and unyielding until their last breath in order to protect the fortress they have created for themselves. Their fucking motto is "From my cold dead hands" and you can bet your ass they mean that. Because to lose their power is akin to death.

THAT is what we are up against. That is why we are sitting here today, 2 days after a man walked into a nightclub at 2am and killed 50 people just trying to have a good time in a place they felt accepted and comfortable. Because a school full of babies wasn't enough. Because a room full of people peacefully discussing their religion together wasn't enough. Because a movie theater full of families wasn't enough. Because nothing will ever be enough to make the human garbage juice running the NRA ever want to relinquish their death grip of power and money on this country.

We don't need AR-15s available to the public. We just fucking don't. Seriously, stop it, shut up, we don't. There are 3 million of these guns (MILLION!! ) lose in the united states right now. 3 MILLION. What the fuck. This is a gun the NRA continually fights to keep around, and after every mass shooting,this is a gun that more people go out and buy. Tell me again how more guns make us more safe? Go ahead tell me. I want you to say it to me with a straight face. But first take a look at these images and tell me how these people all died if there are 3 million AR-15s in this country keeping them safe?

I am tired of growing weary of death. I am tired of seeing the families and friends and communities destroyed by bullets that shouldn't have been there in the first place. I am tired of people dying. I do not give a solution because I don't know what it is. All I know is this--there are more good people in our country than bad. There is more love than hate. There is more positive than negative. The NRA wants you to forget that. Be your better self. Rise above your fears and get to know people. Build your community up so that you look out for each other. Be your own villages instead of heavily armed islands. They want you afraid and distrusting and unwelcoming to anyone that looks or sounds or dresses or acts or prays different than you. Don't you fucking give them that. Not anymore.

https://www.gofundme.com/PulseVictimsFund

https://www.oneblood.org/

http://www.preventioninstitute.org/focus-areas/preventing-violence-and-reducing-injury/preventing-violence-advocacy.html

Escaping the Bonds---a tour of random shit piles in my home

2016-05-12T15:24:00.001-05:00

This is me sitting in a childsized wagon with my two children in an attempt to keep them away from the sandbox which happens to be under the deck where a nice but not bright robin couple decided to begin a family. The robin couple are frantically running around my yard in a panic and are refusing to get back in the god damn nest even though they continued to make the fucking thing a few weeks ago while my children ran amok among them and shouted things at the sky. I can only do so much robin family. This is why natural selection happens.

As I was sitting in this wagon I began to contemplate my own home and the various nest like collections strewn about roughly 80% of the time. I should begin by stating that I was raised in a family that was undiagnosed obsessive compulsive in terms of many things, with cleanliness being at the top of that list. It honestly took me 25 years to accept that the way I grew up was abnormal and that everyone elses's homes were not in fact the pig sty hovels I was taught to think they were. I could talk to you forever about the extent of the madness, but one of the best examples I can recall was not being allowed to hug a brand new stuffed animal I was given as a gift for fear that it may get lint on my outfit before church. I instead smushed that stuffed turtle with the red baseball cap as hard up against my face as I could and spun around to get out the love aggression since I was being denied the pleasure of hugging him properly. Lint. Lint was somehow a sin. Do you understand how this can warp a child's mind? Sweet baby jesus, the insanity.

You'll be happy to know that in the act of creating and then caring for children, I have overcome my learned terror of messes and dirtiness. By overcome I mean that I allow life to happen without stopping my kids and dog and husband from just being living breathing beings that naturally make messes. The anxiety it gives me is still very real, but I override my urge to control it 75% of the time and for that I give myself a giant high five. Well done, you. You will only fuck your children up marginally in this regard!

With that being said, if my mother were still alive, and if my gram wasnt fighting dementia, the state of my home on a daily basis would put them both in comas that they may never awake from. Part of me is horrified at this fact of my life and the other gets incredibly gleeful that Im an adult and that this is my home and that I can do whatever I want with it so fuck all yall. I share this with you now in the hopes that if this is familiar to you, you dont feel so alone, and that if this disgusts you, you are able to feel better about yourself because of me. Ride that high horse, baby.

First I bring you to the dining room table, which is covered in toys, playdoh, playdoh toys, and the remains of lunch which we ate around the toys, playdoh and playdoh toys. Im actually impressed as the table isnt completely covered in half chewed, smushed food, so this must mean this was taken on a day I actually used cleaner to clean it that morning instead of just pushing a damp paper towel around it and creating Impressionist-like murals from old avocado and over easy egg yolks.

Ahhh we now travel downwards to the floor. The glorious floor which remains glorious for exactly 37 seconds after it is cleaned before milk is spilled on it 4 times in a row, and the dog throws up on it for some reason. Here you'll see it is sporting a lovely mixture of dog hair, playdoh crumbs, playdoh toys, old milk stains, and an orange plastic plate which I can guarantee will remain underneath there for several days until I get annoyed enough to crawl on my knees and pick up.

Here we have the playroom which by all means should always look like this. If your kids bedroom or playroom doesnt looked played in, as a survivor of childhood cleaning trauma whose room always had to look magazine perfect, I implore you to knock that shit off. Give them this. Let them at least have this.

We now make our way up the stairs, past the random dirty pee diaper on the landing, to this stop at the humidifier table in the hallway where a fun collection of items seems to be having some kind of random things convention. You'll notice many toys and pieces of toys and games, as well as a large 5 ft long cardboard tube that came with the outdoor rug that we bought for the porch and that has somehow traveled from the garage into our 2nd floor living space. Yes, what you are seeing there IS a big ass plastic stripper shoe that fell from the top shelf in my closet and didnt mange to brain anyone to death when it took its mighty leap, and that I am now letting my kids play with because I think its funny as hell to see them try to walk in it or use it as a vehicle for their figurines to travel in.

Here we find an upside down laundry basket with a collection of pajama tops and bottoms I got too overwhelmed to actually find matches for, fold and put away. Thats like 7 steps for one chore, I said GOOD DAY SIR. So here they will sit for the next 3-5 days until I feel up to finishing that specific task. Note the random book poking out from under the closet and my toes which I was too lazy to crop out.

This is the guest bedroom that theoretically should be in mint condition as we havent had guests in it in over two months. Youll see that it, in fact, is not! Empty diaper box and bunny tail from an old Halloween costume withstanding, Id enjoy sleeping in here were it not for the fact that a tiny localized tornado clearly took out that train yard and no one has given any thought to helping the community rebuild. Thanks again for nothing FEMA.

This is the sink in the laundry room and my favorite shit pile nest in the house because I have zero clue how any of this stuff got here, and because of that I am allowing it to stay. Paw Patrol Zuma hovercraft toy, tampon, cap to laundry detergent, tiny book called Chicken Soup with Rice, large piece of fool's gold sitting on the book--which I found out the hard way that my baby with a death wish can fit entirely into his mouth, kill me, empty bottle of infant tylenol, $6 in cash, roll of duct tape, small garden stone, and wooden nut to child toolbox that I havent seen in 6 months. If these items had a high school yearbook, Id sign it "Love you guys!! Youre hilarious, Never change!!"

We return to the mainfloor for a glimpse at the mudroom, where because we live in a Northern state that has bipolar weather conditions, I am unable to fully put away our winter boots, hat, and coats, even though I have already taken out our summer sandals, rain jackets and sunscreen. That lovely carpet remnant we use to wipe our feet on is from the day we moved in two years ago, and that striped mitten is one of approximately 5 pairs who no longer have matches and just get thrown together based on whatever is available and hasnt been placed into the dogs water bowl by the baby. I can see you wondering, and Yes we have been invited to show in the Parade of Homes based on this photo alone.

A little jaunt from the mudroom we have the ever present Random Shit Pile of Eternity that has always been and always will be until the sun explodes and the oceans turn to dust. There are so many fun things here but some of my favorites include--giant garden rock, tube of pink party hats, hammer, jewelry cleaner, plastic popcorn container that is filled with all my jewelry I take off immediately upon entering my home, happy face stickers, a book that my husband keeps forgetting to return to his coworker, a broken camera from 2008 that made it through 2 moves, and the Grand Poobah of them all--a purple felt box containing my mothers ashes so she can see the shitshow of my life and laugh with me and be a part of it on the daily. Also that Galileo thermometer I got 3 Xmases ago has somehow managed to survive being hit with a mini basketball over 35 times. We only have the highest quality imports around here. folks.

And finally, mainly because I'm getting bored and not because there aren't any more shit pile nests to show you, nothing compliments a scenic view like many spray bottles of household cleaners, a pair of reading glasses that no one has ever come back for, potted plants that will probably never grow, and an antique statue used as a place to dry the nose frida.

Thank You for coming on this tour with me. Have a wonderful weekend fart knockers.

Love,

Maria

Sometimes it Snows in April

2016-04-25T10:27:00.000-05:00

Last Thursday April 21st, Earth was rocked by the news of Prince Rogers Nelson's passing. Being a native Minnesotan who has lived here my entire life, the revelation was doubly heartbreaking, as we have always felt an intense amount of pride that someone larger than life in the way Prince was has never become too big for his Northern roots. He didn't up and leave to LA or NYC like everyone else does once they make it. He embraced the city and state that bore him into this world, and we equally embraced him back. He was one of us, wasn't embarrassed about it, and like everything else he did, didn't feel the need to explain it to anyone, because he was the living, breathing embodiment of

Its none of yo business

As details emerge about his passing, I realized that I do not give a fuck about the specific reasons behind his death. Words like suicide, overdose, addiction, opiate get thrown around and truly, whether or not those words make it into the final autopsy report doesn't mean shit. None of those words define him or can take away his shine and light and all the good energy and deeds he put into the world while he was a part of it.

I woke up this morning with something close to embarrassment that I still feel so sad that hes gone. I mean, Ive never met him, I wasn't distantly related to him, I've never seen him live in concert, I cant be considered a Super Fan. By all estimations this should be a 1-2 day sadness at best. But it's not. I think for a lot of Minnesotans it's not. We are collectively heart broken over the loss of a person that impacted the world on such a grandiose level but who was still down to earth enough to buy music at Electric Fetus on the weekends like any other musically inclined Minnesotan would do.

I was lucky enough to have been a part of the all night dance party First Ave threw on the day he died. My friend Rachel and I waited in the giant crowd for almost 2 hours with only a sliver of hope that we'd actually make it inside the building. But we had to try. And by the grace of the Purple One we made it in and onto the dance floor where we proceeded to shake our shit for the next 2 hours in honor of a man that made that club famous. Rachel said how crazy it was to watch the projected image of Prince singing Purple Rain on a screen that was literally where he was standing when he the video was recorded. At times during the night watching him dance up there on that screen truly felt like we were watching him live, and everyone would cheer at his splits or crazy footwork like he could hear us. And really, what more fitting of a way to explain what he means to Minnesota and humanity in general in that a recorded video presence causes people to scream and cheer? He truly was a special energy and humanity is better for having been the recipient of all he had to offer musically, socially, and on a humanitarian level.

Thank you Prince for being you, 100%, all the time, without a second thought. Your confidence in being true to yourself is something all of us should be inspired to try whether we are 3 or 93. As time passes and more of your inner circle reveals the true scope of your generosity towards the poor, people of color, and other forgotten communities, it underscores the feeling we all had, all just inherently knew about you--that at your core, you were just a wonderful human being that happened to communicate best through the language of music. Thank you for it all, we are all better having had the chance to share this space and time with you. And as Corvette so fittingly said,

RIP Prince Rogers Nelson June 7th, 1985--April 21st, 2016

Behind the Pup Tag---Paw Patrol Expose

2016-01-22T09:24:00.003-06:00

My 3 year old recently started watching Paw Patrol, and can I just say that the pups and all of Adventure Bay can seriously just fuck right off. After watching literal hours of this mind excrement, I have come up with my own theories on what I think the reality is behind every one of these imaginary animals and their human companion.

**WARNING** This may offend you. I dont care, this is just your trigger warning so I cant get sued.

CHASE

From his over-eagerness to use his SWAT vehicle, to his beloved Spy Drone, it's not too difficult to surmise that Chase, one of the most called upon and rule abiding members of the Paw Patrol, is actually at his core, an undercover NSA operative and Nazi sympathizer. It is rumored that his great great grandfather was a patrol dog along the Polish/Germany border back during WW II, so its safe to say he grew up hearing a lot of fucked up pro Aryan brotherhood propaganda. He is unable to sleep without the lights on, although no one has ever been able to get him to open up about this. Why he is allowed to remain in the Paw Patrol is still a mystery but its telling that he is frequently left out of group facebook event invites and was the only pup not present at Zuma's daughter's Quinceanera.

SKY

While undergoing basic training at the air force academy, Sky was injured in a freak accident when a propeller broke off a grounded plane and landed on her back as she was passing underneath. She underwent months of physical therapy and in the interim period became seriously addicted to prescription pain medication. Knowing she was unable to kick her habit and being unable to keep her on the roster as an addicted cadet, her commanding officer wrote her a letter of recommendation for the Paw Patrol as he recognized her immense talent and knew that flying was the only thing holding her together mentally. Ryder is aware of Sky's addiction problems but as long as she doesn't do anything illegal in public while wearing her Pup Tag, and makes sure to keep her nose clean during flight, he allows her her vices. She is often seen smoking lonely cigarettes behind Everest's cabin. She says the cold is one of the only things that makes her feel alive anymore.

EVEREST

Pictured here in her hometown village of Voskresenskoye, Russia, Everest is a former KGB operative who went AWOL after her 179th kill. She grew up a simple girl, who dreamed of one day owning her own bakery in Moscow. No one really knows what led her down the path of trained assassin, but one thing is clear--she was god damn brilliant at her job. She wanted to get as far away from that lifestyle as possible, so she ended up in Adventure Bay USA, a hardened woman looking for whatever kind of redemption there can be for murderers. Being unable to relate to any of the other pups and their trivial problems, she lives in an isolated log cabin, with her lover, Luke. Luke is probably the only other person in Adventure Bay that's experienced even close to what Everest has in terms of general life tragedy and violence, as he was raised as a part of a missionary family in Sierra Leon. He was forced to watch his entire family's brutal murder at the tender age of 9 and then was recruited into a child solider army for the next 5 years until he was rescued by a Red Cross volunteer group who stumbled upon his camp. Everest is his shining light in an otherwise bleak existence. They spend most of their time smoking fat joints and eating brick fire pizza to numb the pain. We dare not judge those who hath witnessed so much.

MARSHALL

Continually the butt of the pup's jokes and known for his eternal clumsiness, Marshall actually suffers from a genetic disorder called Dyspraxia. His bumbling and tumbling isn't just for comic relief--he literally can not control his body movements as there is a disruption in the way his brain sends signals to his body . He has yet to let the other pups know about this, and instead prefers to allow them to think he enjoys being the class clown. He joined the Paw Patrol to help inspire others with this disease into pursuing jobs and hobbies that involve movement and athleticism. His catch phrase "My highly trained paws are at your service" is his own version of dark humor. He and Sky have had an on again off again relationship that he has been working hard to make more serious if Sky is able to buck her addiction. "I cant fully love her until she fully loves herself" he was overheard saying to Rocky after having one too many Bud Lights at the local tavern.

ROCKY

Rocky is the only pup that is court mandated to be a member of the team as a requirement of a plea bargain deal. He suffers from an extreme case of hoarding that has landed him in several treatment centers and jail. He has lost 3 homes and most of his family to this debilitating condition. He is making progress living with the team, but we are privy to glimpses of his internal struggles like when he gave Farmer Al shit that one time for trying to throw away a rusted bucket full of holes--it's in these moments that we truly feel his pain. The pups are aware of his issues and are not allowed to keep trash of any kind on the premises for more than 48 hours. Almost everyone is supportive in helping Rocky come back to some semblance of normalcy, only Chase finds this disorder to be a "total crock of shit".

ZUMA

Zuma is of Central American descent and made his way north to Adventure Bay after having successfully jumped the fence somewhere on the Texan/Mexican border. He had a cousin working for cash in a town outside Adventure Bay and decided to try his luck there in the hopes that he would one day raise enough money to get his wife and 2 children into the US through legal channels. Ryder's parents found him outside a home depot and hired him to be their gardener. After several days it became apparent that Zuma's talents far outweighed simple horticulture, and Ryder's parents suggested he apply for the open position with Paw Patrol. Ryder liked him immediately and after hearing Zuma's story, assigned him to the water position as being near the water reminds Zuma of the small fishing village he left in search of a better life for himself and his family. Ryder has been helping him with paperwork in becoming a legit citizen of the United States. Sky was able to pull some strings with her air force connections, and Zuma was reunited with his wife and two daughters late last March. They live in a modest apartment on the shore of Adventure Bay and Zuma commutes to work daily on his hovercraft.

RUBBLE

As the only openly gay member of the Paw Patrol, Rubble works hard to promote GLBTQ acceptance in the areas in and around Adventure Bay. It was slow going at first, but as people have gotten to know Rubble and seen the result of his tireless efforts to save people, there has been some real positive momentum, with Mayor Goodway instating a yearly GLBTQ appreciation parade that was like a toned down version of PRIDE. During a recent bodybuilder competition, Rubble was charged with doping allegations which he vehemently denies. The scandal was a big one but word on the street is that people are favoring Rubble's side of the story that Mayor Humdinger and the Catastrophe Crew may have been behind the syringes found in Rubble's gym bag. It is known that Chase and Rubble are lovers, but Rubble is understanding in Chase's reluctance to come out given his insanely conservative upbringing. Rubble's dream is to one day leave the Paw Patrol. marry Chase, and open a small gym somewhere in Arizona.

RYDER

Ryder has been institutionalized for the past 17 months in a maximum security mental hospital at the request of his grieving parents for an inability to connect with objects and people in the real world and an obsession with an imaginary town called 'Adventure Bay' with the accompanying delusion that he is the leader of a rescue team of talking, vehicle driving puppies that never age. His parents were forced to make this heart wrenching decision after several of the neighborhood dogs went missing and Ryder was found by police with the dogs holed up in an abandon water tower. It was documented that during his arrest Ryder kept shouting "If you're in trouble, just yelp for help!!" to anyone that would listen. Charges in the dog abductions are currently pending.

I may be going to hell. Probably, I'm probably going to hell.

Have a lovely day you sexy mini muffins

Love,

Maria

Grocery Shopping in just 47 simple steps!

2015-11-09T15:01:00.001-06:00

1) Decide to go grocery shopping

2) Put it off for 3 days

3) Wake up on morning of 4th day and say fuckkkk we have to go today for sure

4) Think about what we should have for dinner for the next 7 nights

5) Become too overwhelmed and decide to plan for 3 nights

6) Spend a cumulative total of 45 minutes looking for new recipes to try

7) Become too overwhelmed and decide to make 2 of the 5 go to meals that are on rotation every 9 days and focus on only one new meal

8) Begin to make list on paper because every time you do a list in your phone you end up dropping the god damn thing while trying to juggle cart pushing and you are one screen crack away from Sudden Instant PhoneDeath Syndrome

9) Begin the 25-45 minute process of getting 2 small children and yourself ready to do anything outside your home

10) Go back upstairs 14 times for the things you forgot to bring down the other 13 times

11) Get everyone in the car

12) Go back inside for grocery list you left on counter

13) Go back inside for epipens you left on counter

14) Go back inside for kid snack you left on counter that's a necessity because its almost fucking noon and by the time you finally get backed out of the driveway they will both be yelling because they are hungry

15) Drive to grocery store

16) Extract both kids from vehicle

17) Carry 50lbs of kid into store

18) Wait 3 minutes while oldest child picks out the right car cart to ride in

19) Strap baby into baby seat, make sure oldest put his seat belt on to prevent unplanned escapes

20) Obtain groceries, place into cart

21) Backtrack 7 times because even though you have a list you still manage to either:

a) forget to write things down that you think of in store

b) get distracted and miss items actually on the list because you never bring a pen to cross items off

22) Unload groceries onto conveyor belt

23) Pay for groceries

24) Pack up groceries into many small bags

25) Put small bags into cart

26) Argue with older child about why he cant eat a raw potato while leaving store

27) Push cart out to car

28) Unload children into car hopefully with as little reenactment of Fight Club scenes as possible

29) Unload groceries into car

30) Return cart to cart corral

31) Push all the other shittily put back carts all the way to the back of the corral because we are a god damn majestic species not a hovel full of crap slinging monkeys you garbagepeople so lets start acting like it FUCK

32) Get into vehicle

33) Take 25 second brain nap from sensory overload

34) Drive back home

35) Begin to unload groceries from car with kids still strapped in--this is crucial. Leave them restrained or you will add 47 more steps to the list

36) Set all 15 bags on counter because you will gladly break fingers to not have to make multiple trips

37) Extract children from car

38) Remove outdoor clothing from children

39) Begin to hastily start throwing things on plates for lunch as children whine

40) Turn on movie to lull them into a quiet stupor while eating before the milk spoils on the counter

41) Begin to unpack groceries

42) Realize the fridge and pantry need to be decluttered

43) Declutter them while putting away new items and stacking dirty tupperware on counter because the dishwasher is full of clean dishes

44) Look around at the piles of shit everywhere and take 15 seconds to cry silently in the bathroom

45) Get third wind

46) Put away the last items with a triumphant gleam in eye

47) End Scene: Grocery level complete

Halloween Teal Pumpkin Pride

2015-10-30T15:18:00.002-05:00

Food allergies are probably kind of a joke to you. Maybe in your mind it evokes a similar reaction to hearing someone say their kid gets gas from gluten. You nod and smile and internally roll your eyes. You then briefly wonder why food allergies seem to be becoming a parenting "fad" and don't remember even knowing one kid with a food allergy when you were young. You think these parents must be helicopter moms and dads or overreacting busybodies with nothing better to do than sit at a PTA meeting and plead for a peanut /treenut free classroom for their precious snowflake. And you think "Who the hell are you to ask my kid to forgo their PB&J? My kid LOVES PB&J its the only thing she eats and here you are saying she cant bring one to school? No. Nope sorry honey, not going to happen. How about you just watch your kids yourself huh? Why don't you just be an actual parent and explain to them that they cant eat things with peanuts?! So what if they cant read labels, you should be able to show them every single thing that may contain peanuts and train them to just not eat it! And Halloween? Are you stupid??? Its freaking Halloween for christs sake!! Why should I have to buy stickers or nilla wafers on the off chance your little tike decides to stop by my door?? He can get a snickers bar like everyone else and should know better to not eat it. If he cant handle that responsibility, then don't let him go trick or treating, duh! In fact, you probably should just home school him as well, or better yet, confine him to a bubble in your basement.

I want you to know I've tried writing this from a humble perspective and from a logical focus and from a pleading lens but its Oct 30th, we are one day away from Halloween and after reading enough stupid shit on the internet to make my head explode, I decided fuck it, I'm just going to be me and if this pisses you off or offends you or annoys you, I really don't care.

My youngest kid has one confirmed food allergy. We found out when he was 9 months old after his doctor told us to try giving him peanut butter for the first time. I went home that day and gave him less than a cm worth on an M&M sized piece of bread and he instantly went into what I later learned was the beginning of an anaphylactic reaction. It was terrifying and even more so because he didn't really look that bad, but I could tell something was very wrong. After being sent home from the ER without any medication administered or any testing done I realized that this shit, this having a food allergy business, if confirmed, was going to be a constant uphill battle with the rest of the nonallergy having world. Testing done the following day at his normal doctors office confirmed my fears a week later--he was highly allergic to peanuts and what he experienced was a serious reaction.

We were told to remove all peanut products and possible peanut products from our home. That meant any product made in a facility that also processes peanuts isn't safe due to the possibility of cross contamination. We were to always carry two epipen injectors with the baby at all times, where ever he goes, even if its just across the street. Epipens are a lifesaving way to quickly inject a person with epinephrine, a drug that helps halt a serious allergic reaction in its tracks. The faster one is used, the better chance the person has of preventing the life threatening stages of anaphylaxis. We were to avoid ice cream shops, Asian restaurants, and bakeries as they are the most common places to have accidental ingestion of peanuts. We were going to have to get used to telling friends and relatives no you cant just feed our kid without checking with us first. We were going to have to eagle eye every playground, playplace, splashhpad for signs of kids eating peanut butter, or peanuts, or candy with peanut filling and then pray to all the gods that we neutralized the threat before our allergic kid accidentally toddled over and picked up that Reeses wrapper and shoved it down his throat.

We were told to basically be on terror level red at all times for the rest of his life, unless we are one of the lucky families, and hes one of the 20% of kids that outgrows it. So, there's an 80% chance this is our and his new normal for the rest of his life. The rest of his life. Let that sink in. My kid may have to be constantly on alert for signs that he may die from simply doing something he has to do every single day to survive--eat. You convince a teenage boy to carry an epipen with him at all times. You try to get a grade schooler to truly understand why she cant eat the rice krispie treats all her friends are eating at the birthday party. You explain to a toddler who loves eating everything that isn't nailed down why his world is actually a minefield. This isn't just about fear for parents, its about having to literally teach your own child to be afraid of food enough to take their allergy seriously, but equally empower them so that they can function in a relatively normal way at the same time. Because parenting is all sunshine and rainbow farts without that on top of it.

You look me in the eye and tell me now that its ridiculous for parents of food allergy kids to ask other adults to please take simple steps every once in a while to try and keep their food allergy kids safe. 1 in 13 kids in the US has a confirmed food allergy, a diagnosis that has steadily risen over the past years. These kids aren't 1 in a million, they are in your neighborhoods, your churches, your sports leagues, your schools. If the trend continues, and the numbers continue to rise, it is only a matter of time until your own family or friend's family is impacted as well. Before my son's diagnosis, I didn't get it either--you never really do until its your own kid.

So for anyone out there that thinks this is whats wrong with our country today and that everyone is too sensitive and that want me to bow my head and feel embarrassed for asking for help in keeping my kid and other kids safe:

For everyone else that is offering toys instead of candy or painting a pumpkin teal or simply not being a judgey POS regarding food allergies, a giant thank you very much, you do not know how much you are appreciated by these kids and parents.

For more information on food allergies visit http://www.foodallergy.org/

Happy Halloween to all y'all out there big and small

Year 7

2015-10-22T07:01:00.000-05:00

Its taken this long for me to allow myself to realize that I have no fucking clue how to grieve you. There are stages and the last once is supposed to be accompanied with this literal physical release that is a kind of giving up of all the pain and hurt and sadness to the universe. I havent done that yet. I havent even come close. I can feel it all inside wanting to be free, wanting to be released from the cage Ive made with cement blocks and mortar and heavy heavy chains. But Ive forgotten where I put the key. My hands dont remember the pathways of tearing down this house I built myself to contain you. And so it sits, heavy in my chest. Full of all my incredibly intense fears of truly having to let you go.

For the first few years I couldnt even talk about you with family. Your death was an invisible pink elephant crying in the corner, anguishing from lonliness. Someone look at me!! Dont you see me?? Im still here!! But I refused to look. Your death was a faraway thing, like someone discussing the pyramids who'd never actually been to Eygpt. I was told how strong I was, how well I was doing. I couldnt cry with people about you. And to watch others cry about you to me? The rage!! The horror! NONONO STOP. You dont get to be sad. You dont get to cry. I am the one who should not ever have to get out of bed again and here I am comforting you? Too much. Too much. I block things out. I dont want to feel them again, I dont want these memories of these people telling me these things about you that I already know. How could I not know? I lived in you. We shared the same blood. You were my home.

This year there is an acknowledgement for the first time of how much anger is there. Thats a step, maybe I am moving forward? But slowly so slowly. Dragging my feet and shouting the entire way. So much anger. How could you leave me???? You were all I had !!! Just you and me for forever and now forever is gone because you left. You left me.
You
left
me
here

You went somewhere I cant follow. So Here I am. Here I sit. Here I lay. Here I eat. Here I sleep. All the while trying to continue wanting to do it without you. I am trying. I try.

I listened to a woman speak about Death. She said we choose our paths in life, that before we are born we plan it all out like blueprints, and every heartache, every loss, we signed up for. We chose to experience it. She said there is a heaven but its more like here than we imagine. She said I will see you again, that you are around, that you can let me know youre with me. I get a brief mental image of you in a garden in this heaven she described, which is funny because you never were really into outside and plants like me and gram are. But I see you clear as day, with a little rake and you look up like you just remember you had somewhere you were planning to be, but that you got too immersed in your work. These things swirl around in my head like leaves caught in a tidepool and the undercurrent that pulls at me without fail is the wanting. These are things I want to believe. I want so bad for these things she said to be true. Equally as hard, I feel the weight of my cement house, tethering me in disbelief, unwilling to let me feel this hope, this joy.

The grief of you wont let me feel things. Childlike wonder still gets through probably because thats something Ive never given up. I can still feel the stars and a beautiful sunset or sunrise or a giant flock of birds fully. But other things, very important life altering things? They are grey around the edges. My wedding, the births of my children, building a new home with my husband, all have these little grey edges. Like photographs forgotten and left too long in damp basements.

I want to be fully happy again. I want to see the true joy in all things. Ive just forgotten how. I still laugh. My husband makes me laugh. My kids make me laugh. I love watching them. I stare at them for culminations of hours and hours upon hours. Watching them play. Watching their little minds figure things out, make up stories. In them I see me and I want to protect them from these hurts I harbor within. I want them to grow up feeling secure and free and light. Lightness. All childhoods should be made of lightness. Heaviness is an adult thing.

Every passing year it becomes more clear to me how much I dont know. I do not know if this is the correct way to lament another souls passing. Is it supposed to take this long? Shouldnt I feel patched up by now? Why cant I remember how to remove these chains and bricks from around you? I dont know. I dont know. Im trying. I try.

But time passes. It moves on. I wonder what you think of me, what you think of what Im doing, what Ive done. Are you proud? Do you wish you could hold your grandchildren upon your lap? I tell them about you. I will never stop telling them. Jack has your fiestiness. Mookie has your eyes. He really does. They are hazel. I hope they stay that way. I mourn a bit for the baby girl that I couldve named after you. Is that wrong? I dont know. I think I just wanted to be able to see something alive that was part you and carried your name. Something I could see and hold and touch and love. But Mookie has your eyes. And Jack has your spirit. You are in there, just as you are in me.

Today I will go to your grave. I will clean it and put up some yellow and organge flowers. And I will hold my head up to the sky and wait for the sunshine to fall across my face and pretend its your hand there. My children will be with me. We will go and sit to honor you. We have not forgotten you Holly Marie.

And yet, this story isnt one of hopelessness. Grief, Im learning, takes time. Grief, isnt what we are told it will be, its a russian doll with 55 inner pieces. What we are told equates to the cheerful smiling face painted on the outermost doll. I am working my way through these dolls, and when I get to the tiniest one I think at last I will be free. Free to fully feel again. Free to throw this hurt to the universe and to only smile when I think of you.
Im trying.
I try.

In memory of Holly Marie Stadnik

June 12th 1957-Oct 22nd 2008

#LetGo

2015-07-07T23:29:00.000-05:00

Being a human person on this planet in the last 300 years, and more so being a woman human person on this planet, we are told from the time we are very small that looks are the most important quality we posses. The way we look, our physical attractiveness and how fuckable we are/ how long we can hold that title trump all other qualities we have. A woman's kindness, strength, intelligence, athletic ability, humor, wit, ingenuity, leadership, empathy, and artistic talent don't mean shit if she isn't also conventionally physically attractive. And we've swallowed this crap and bought into it and put it up on a pedestal as Gospel truth mostly because our mothers did, as their mothers had before them. A cycle of inter-generational self abuse. Decades of negative inner monologues, of missed social gatherings, of crying in dressing rooms and hiding under layers of makeup or clothing or both.

As a 31 year old woman, I'm finally fucking sick of it. I'm done.

By done I don't mean that I have the mental willpower to never have a negative thought about myself again. I mean that when I do think something negative about my physical appearance, when I begin the "I cant/I shouldn't/I'm not ___enough" I am actively pumping the brain brakes and shouting "NO!!!" super loud in my brain face like you would when the dog starts to pee on the carpeting. I'm over telling myself what not to wear, what not to eat, how not to act. I'm just fucking done with it. I'm tired of fighting who I am and who I have the potential to become. I'm sick of trying to make myself fit into the box of what is acceptable for a woman to be. Have you ever seen I Heart Huckabees? If not, get that shit on amazon video or something. One of the stories in the movie involves a swimsuit model realizing that she just wants to eat a fucking brownie without wanting to kill herself for it and wear 18th century bonnets and overalls all day because that's who she really is inside.

That's pretty much where I am at. Bonnet and overalls and a big ass bag of Mickeys donuts. Sitting in my driveway barefoot, watching the birds fly around.

Look, I'm not telling you to stop caring about how you look, or to stop setting fitness goals or to stop lifting small vehicles at Crossfit or writing meal plans or redoing your makeup on your lunch break or making sure your shoes match your work blouse. If those things bring you joy and DO NOT BRING YOU STRESS/DO NOT MAKE YOU THINK NEGATIVE THINGS ABOUT YOURSELF, by all means, you keep on rocking in the free world sister. I just want you to make sure that anything you do that somehow involves your appearance, you are doing 159% because it makes you feel good and not because someone/the world told you to.

You do not need to change who you are for other people.

I repeat: YOU DO NOT NEED TO CHANGE WHO YOU ARE FOR OTHER PEOPLE.

On the left is me 5 years ago at my wedding. I P90X'd and ate chicken and green beans for a month to get to that level. On the right is me a week ago. 5 years have past, two big ass baby boys, and shit looks differently. Here in the States, it is no longer socially acceptable for me to wear a two piece. I'm supposed to fucking throw in the towel and hide my stretch marks and skin saggage and extra fat from the delicate eyes of the masses. I'm supposed to feel ashamed. I'm supposed to feel lazy. I'm supposed to feel unhealthy. I'm supposed to do whatever it takes to fix this or hide this from the world. Buy a big ass box of Spanx and pretend this isn't what my body looks like now after growing and birthing two lives. But guess what? This is reality folks. I look like this now. I'm not going to hide it or cover it up or pretend its not there. Maybe Ill get super motivated next month and bust my ass doing some fitness program and my body will look close to what it did at my wedding. Maybe I'll start mainlining liquefied donut holes and gain the 75 preggo lbs back. Maybe I'll do neither and this is how I look from now until the end of my days.

The point is this: how I physically look truly impacts the rest of the human population exactly zero percent. Am I a decent human being? Yes. Do I try to be kind and do no harm as much as possible? Absolutely. Do I go out of my way to help people? Yes sir. Am I funny? Your mom sure thinks so. Can I still rollerblade and ride my bike like I did in my 20s? You bet your sweet ass I can. Do I know my great grandmas meatball recipe that came over with her from Italy? Yup. Am I trying to be the best parent I know how to be? Every single day. Can I read faster than lightening? Indubitably. Am I a tiger in the bedroom? Ask my husband, but duh, yes.

Are you starting to see a pattern? Are you catching my drift? These are the things that matter in life. Who you are and how you act and what you do and how well you do it. How you look is but one tiny facet in the jewel that makes up YOU. YOU have the power to stop kneeling before the alter of the False God of Womanly Perfection, you just have to take a mental step back and let go.

I went to the beach over the 4th with my family and I wore a bikini and it was weirdly one of the most freeing moments of my entire life. Not even when I looked like an extra for the Victoria Secret fashion show did I ever feel this liberated in a swimsuit. It was like I finally exhaled after two and a half decades of holding my breath.

I want for you to exhale too.

I love you you beautiful majestic stallions

Have a wonderful day

~Maria

Angel Food Cake-a-thon

2015-06-10T07:24:00.001-05:00

Greetings!

Today I decided to try and make an angel food cake out of a box--don't get it twisted--because I'm having friends and kids over and its approximately 765 degrees out so eating brownies or heavy pie would kick you directly into Type 2 Diabetes. When its hot you must eat light feeling desserts because you cant just not eat a dessert when you have guests over. Its one of the commandments.

At the store I picked the only angel food box mix that was available.

I didn't look at the back because I was more concerned with the fact that my two and a half year old just decided its super great to slam the tiny baby shopping cart he was pushing into the back of my knee--after he put 3 bags of cheese popcorn into it. After getting it home, and after doing 75 other things, I was finally able to take a gander at this beast. I was instantly like oh fuck this noise. This is a box mix. I am used to maybe 3 or 4 simple instructions. Its why I enjoy baking. Its simple, its easy, once its in the oven your only job is to make sure you don't forget to set a timer. Not so with angel food, my friends, not so.

Lets start out with a general overview of the instructions, shall we?

There are 14 items in bold print and one sentence that is in bold print and CAPS LOCK.

THIS CAKE IS NOT FUCKING AROUND.

We are already off to a bad start. The top right corner has a sentence That Feels The Need To Have Every Word In It Capitalized. Do Not Eat Raw Cake Batter. Ha! Ok. I'll also not eat an entire tub of noosa in one sitting. STFU Box. You don't dictate my life. Raw cake batter is not the equivalent to pure Colombian grade heroin, so just settle down.

Ok first step: Move Oven rack to lowest position or middle position. Not sure why move needs to be in bold. You're already yelling at me. We are literally on step one. I look at my oven, think meh, there are 3 racks in there, I'll just put it on the middle because if there is one thing I absolutely will not tolerate its being yelled at by a box of fucking cake batter. I refuse to move the rack out of defiance. *This decision will come back to haunt me later.

Alright step two: Beat Cake mix and water in extra large bowl on low speed for 30 seconds, and then medium speed for one minute. Ok, that's oddly specific. I get out the stopwatch on my phone and prepare to follow these directions because I'm afraid if I don't the box will grow a tiny cardboard hand and slap me. I should mention before actually mixing at these precise timed intervals, I neglected to fasten the mixer attachments completely because I had to run upstairs to give a hug to a half asleep toddler who somehow managed to hit his head while sleeping in a crib. Naturally, I lost one spinner to the batter during my episode, at which point I grabbed it from what was becoming an increasingly frothy liquid and threw it into the sink. Onward we go--things are going so well!

You may recall from 2 paragraphs ago that I was warned NOT to eat the raw cake batter. Again, for no reason other than to show an inanimate object it cant control me, after mixing I dip my finger in and have a taste. It tastes like if you poured pop into a solution of watered down vinegar and sugar. Unpleasant. How will this turn into a delicious cake? I have no idea, clearly.

Next I'm told to pour this nasty vinegar/pop batter into some pans. There are differing instructions for all the different pan options and at this point Ive just stopped caring, and grab the first two pans in my cupboard, which happen to be acceptable. Success!

I pop these babies in the oven on the middle rack and set the timer for 40 minutes because the terrifying CAPS LOCK and bold sentence screams at me to DO NOT UNDERBAKE or you will unleash the fires of hell upon you and your children's children until the end of times. In my haste and apathy at these bitch ass instructions, I ignore the side note about batter overflowing if you use a certain type of pan because I'm all like I don't even know what that pan is, this doesn't apply to me--NEXT.

Cue 20 minutes later, and while I'm doing my best to eat an entire container of hummus without coming up for air, I decide to stroll past the oven and see how my special little cake friends are doing. To my horror quickly turned apathy, I realize why there was so much fuss about the location of the god damn racks. One of my cakes has decided to grow through the rack above it like one of those poor trees that grows around a bike chained to it from the 18th century or something. In my haste to fix this situation I neglected to take an oven picture, but once having extracted the top rack, I did get a photo of the damage still clinging to it. So professional!

Lucky for me, I obviously didn't divide the batter evenly, so only one cake was seriously disfigured because of my hubris. I decide to go back and reread the rest of the directions to prevent another catastrophe, because at this point I'm guessing that this cake is going to require me to stand on my head while reciting the Sri Lankan National Anthem while removing it from the oven because it is the most high maintenance dessert ever.

And look at that! The final explanation of what should be the easiest thing about baking--taking the already baked thing out of the fucking oven--is the longest paragraph in the instructions! I am told I must IMMEDIATELY turn pan upside down or on its side depending on the type of pan and am told to look on the side of the box for picture examples on how to not fuck up setting a pan down. This box couldn't fit all its bullshit onto the back, it requires an extra side with actual illustrations.

Jesus take the wheel. It also reminds me to only set the pans on a heatproof surface to cool, which is good because I was planning on balancing them on my baby's head until I read that.

The edges and tops are crispy as hell because I was so scared after messing up the rack thing that I was determined I would not underbake the entire thing as well. My brain is a constant mix of caring a lot and not giving a fuck at all, so this process was a roller coaster of emotions for me.

The results:

One angel food cake that looks like it was run over by a child on a bike

and

One angel food cake that is pretty and gets to sit on a fancy platter as a reward for not being a mess like its brother.

What have I learned from this experience? Angel food cake is a fussy bitch and even though I learned the hard way that the instructions do serve a purpose, in the future I will be buying this shit from the grocery store premade.

Thank you for your time. Have a great HumpDay my Sex Kittens

~Maria

Some things I think about

2015-04-22T19:13:00.000-05:00

1) I really do not know what I would do if I were to lose the majority of my face in a grill explosion or chimpanzee mauling or mistaken identity acid bombing. I think that as a courtesy to others I would need to wear some type of head covering. Because whenever I see stories on TLC about people that survived a fire all I can think is what a complete fucking crock of shit it is that you not only have to live with what has been described as the one of the most painful injuries known to man, one that never completely stops hurting, but on top of it you now look like a fucking monster. That's just bullshit.

2) How long do redwing blackbirds live? Does bird time feel like human time? Is 3 bird years the same as 80 human? I hope so. It already feels like we don't get enough time here, imagine if you were a fucking bird.

3) Why are there no female chefs at Benihana? What do I need to do to become one? I don't want to buy an $875 knife but I'm pretty sure that's got to be a requirement.

4) In public I make a point to not look at my phone while waiting for things even though it feels uncomfortable at first because what really feels uncomfortable to you is being alone with your thoughts and if that's the case then you are already fucked from the get go.

5) The universe is unbelievably mind blowingly crazy. I hate that I cant see it from where I live, not really anyways. I need to get to a place where I can.

6) If someone ever tries to steal my car with my kids in it, I think jumping on the hood and using the screwdriver I need to start keeping in my pocket to smash the windshield will scare the thief enough to pull the car over and run. Out crazy the crazy. It is the only way.

7) I want to know all the different ways to disable different large animals if they are attacking me or someone I love. Or just like even. Like, supposedly you punch a shark in the nose to get it to fuck off. Do you choke out a puma? I mean either way, you're going to get fucked up, but it'd be nice to know the best chance Id have at getting the thing to go away.

8) Where the hell am I supposed to keep my cell phone in my car that wont result in it being flung through the god damn windshield in an accident? In my bra? Because its not very helpful in case of emergency if its 138 yards away in a ditch puddle.

9) I sometimes honestly do not comprehend how any of us survived toddlerhood. Like between acting like a complete asshole that by any other human standard would warrant being left in a cornfield, to knowingly jumping off the bed onto a sideways laundry basket, it really boggles my mind.

10) When I know that severe weather is on the way, I always put on my tennis shoes. I have a storm survival box with food/diapers/water/dog leash/phone charger/band aids/flashlight/radio, etc etc, but you better bet your ass that if your house gets flattened and you need to climb out of wood and cement and glass and nail filled rubble that you're going to be happy you decided to put something solid on your feet instead of a god damn flip flop.

11) I try really hard not to judge the conversations of people at coffee shops. Its difficult.

12) I loath when parents make their small children jog with them. They are fucking 8 years old. They don't need to go for a god damn run. If you are raising them right they should still have the metabolism of a dormouse and wont need to begin jogging until their mid to late nevers. Just knock it off. Put them on their bike for Christs sake.

13) Being a parent is really really hard at times. But kids are awesome. They don't give a fuck. They just live. They are inspiring. Plus taking care of something that completely jump starts your maturity. Its a good thing over all. I recommend it.

14) I love coins and whenever I hold one I think about who touched it and how many places its been and what kind of crazy shit has it seen. Coins are the inanimate flies on the wall of our lives. They probably see all kinds of fucked up shit. On your nightstand could be the nickle that was in the cup holder of OJ as he drove his white bronco into the sunset. I bet coins just naturally become pervs because of all the sex they witness. Also don't you dare ever spend a Sacajawea dollar. They are the closest we have to real treasure and should be treated thusly.

15) I know tacobell isn't real Mexican food but I love it for what it is just as much as I adore authentic Mexican cuisine. B) Taco bell is the fast food establishment that's made me sick the most, yet it remains in my heart and in my craving bank. I got sick off thin mints once when I was like 7 and I cant even smell them without wanting to vom. Black magic TB. You evil temptress.

16) Car horns are for honking. Like, that is their main function. IDK if its a Midwest thing but I'm the only person I know who uses their horn at least every other day. Ive gotten really good at using it for different corrections based on the duration of the beep. I'm honking to let you know you need to get your shit together in some way. No need to thank me.

17) Real life calorie counting is so incredibly depressing I cant believe there are people out there that do not have to do it out of medical necessity that continue to and can actually get out of bed in the morning. Fuck that. Thats why I have a fitbit. I walked 10,000 steps today mother fuckers and burned 2500 calories, I can eat this entire pizza by myself!!! I WILL LIVE FOREVERRRRRRR

18) If you enjoyed this let me know. I could do this shit all night. My brain never stops.

19) Love you love buggies

~Maria

A Letter to Moms who keep writing Letters to Other Moms

2015-02-08T12:23:00.001-06:00

Dear Moms

I see you sitting there at your laptop wondering what you could write about that has the highest chance of getting your Mommyblog to go viral via Shared Facebook posts. I see you wracking your overtired brain as you think about everything that's been done before in an attempt to put forth something original into the universe. I see you. And I know. I get it. Its hard coming up with things to talk about in regards to parenting and being a mom that haven't already been discussed a million different times in a million different ways. I know. I know. Its ok. Did I say I know already? I know.

But before you decide to write another Letter, to another Mom, that you Saw in a Target, that for the 45 seconds you looked at her seemed frazzled or overwhelmed or pissed off, or exhausted, I just want to tell you a few things:

Mama:

Its ok. The woman you are glimpsing for one brief moment in both of your many moment filled lives doesn't need your internet letter. She just doesn't. The what I can only assume was a pity filled looked that you threw in her general direction as you strolled by with your shit seemingly together doesnt equate to any version of actual real world helpfulness or empathy. The fact that you didn't in that moment give her a knowing look and say something like "what the hell were we thinking, right?" but instead decided to wait to tell her that You Get It via an anonymous internet letter speaks volumes.

I see you getting rageful after that last paragraph Mama, and I get it. You feel I am being unfair, and that you really did want your Letter to come from a place of genuine niceness and understanding. I accept that. I do not think the majority of you are soulless, hate filled cuntboxes. I get that you thought you were doing something nice. I forgive you that.

But Mama, there's something you need to understand. When you write your Letters and every sentence begins with "I", it makes it abundantly clear that the Letter is in fact about "You". Your Letters make it sound like yes, you may have once been like that Other Mom, adrift in a sea of parenting chaos and calamity, but that you have ascended into the Higher Levels of parenting where every tantrum, every wayward tear, every snot filled scream fit in the middle of the grocery store is met with a Buddha like state of calm wherein you have the power to stem the flow with nothing more than a loving glance, and suddenly shit is perfect like in those Jimmy Johns Commercials.

And Mama, that kind of advice/help/commentary isn't in fact helpful. Its annoying. Presuming that every other parent in existence feels the exact same way that you do is a sad and limited way to look at the world. So when I read one of your Letters, and it tells me that "You Get It because my new joy is no longer in taking a long shower and getting dressed up, but in food stained sweatpants and messy buns", I want to reach through my computer and strangle you. You don't tell me what my joy is. If that's your new joy after becoming a parent, awesome. I will never not feel joy and extreme amounts of it when I get to take a 20 min scalding hot shower without any distractions. That shit is my jam. I wish I could eat and sleep in there. Like Kramer did that once time. Fuck.

Also, Dear Mamas, why don't you ever write any letters to Dads? When you see them struggling with kids in public why does that evoke feelings of love and sexiness instead of the self righteous pity the lady with the vagina gets? Listen: We all have bad days in the big wide world of being a parent. Sometimes those days happen when we are in view of other people. But that's the thing--its just one day. In fact, its just one moment in one day. That mom could have been laughing lovingly at a joke her 4 year old said 5 seconds before you came around the corner and saw her with that haggard look on her face. She could be stressed to the max in the store or at the park, but the second she gets home, she snuggles up on the couch with her kids to watch Curious Georges Halloween Boofest for the 5 millionth time, and in that moment, she is really happy. Like beyond blissed out happy, filled with love for the tiny beings clutching her shirt in their tiny fists. You don't see that though. All you see is a brief glimpse into what is the wonderful, horrible, crazy, amazing thing that this woman calls her life.

So stop acting like you Get It or Know. You don't. None of us do really. We are all just trying the best we can with the skills we have. And this incessant string of Dear Mama Letters is as meaningful and real as a Saran wrapped ball of air. You are Gisele Bunchening us all and we cant take anymore. She doesn't need any more help in that regard. She has the whole I'm Better Than You Parenting Game on lock. Because no matter what you say in your Dear Mama Letter, you will never ever be able to top Gisele's Instagram posts. So do us all a favor and hang it up. Ill leave you with some actual Gisele posts to help you see why we need a lot less Bunchening in the world of parenting and a lot more genuine empathy and keeping it real.

Love,

Maria

I see you there Out of Shape Mama trying to do quick 15 second Planks on your living room floor without being impaled by Legos or jumped on by your "enegertic" toddler. This is me enjoying some Relaxing Baby Yoga near antique furniture on white carpeting with perfect natural lighting and a healthy fruits platter for post workout boost though, so Im not really sure I understand why its so difficult for you to get back in shape post baby ?

Hey Mama in line at the store holding that box of formula. I'm just lounging here calmly breast feeding my LO while my team of stylists makes my already flawless post- baby hair and body ready for an intense day of Baby Yoga. Waiting in lines seems like it would be such a drag !

Hi There Mama whose kid just threw a box of Triscuits at the old man walking behind you at Target. I get that it must be hard having kids that don't just naturally evoke genuine smiles of kindness and love in the revered elderly like the Dalai Lama, but have you tried not saying No so much? That might work better for you and would be sooo much better for your LOs! Just a thought.

Dear Mama pleading with her 15 month old to stop trying to eat wood chips and the cat feces buried under the wood chips at the park: This is me and my tiny baby doing more B.Y. by a babbling brook. I know it seems crazy, but I'm totally able to reach that calming mental state that I need to achieve the most difficult of poses without worrying that my infant is going to get distracted and fall into that stream. Shes takes B.Y. very seriously since meeting the Dalai Lama. Namaste!

I Believe in you. You can do it. Namaste.

What Sarah Said

2014-10-22T11:08:00.001-05:00

Christmas lights, snow falling under a street light at night, the sharp smell of winter, and a Kanye West album have all gotten twisted together in the deep neural pathways of my mind that lead straight to you. I cant think of any of these things independently of the others any more. They have become this whirlwind of sounds and feelings and colors with you sitting calmly at the center. Some of these make sense--you loved the holidays and always practically killed yourself to make sure everything was perfect even though you thought it never was no matter how many times you rearranged the tree. The one night in my adolescence when for the hell of it we decided to go walking around in the dead of winter because we both couldn't bear to sit inside watching the way the snow glimmered in the street lights without becoming a part of it. That was your idea and it made me so happy. Ive tried hard to figure out how an entire hip hop album got thrown into the mix as well. It wasn't even released until 2 years after your death, but somehow its there. Whatever emotions it stirs in me fit in with the themes of cold, darkness, colorful lights, glinting snow, a safe place to return to, that I now associate directly with who you were to me.

The morning you died, the nurse called to tell me to get down there as she thought it might be today. Looking back on it, I have no idea how she knew considering you were your normal lively self. Maybe your vitals were forecasting doom and gloom and she being a student of the secret language of the body could see things I couldn't see. Because you were still you. You weren't sitting feebly in bed with your eyes closed. You were talking, gesturing, joking, bitching about the hospital food. You were never someone I didn't recognize. I am grateful for that in a way. That your spark didn't go out until it was absolutely forced to.

When I close my own eyes and picture that day, I see the bright yellow leaves on a rain soaked street outside your hospital room. The grey clouds that covered everything. There was no sunshine. The wind was blowing and hinting at the coldness and darkness soon to come. And it fit. It fit because it was real and because the emptiness outside reflected the emptiness inside myself.

I will never regret being with you as you died. Watching someone die is the most beautiful and horrible thing. There is a sacredness to it. All I wanted, all I really truly wanted was to make sure you weren't afraid. I didn't want you to be scared to let go. So I spoke softly into your ear all the things I thought would help you be brave. I wonder over and over if you could still hear me at that point. I hope you could.

People tell me you are still around me. That you are in heaven smiling down. That you are Jacks guardian angel. That you went to a better place. I want to believe some of those things. I want to believe that the little things I see as signs that some part of you is still conscious that I am your daughter and that I miss you are actually you trying to reach out to me. But if I'm completely honest, all I can say is I don't know. I don't know if you are really there. Or if whatever is left of your spirit even remembers who I am. Its one of those things that I speak into the wind and have come to accept in the not knowing. For whatever reason, we aren't meant to know all the answers. Maybe we never will. What I do know is this: you taught me how to love. The love I show my children is like a whisper from a time when you were still here. Every kiss, every hug, every spoken Its going to be OK is as if you were still standing behind me. I see you in your grandson's smile. In his feistyness. In his unwillingness to back down. And amidst the frustration I laugh thinking of how much you'd love this kid.

So I will go to the place we laid you to rest. And I will sit on the grass and clean the stone and make sure I bring some really colorful fall arrangement that you wouldn't think was tacky. And I will honor the time we had together and the fact that you were my mother. And I will understand what that actually means for the first time as I think about how I feel about my own children. And I will say thank you. Thank you for being my mother. For giving me life. For loving me unconditionally. For being smart and funny and sarcastic and creative. Thank you for being who you were to me.

Infertility and You

2014-09-18T15:35:00.000-05:00

I recently posted to a Mom group on facebook a question involving second pregnancies and stretch marks. The majority of the responses were helpful and nonjudgmental, but because this is the Internet, and people feel they can be assholes to complete strangers, one mother responded that "stretch marks are beautiful reminders of the privilege of carrying a life" in an effort to remind me of what a complete piece of shit I am for daring to desecrate the holy ground that is all things baby.

That's bullshit. Because there are plenty of things about carrying a baby that aren't wonderful or charming or holy and it should be OK to talk about those things to other women. I understand that the main sentiment behind these stern reprimands is always that because I am able to conceive and carry a child I should just STFU and thank the heavens every day that I am not (hushed whisper) infertile. But what does this sentiment do for women who actually are struggling with infertility besides make them feel even more outcast and alone? Infertility is still, for the most part, a silent struggle for women all over the globe. Not acknowledging the shitty parts of pregnancy doesn't make infertility go away, nor does it do any favors for a woman who is aching to have her own child see nothing but gushing happy sentiments from pregnant people around her. Most people appreciate the genuineness and realness of others. Acting like every woman who is struggling to conceive is in a constant state of fragility akin to spun glass isn't only incorrect, it's insulting.

I myself, took well over a year to conceive my first child, and we were already set up for specialized testing when my body finally said ok I'll hang on to this one. So while I cant claim to understand what it's like to go through years of dealing with all the emotions involved around infertility, nor do I know the heartache of being told that carrying my own child is not in the cards, I do have a tiny grasp of what it is like to want something so much that others around you seem to be able to grasp without a second thought or any effort at all. It sucks. It can be soul crushing. There are times when you feel like you are at the bottom of a well you will never escape from. On those days, yes, I wasn't my best self. And if I read anything pregnancy related on social media on that day, bad, negative, jealous thoughts would instantly fill my head. But that's not who I am all the time, and that's not how we should define women struggling with infertility. They are stronger than they themselves even realize. Their paths in life will lead them to endings they probably didn't foresee, but that are just as beautiful and fulfilling as the one they originally hoped for.

So for the love of everything, don't hide your friends or sisters or aunts or cousins dealing with infertility in a box. They don't need your protection. They need your support, your compassion, and your willingness to listen, to not be afraid to be someone they can confide in about what they are going through. Respect their need to discuss and respect their need for silence. Follow their lead. And be ok with treating them like any other woman, aka, its ok to tell them that you aren't in love with your stretch marks and that the Pinterest boards devoted to glorifying Tiger Stripes make you roll your eyes as you struggle to find a pair of fucking yoga pants that fit. Yes Yoga pants. The kind that are made to stretch. Oye.

Infertility Support Links:

http://www.resolve.org/

http://www.fertilityauthority.com/articles/minneapolis-infertility-support

http://www.agiftofmiles.com/infertility-support/

http://fertilitysupportcenter.org/service-programs/infertility-services

1

2014-09-05T14:36:00.001-05:00

Somewhere between 6:35 and 7:02 I begin to hear the sounds of rustling and tiny calls of nonsense coming from the monitor. It's funny to think that this piece of technology has been running almost nonstop for a year and a half. It's my link to the secret world of what you do in your room when we are away. It feels invasive and I know that at some point it will be turned off for a final time, put into some box or maybe given to a friend who now has need of its services, thankful for its glowing green eye in the darkness. But for now, it sits next to me while I sleep, while you dream, letting me know that you are content and relaxed in a way that I want you to stay for as long as possible. I want for your dreams to remain untroubled for many years to come.

No one tells you that small children can be your friends. Because it sounds weird and laughable. But it can happen. Over the course of almost two years you have changed from this tiny screaming red faced thing that gave me intense anxiety and worry, to this real life, walking, talking, playing person. You have opinions and thoughts and I love that everything new still amazes you in this way that is so special and fleeting. I still have some of that inside me too--Ive never fully let it go, and maybe that's why I am able to consider you my friend.

At the park, you are wearing your new shoes and as you swing you kick your legs out and throw your head back and there's this smile on your face that I wish I could capture forever. Because it is completely real; you are doing it for no other reason than the things you were feeling inside were powerful enough to become an expression of happiness. The sun goes behind a cloud as you yell loudly about the big trucks driving by, as you count to 9, missing 1-3 because they are tricky, and I think about a passage in Slapstick by Vonnegut where people who don't believe or simply acknowledge they don't know if there is a god should address all their correspondence in the form of "To Whom it May Concern"

To Who it May Concern: If you can feel the vibes I'm sending out, I want you to know that I am thankful for this day, and for this life that I am living.

During lunch I show you how to eat cheese on a cracker instead of separately and your repeated sounds of "cooool" remind me that there is still so much that you have yet to discover. I don't want to ever completely shield you from the hard parts--the pain and sadness and loneliness and anger. You will need those as they are part of it all. But I will be here to help as long as I am physically on this earth. I will be here. That's what being a parent is. A lifelong signed contract in helping make someone into a good person. One that knows their own worth and that they are capable of always moving forward. That is what I want for you. I want for you what I did not have for myself--stability, and an inner mantra of 'No matter what, it is always going to be ok'.

Toddler Life Lessons

2014-02-07T11:32:00.001-06:00

Goood Morning people of the world.

At present time and location I am in possession of one male toddler, age one year and 3 months--I am well aware that many people without children hate the usage of months to mark age--so for those who speak kid, one male toddler, almost 15 month old. He can be a pain in the ass, while at the same time being the coolest person Ive ever met. I don't know how, but children of this age have somehow figured out a way to be both adorable and infuriating all within the same second and have mastered doing so without the majority of their actions resulting in being thrown off a bridge. This in and of itself, is an impressive accomplishment. What can we learn from these tiny beings that may make our own adult lives easier? Things, lots of things. I am not suggesting that you need to have or adopt your own kid to learn these life lessons. All you really need is about 8-10 hours with someone under the age of 3. So go borrow your niece or best friends kid and take a full day to bask in all their horrible glory. In his 456 days of outside the womb existence, these are the things Ive learned from my toddler son so far:

1) Hanging on to things is an effective method of refusing to do other things
Their hands shouldn't be that strong. They have the hand strength of a mountain gorilla. It doesn't make sense.

2) Food is meant to be enjoyed, except when it's gross, then it's meant to be scraped off of your tongue and thrown forcefully at whatever is within a 3 foot radius
If food tastes good and you like it, eat it as fast as you can until you choke. Choking is a subtle way of of complimenting the chef. If other people are eating things around you that look like they'd be good, freak out until they give in and let you eat some. If they stop feeding it to you and it was good, scream. If they give you it and it's actually gross, make a disgusted face like they just fed you dog crap, and throw it on the floor. The throw is important because it lets them know that you are really disappointed in them.

3) Scream and flail whenever people try to help dress you
"Did you ask me if you could touch me? No? Here's what happens when you don't respect my boundaries--shit gets real. I was trying to put my finger in this tiny hole in the wall and you think you can just expose me to the world and its elements? Fuck you. You're rude."

4) Lotion and face washing are the exact same thing as being water-boarded

5) If people don't understand what you are saying, become louder, and continue to speak in a combination of Japanese and German
This puts the pressure on them to figure out what you are saying. It's like Catch Me If You Can--confidence wins out over knowledge every time. But you have to stay committed.

6) Climb everything that's more than a foot off the ground because once you get to the top of it you get to sit there and feel great about your accomplishment.
"Acknowledging the every day small achievements is more rewarding than pining the larger ones that have yet to be" ~Me, in an attempt to sound wise

7) Animals are neato
The dog my son has isn't even overly found of him, yet the boy thinks the sun shines out of that animal's asshole. Squealing and hopping are an acceptable and expected response to noticing any type of creature.

8) Pointing is Universal
Visiting a foreign country? Just point at things. Someone will eventually figure out what you need help with. Tired of walking ? Holding your arms above your head and looking up pathetically should result in being picked up by the nearest kind stranger.

9) Shoes are a tool used by The Man to keep you down
Go barefoot as much as possible. If you live in a cold climate, make sure the days when it is warm, you let your toes reconnect with mother earth. It is also good for pretending you are a street urchin or that you shipwrecked on a desert island. If someone does put shoes on your feet (asshole) make sure you walk funny when you're wearing them and then take them off as soon as you get in the car when no ones watching. That's the only way they (asshole) will understand how much you think they(shoes) suck.

10) There is something to be learned in the act of upending a box of Q tips 27 times in one day
Much like Tibetan monks that practice the art of the Sand Mandala, often times the process is more important than the final result. And other times we are just going to leave those tiny sticks lying on the bathroom floor because we've stopped caring for the day. Either way. Either way is fine.

11) When something is frustrating or disappointing, scream and roll all over the ground
Collapsing into a heap is also acceptable. If you don't physically get rid of your emotions sometimes, they get repressed and you will explode. Like Violet Beauregarde. With less blueberry and more cray.

12) Push all the Buttons
Even if people yell at you. Especially if people yell at you. It is always worth it. You just launched nuclear missiles towards the moon? Worth it. Never refuse the call of the Button.

13) If you find a bit of string or an old sock or some kind of rubber band, the correct way to deal with it is to put it on your head and walk around like you're Ru Paul in Vera Wang.
You own that shit. You look really good. People are impressed with your ingenuity and confidence.

13a) Alternatively, if you find a bit of string or an old sock or some kind of rubber band, the correct way to deal with it is to put it in your mouth and act like nothing happened
What string? Mouths are a great way of carrying things when your clothes don't have functional pockets.

14) A nice way to wind down for the evening involves running up and down the hallway yelling 'BLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHWAAAAAAHHHHHH' really loudly while your dad is trying to send work emails
It's a pretty well known fact that screaming nonsense at a high volume is on par with quiet meditative yoga and Tai Chi in terms of relaxation. It stimulates your neurons and the neurons of everyone within earshot to release serotonin. I'm surprised you didn't know that.

15) Oh look, you found something with wheels! Push it until it slams into a wall. Oh look you found a box! Push it until it slams into a wall. Oh look, you found a folding chair! Attempt to push it until it collapses and you get hurt
Even though no one will admit it, showing everyone your feats of strength is as equally impressive as seeing Harvard on a resume. It will get you places.

15a) If someone gives you a piece of fruit, squeeze it in your fist until your hand shakes and the fruit is just pulp and a puddle of leaking juices
God, you're impressive. Do you know that? Just really, really a neat person to be around. I know who to call next time that pasta sauce jar is stuck too tight!

16) Opening and Closing things is an art form, and there need to be financed studies dedicated to it
"This door closes. But it opens back up again. Did you see that?? Are you watching? I closed it, but I opened it right back up! Why aren't you impressed with this?? OMFG. The drawers on the night stand open too. Holy shit. This is incredible!! I will live foreverrrrr!!!"

17) Just dance. Always.
Why wouldn't you? The music is right there.

18) When someone asks you to give them a kiss, make sure its open mouthed and that you just ate a banana or something beforehand so its extra slobbery
Aint no one gonna turn down a wet banana kiss. No sane person anyways.

19) You are the coolest. Never forget it
Most kids of this age--that are fortunate and lucky-- have no clue about the crappy parts of life yet. They can act goofy and crazy and just have fun and don't have to give a fuck about what anyone thinks about them. As we age, the art of this becomes lost. So we have to forcefully remind ourselves over and over not to let that inner toddler die.

And if all else fails:

20) When life gets to be too much, walk backwards into the nearest lap and collapse

make animated gifs like this at MakeAGif

Have a good weekend People

~Maria

2014

2014-01-01T11:26:00.000-06:00

It is New Years Eve and as I sit here thinking about what kind of Asian food I want to eat sometime in the next 6 hours since I don't go out anymore because of a child and blossoming hermitdom, I am reminded that this is the time of year where I am given a fresh start on me. As of tomorrow, I should be able to rectify 30 years of trauma, taco bell, break ups, put downs, mistakes, poor judgment calls and summers without sun screen. On January 1st all of that shit can be thrown out the window and I can finally FINALLY be happy with me!!

Unfortunately it doesn't usually work that way. New Years and the accompanying resolutions are like the first bite of Fruit Striped Gum. Your taste buds explode in happiness only to be brought back down to the reality that what you are chewing only tastes good for 4.7 seconds before it turns to dryer lint in your mouth.. I imagine this is what heroin is like. I could be off, my knowledge of hard drugs is solely based off Requiem for a Dream and Trainspotting. Anyways, resolutions are like that. They are momentary blips of I feel awesome, I can do this!!! that fall away as the reality of life creeps back in. I know there are some of you out there that make a point to change things in your life, and you stick to it. You have gumption and drive and can not understand why everyone else around you can't seem to get their shit together. Good for you, STFU, and go away now please.

For the rest of us, the feelings of unhappiness with ourselves linger long after we've dropped whatever thing we resolved to stop or start doing this new year. For the record I am not talking about clinical depression here. I have been clinically depressed off and on during my life and that is an entirely different beast than the general feeling of low self worth that I am referring to. I think temporary or long lasting feelings of poor self esteem/worth/image is probably just part of the human condition, but with the introduction of targeted advertising and social media it has become this giant invisible elephant on many shoulders. We walk around daily with this weight and pretend that it is not there because it isn't cool or interesting or funny to admit that you don't really like yourself and you don't know what to do about it.

Its funny because I can honestly say that I am the happiest I have ever been in my life right now. But on the inside I still don't like the me that's there. My external life brings me great joy, and I am at a point in my life where I would like my internal landscape to match. And for the first time, I am realizing that no amount of yoga, or healthy eating, or affirmations, or sticking to a schedule, or uplifting blog posts/videos, or flossing daily, or writing weekly, or cleaning the baseboards, or figuring out how to fucking iron--why is that so hard-- is going to fix what is going on inside. They are temporary solutions to a deeper issue. I don't think I am alone in this. If we are truly at peace with who we are inside, the part of us that actually matters, our actions come from a different place than they do if we are striving for change to match someone else's ideal of what we 'should' be. Real internal changes come with feelings of excitement and eagerness. Your resolutions should make you feel like you are on the way to a party, not waiting in line at the DMV. If they don't, who are you doing it for?

So this New Years my resolution is to figure out how to actually change how I think. Some heavy, deep subconscious navigating. Like I need to go on a vision quest, and maybe find my spirit animal type shit. Because I want to let go of this thing Ive been dragging around with me for over half of my life. As overused as it may be, life is so short. It really is. We have this one tiny microcosm of time to truly experience everything we can, and the older I get the more I realize that everything really does mean everything. Inner peace is not reached through constantly trying to be happy, like a dog chasing its tail. Inner peace or equilibrium or balance or whatever the hell you want to call it simply means accepting whatever your immediate now is with humor and grace. At least that's how I see it. That sounds like it should be easy and maybe it is, but our brains make it way more complicated than it needs to be. I am not religious, but I think if anyone in history has ever come close to achieving this it had to be Buddha. That or he just had access to some really neat drugs.

Who knows if I will figure this out for myself. If I do, I'm sure it will come about in the way I least suspect. I hope your 2014s bring to you what you are searching for.

HNY

~Maria

Gorilla....I just cant.

2013-10-11T10:45:00.001-05:00

Bruno Mars is an interesting dude that is only 3 inches taller than me and was born in Hawaii which explains his flawless caramel skin tone. Over the last few years hes steadily risen from being featured on pop tracks to having much of his new album played on mainstream radio across the globe. Unlike many pop stars of the day, he actually can sing live, thus proving he does have some innate singing talent for which we should probably be grateful.

I will admit to liking Heaven a lot. It made me sing scream loudly in the car when it used to be played 9 months ago and made me feel feelings which any good song will do.

But the newest radio release--at least new here in the Midwest-- 'Gorilla', makes me want to bang my head against the steering wheel into unconsciousness every time I am unlucky enough for it to fall upon my delicate ear holes. Its not the singing, its not the beats. Its the horrible horrible lyrics that are rage inducing.

Don't believe me? Here let me provide you with this:

Ooh I got a body full of liquor with a cocaine kicker and I'm feeling like I'm thirty feet tall
So lay it down, lay it down

You got your legs up in the sky with the devil in your eyes
Let me hear you say you want it all
Say it now, say it now

Look what you're doing, look what you done
But in this jungle you can't run
Cause what I got for you
I promise it's a killer, you'll be banging on my chest
Bang bang, gorilla

Ooh Ooh Yeah You and me baby making love like gorillas
Ooh Ooh Yeah You and me baby making love like gorillas

Its not the overtly graphic sexual content. I can handle that. Its that its so unsubtly done. I feel like I'm reading text messages between a 17 year old that just got his first girlfriend and his friends who he is bragging to about all the crazy sex he and GF are having... aka one time they did it on the floor lolomg! Come on now. If you want to write a song that makes actual adult women interested in having sex, you have to be smoother in your delivery. You just blatantly telling me that we are going to make love like gorillas reminds me of this:

and now all I'm thinking about is these goofy fuckers running around in monkey costumes. I think I might be ok with the lyrics if they weren't sung in such a sweet, loving, ballad-like manner. You just cant sing "You'll be banging on my chest bang bang Goooriilllla" in the same way you'd sing the lyrics to "More than Words". It doesn't work. Its confusing. My brain doesn't know whats happening or how to process this. What are you intentions?? I don't know.

It is possible to do sexy songs subtly. The best ones don't even tell you they are about sex! You have to infer it, like finally seeing the T-rex in a magic eye book, once you understand it, you cant unknow it and that makes it all the more magical.

I have a few favorite subtle sexy songs that Bruno and his co writers should check out before they decide to create a monstrosity like Gorilla again. And if I haven't dated myself enough already with references to More Than Words, and Magic Eye images, here are 3 songs that if you were born after 1990 you've never heard of!

1) Fiona Apple--Criminal

Summary: Shes cheating on her boyfriend. Probably a lot and with different people because she a like a the sex. She never even tells us that, but we know it. She knows it. And its sexy because its bad.

2) George Michael--Freedom

Summary: This was George Michaels coming out song. After years of having to live a lie, he wrote this masterpiece to tell the world hes gay and fuck you if you don't like it. There is absolutely nothing sexier than a person who is 100% ok with who they are and not afraid to say it. Having a bunch of sexy models in your video slinking around probably helps too.

3) Sneaker Pimps--6 Underground

Summary: There was a lot of debate around what this song is actually about, but Ive always read it as a person who is exchanging money or drugs for sex, in whatever form that may take. He or she doesn't feel great about the choices being made but at the same time doesn't care what anyone thinks either. And now Ive made myself seem unseemly in that I enjoy this song, but really, I just appreciate the winding nature of it. It tells a story, whatever that may be, without really telling me the actual story. Its..WAIT FOR IT...

SUBTLE

Bruno, my PollyPocket Pal, please take note. Don't dumb down your songs because you are afraid people wont be able to understand that they are about sex. We are all pervs at heart, so you can bet your sweet tiny patootie that if there is any way possible to infer sexual content from a song, people will figure it out.

Have a great weekend,

Maria

My Soul is made of Hooded Sweatshirts

2013-09-23T11:21:00.004-05:00

My entire life up until this point has been a sham. I haven't been honest with the world or myself. Ive tried to hide who I really am and after almost 30 years I think its time to come clean.

I am not fashionable. And I don't care. There, I said it.

I have never really been interested in clothes or shoes or if they match or if what I'm wearing is acceptable for this decade. But, being a girl and then a woman, Ive had to pretend that the act of hunting, capturing, and securing garments is one of the reasons I get up in the morning. I've faked it pretty well and over time I even learned to enjoy it the best way I could, but really, its always been an empty gesture. The times I do go out with the act of buying clothes in mind, I get distracted by accessories instead. My weaknesses include crappy rhinestone costume jewelry, baseball hats, and sneakers. None of which qualify as actual clothing.

I mainly care that what I'm wearing is comfortable and if I will be able to handle wearing it for more than 15 minutes without instantly hating wherever I'm going just because I'm uncomfortable as hell. The inability to stand this type of physical discomfort is deeply ingrained. My fashionable, interior decorator mother used to lament the time it would take to first, get a pair of tights on me, and then count the minutes she could get me to keep them on without constantly saying my legs itched or pulling at my crotch. I remember almost nothing from my early childhood. Hating tights, I remember.

Because I'm eternally mentally preparing for the worst disaster scenario in any situation, I like to dress knowing that I will be able to fight or run from whatever bombing, mugging, tornado, shooting, runaway fire, or animal stampede that may possibly occur without being hindered by what I'm wearing. Skinny jeans--real jeans, not glorious jeggings--and super cute 5 inch nude pumps are not going to help you when you need to get away from an impending fireball while carrying a 22 lb baby. Because you can bet your ass me and my kid are the ones that survive that. Team Q wins at the apocalypse.

This isn't to say that I don't appreciate fashion or beautiful clothes. I love looking at them. Fashionable people are delicious eye candy and I enjoy watching them walk into somewhere and think "wow that outfit is so cute, I wish I cared enough to go get all 12 pieces of it". I do not. Id rather stare at you in it. I think that's one of the main fallacies that people have about unfashionable people. That we don't appreciate beauty or looking nice. We do. We just don't have the patience to do it ourselves. So keep your 3 hour morning routine and extravagant shopping trips because I want to continue staring at you in public.

If it was permanently Fall, and if I didn't ever have to go to social functions that required looking nice or if I ever became famous enough to get away with not looking nice at social functions, my wardrobe would only consist of the following items:

12 Hooded sweatshirts
6 Hoodies with a zipper
7 flannel shirts
72 pairs of jeggings
6 pairs of yoga pants
5 pairs of warm sweatpants
7 pairs of short shorts
15 perfectly fitted cotton tshirts
7 fitted cotton wifebeaters--Im sorry I don't know what else to call them I'm classy
6 pairs of rockstar adidas
1 pair of black Carolina boots
1 pair of fake Frye boots from Target that make me feel like a pirate

That's really all I require to be happy. And comfortable. And thats fine. No matter what Stacy and Clinton will tell you. Its ok to not care about what you're wearing. Don't let people make you feel bad about it. Because deep down under our eight layers of skin and under the muscle and bones, way deep down in there, in some hidden place, there is a real you. And if it could live outside your body, you might be surprised what you actually look like. Ive come to accept that if I could see the real me, it is probably is a smallish but sturdy pile of flannel and hoods and zippers and fake leather and jean material with some Christmas lights peeking out of pockets and button holes with a fakey rhinestone jewel thrown in every so often. Inner me is comfy and warm and able to survive whatver manmade or natural disaster is thrown its way. So you let your freak flag fly and wear whatever the hell you feel like.

Because Im going to target today wearing this and may end up on People of Walmart by mistake:

Enjoy your week. Wear a cat sweatshirt un-ironically.

~Maria

Commentary on Trayvon Martin

2013-07-16T15:51:00.003-05:00

I have gone back and forth about writing something or not. Why add my opinion to the multitude? Why make enemies? Why cause more conflict? Why add to the drama? Because after everything Ive heard and read and been told, I have to say something. Because when shit hits the fan, I have to take a break from looking at the funny side of life and get real for a moment. If you don't want to read it, don't. Its that simple.

My goal with this post is to get to the barest of the bare bones in the hopes that I can adequately express why I am so emotionally destroyed right now. Think of this situation as a living thing. It has skin and hair and teeth and nails and organs and veins and blood and muscle. All of those parts are equivalent to the basic facts of the case, individual state laws, witness testimony, 911 tapes, past behaviors, the verdict, etc. These parts are the ones that we as observers love to dissect, endlessly going over and over. Pulling them apart, putting them back together, reorganizing, reshaping, remolding, until we have recreated the event into something we can recognize as making sense in our own minds. The shape and texture of this event are unique to the person who formed them, meaning even if we both go through all the details and both come up with an event that looks like a purple elephant, your purple elephant is not going to look the same as my purple elephant. Where the real tension and anger and devastation occurs is when we both look at this situation, and I end up with a purple elephant while you end up with a green alligator.

This is where the bones come into play and where I'm finally going to stop speaking in metaphors. The skeleton of the Zimmerman/Martin case is this: an unarmed 17 year old black child was shot to death while walking home from the store at night by an armed adult male who was told twice by a 911 operator to not engage the child and that the police were on the way. That's it. That's literally all you need to know. As a member of this thing called humanity, that in and of itself should make you scream or weep.

The argument I keep hearing over and over incessantly like a gnat buzzing around my head is that "if Trayvon were a nice, well mannered kid, none of this would have ever happened. If hes wasn't some thug wanna be, he wouldn't have started a physical fight with Zimmerman and Zimmerman wouldn't have had to shoot him." He should have done his little dance "yes sir no sir, how can I help you sir" and Zimmerman, being the vigilante neighborhood watchman of the year would have given him a stern talking to about not walking around at night looking so black, and then would have graciously let him continue on his way.

Ive also heard, "Trayvon was a bad person- he smoked, he drank, he fought, he wore baggy clothes, he punched a bus driver" as if being a teen and making stupid decisions somehow invalidates your life.

"Act like a thug, look like a thug, get treated like a thug"

"If you want to be treated professionally, dress professionally. He didn't, so he got what was coming to him"

"Perhaps blacks should do more to do more and better themselves instead of killing each other and living the thug life"

"One black kid gets shot by a Mexican its racist, but NO one says anything about 3 black kids that beat a white girl to death. Its sad"

The list goes on. It grows like some kind of parasitic tapeworm feasting on the hateful thoughts and misunderstood rationalizations of the internet. And because of blessed anonymity, not one of these people will ever have to look into the faces of Trayvon's parents and tell them why they think its ok that their son is dead. Because that's what you are saying when you defend a murderer. That you believe the life he chose to take wasn't worth it anyways, so who cares really? Self defense. He had no choice. He was being beaten, his head pummeled into the concrete. He had to shoot.

George Zimmerman made the choice that resulted in the death of Trayvon Martin the minute he ignored 2 warnings to not engage him and wait for the police. That's it. Truly. There was a crossroads, and Zimmerman took the path that made him feel something. He wanted something to happen, he wanted to be part of the action, to feel like the hero. He didn't bargain on the suspicious looking black kid resisting. Why would he suspect that? Zimmerman was the adult. He was the neighborhood watchman. He had the gun. He had the power. But Trayvon didn't see it that way.

I think the real reason people are so upset about this is because Trayvon fought back. He didn't run over to Zimmerman with his tail between his legs, begging for forgiveness for being young and black and male on a lonely street at night. He said Fuck You Man, I am who I am, I'm walking home, do something about it. That is what society fears. The fact that a young black male has the power to stand up for himself. I don't advocate for violence, that's not my point. I'm saying that the real fear lies in any trampled down person realizing their own power and strength in the face of their oppressors.

I hope Trayvon's parents can eventually find peace.

Douchecanoes of the Internet

2013-05-20T11:49:00.002-05:00

Oh hi there everyone. Today is Monday so Im sure you are having a lovely time of it. Unless you are in a country where its Tuesday or Sunday. In that case I dont know what to tell you other than time zones are neat.

I began participating on Twitter over a year ago even though I swore that I would never be involved in something so ridiculous. The idea of broadcasting your every move in 130 characters or less did not appeal to me. I dont even care what Im doing 90% of the time, why would anyone else? But then I learned that Twitter is fun to fuck around on with your homies and to get real time news updates, but that overall, the real point of it is to creep on the famous and semifamous.

And because of twitter Ive found myself in better connection with whats going on around the globe, and I get to see pics of Amanda Bynes tweerking in her mirror after snorting dishwasher flakes, and most of all, twitter has helped me come to the conclusion that if I ever see Rob Delaney in person Im going to run up and hug him while either humping his leg or peeing on his shoe.

Becoming part of the twitter community means Im also exposed to the completely asinine shit that makes up 99.9% of everything else there. And amidst all of the dumbfuckery, the spelling mistakes, grammar errors, boob selfies, and food pics, there is one thing that continues to baffle me. The large number of people who use twitter to say really terrible hateful mean shit to someone that if they met in real life they'd either ask for a picture with or would be too starstruck to speak.

Example:

Why does anyone find it socially acceptable to call this woman a whore--no matter how much of a waste of space she may be-- when she posts a picture of her pre Kan-baby self in a silver bikini? It confuses the hell out of me. You are literally replying to her tweet "@kimkardashian DIE". You have a picture of yourself and people you know know who you are and can read your tweets and can see that you are being a giant asshole for no reason. Did Kim come and make a sex tape with your husband? Did she tell you you looked fat in your prom dress? Did she shit in your refrigerator and ruin your Benihana leftovers? She didnt? Then what is your deal? You have nothing better to do with your one precious life than to call someone who doesnt even know you exist a slut via the internet? Cool. Good for you. Lets be friends.

I've become mentally exhausted with the anonymity of online being an excuse for people to be dickheads without repercussions. You cant go up to someone in real life sitting on a park bench doing their thing and yell "SLUT!!" at them without there being some kind of reaction from them or the people around you, hopefully violent in nature to some part of your face. You shouldnt be able to do it online either.

I dont think that celebrities and other famous persons necessarily even see 1/10th of the things tweeted at them, but if I were famous and occasionally saw that the first comment to a picture I was willing to share with the world was "DIE WHORE" I think it may kind of hurt my insides a little bit. And then to see that there isnt just one person being an asshole, but lots and lots, well, I think that shit adds up. All that negativity has to go somewhere. My hypothesis is as follows:

ASSHATS OF THE INTERNET: Your negative hate speech is collectively bringing down the emotional intelligence of our species and you are personally responsible for the reversal of evolution. You are the reason aliens are going to take us all out instead of inviting us to travel through their advanced worm hole technology to their super cool planets made of glitter and candybeans. Its your fault. Because aliens with advanced technologies arent stupid and why the fuck would they invite such juvenile hateful creatures to come swim in their glitterponds and travel the universe with them? They wouldnt. So fuck you for making the world a worse off place and for ruining our chance at interstellar travel.

The world is hard enough as it is without all of you shitting in the kool aid to boot. So knock it off. The internet is this really amazing alternate reality where we have the ability to communicate instantly with people around the world. Our great great grandparents had to wait months to get their out of state BFFs reaction to them accidentally knocking over the milk bucket "lol omg smdh!!" so you should be on your fucking knees worshiping the technology gods for your ability to communicate in such a quick fashion. Not wasting everyones time saying hateful shit while you are sipping your Jamba Juice in between classes. Use what you are given wisely. Or Im going to take your smartphone and put it in my blender.

A Letter to my First Born

2013-04-26T09:30:00.000-05:00

Good Morrow to you. Id like to begin by letting you all know this isnt turning into a mommy blog. I will eventually get back to writing about the latest celebrity snafoos and my take on the crisis in Syria. But as Ive been out of being in a consistent writing loop for over a year, Im easing myself back into it by taking the easy road and writing about whats going on in my immediate surroundings. Plus I dont have to spend hours fact checking items for a post if Im telling you about getting peed on. Theres really nothing to check there. Its pee. Thats about it.

I have been thinking a lot lately about how completely screwed first children are in terms of parental aptitude and general knowledge of 'how the hell to keep something alive that cant move its own body weight and doesnt know how to tell you whats wrong besides shrieking loudly'. Because really, I dont care if you are the genetic byproduct of a test tube full of Super Nanny, Mary Poppins, and African tribal dula DNA, your first infant is going to knock you on your ass. Its science. And in terms of what thats like for the parent, it starts out awful, but then gradually gets better until one day you wake up and think, holy shit, I actually like this tiny person and am starting not to mind the fact that I am its personal assistant 24 hours a day.

But what about the baby? Its got to be completely frustrating to know that you are hungry/tired/thirsty/wet/uncomfortable/crabby/lonely/too hot/too cold/fucking starving and the large fuzzy blobs that tend to your needs are constantly guessing wrong about what you want. How aggravating. So in honor of this trial by fire that all first borns go through, I want to take time today to let my son know just how sorry I am for being a total fuck up for the majority of his life so far. Begin.

Jack Big Booty Ho My Love:

Im sorry that when you finally decided to get the fuck out of my uterus, that when they put you on my chest, I was so exhausted that all I could do was lightly touch your arm and alternate between falling asleep and trying to see what you looked like. Im sorry there wasnt this huge motherly bonding love moment filled with choirs of angels and me serenely looking down at your tiny head with all of the compassion and proudness of the universe.

Im sorry you didnt get the full 90 min of skin to skin that ensures you arent a serial killer as an adult. Again, I was wiped. Plus you shit your nonexistent pants and they had to clean you up.

Im sorry--and for this, really, I could kick myself repeatedly -Im so so sorry that I let everyone telling me that YOU MUST BREASTFEED take over my rational thought process instead of saying FUCK OFF, the most important thing is that THE BABY GETS FED FOOD. Im sorry that you had to endure 2 weeks of me trying to get you to eat off my boob when for whatever reason, you just werent having that shit. Im sorry you were probably starving and really uncomfortable for that amount of time. I totally get it if you hold that against me into your 20s. I totally would too.

Im sorry that I took forever to understand if you were too hot or too cold. Your skin is like always this weird temp that feels way hotter or colder than the thermometer reading ends up being. And you arent very good at explaining how youre feeling.

Im sorry you were born in the butthole of the longest winter in the history of mankind. Im sorry you didnt legitimately see sun and grass and blue sky until you were 5 months old. They do exist. They are real and awesome.

Im sorry that I had PPD. Im sorry that I didnt smile at you enough or if I ever made you feel like I didnt care or love you in those first months. It wasnt you, it was me. But we have fun now. I hope that makes up for it a little.

Im sorry that you slept in 6 different contraptions with varying degrees of success until we finally realized, what the hell are we doing, lets just try the crib, which you loved. Im sorry that we woke up twice to see you sideways in your swing. I hope you werent like that too long. To be fair, that was like the one time you didnt cry when you were uncomfortable so you cant really blame us for wanting to sleep for more than 20 consecutive minutes in a row.

Im sorry for the internet. Im sorry I have been convinced that you must be dying of a thousand different aliments more than a handful of times when you were probably just cold.

Im sorry that I didnt figure out baby wearing until you were just on the verge of not liking it. That moby wrap is about 75 feet long and when the highlight of your week becomes showering uninterrupted for 5 minutes, complicated things have a way of making you say 'oh there is no way this shit is happening right now.'

Im sorry we didnt know that infant reflux was a thing. Im sorry it took a month of you screaming when laying down and burping up tiny baby acid burps for us to take you in and get you baby zantac.

Im sorry that every time you were going through a growth spurt, that we didnt immediately remember to just feed you more instead of trying every other possible option first. Again, if you just told us "hey assholes, Im trying to grow neural pathways here, give me more food!" it would have been a whole lot easier on everyone.

Im sorry we didnt realize that burping is actually super important to your state of being. Sorry it is more complicated than patting something on its back really should be.

Im sorry we didnt give you a pacifier until you were older. Thats 100% daddy's issue. He had some pacifier related PTSD that we worked through and once that was resolved you were much more content having that thing to mack on

Im sorry that I didnt just let you fall to your death like you wanted while trying to climb up the back of the couch. Just trust me, back braces are not in this season.

And most of all, Im sorry for thinking that you were a tiny adult when you came out, when really, you were just this tiny mushball of human gak that needed to be loved up and fed and kept warm until it transforms into the beginnings of a person around 4 months. Im sorry for getting frustrated that you needed to eat every 2 hours and that 45 minutes of sleep was all you were capable of at first, and for not understanding just how important touch and warmth was to you. Im sorry for not understanding during those first three months, that my whole life had to change whether I was ready for it or not. I hope that the fun weve had since then and the fact that mom and dad are getting a little better at this stuff makes you forgive us the bad times. Because no matter what, we will always love you and think you are the shit. Thank you for sticking it out kid.

Love,

Mom

A Plea to All Sanctimommies

2013-04-09T10:12:00.000-05:00

Alright I havent been this worked up in a while, and I know you all miss my angry rants of yesteryore, so lets just skip the pleasantries and dive right in.

Many of you have heard of and probably follow the blog STFU Parents http://www.stfuparentsblog.com/. Written by Blair Koenig, It is a fabulous chronicling of what the world of social media has done to parents. More specifically, how social media has turned what we can assume were at one point normal functioning people, into hyper defensive, sanctimonious, oversharing monsters--none of which would be possible without the fairytale land that is the internet. Out of all of the submissions Ive seen, there is one type that makes me so angry I feel like stomping a carton of eggs to death--The Sanctimommy.

Sanctimommies are women who are so much better at mothering than you, that you should probably call CPS on yourself immediately and request that your child be sent to their home for permanent placement. They are hyper aware of the latest trends in baby research and wont hesitate to tell you that the specific brand of organic strawberry you are feeding your 7 month old has actually been found to cause a 1-2 point drop in SAT scores. They are so great at being moms, that they have to tell you how great they are at being moms...over & over again. They also have a habit of publicly shaming other parents whose parenting is, in their opinion, well below acceptable levels. And finally, they can multitask an Asian sweatshop under the table. Basically, they are better than you, their kids are better than your kids, and you should just stop trying, because frankly, your attempt at parenting is embarrassing.

You'd like to think Im exaggerating. Im sad to say, my friends, that Im not. There are women in the civilized world that find it necessary to talk this way about themselves and their day to day experiences. And there are probably some sanctidaddies out there too, but Ive yet to see an example as aneurysm inducing as the things that come from the female gender.

Perhaps you are thinking, whats the big deal? So they are good moms and proud of it, whats wrong with that? To you I answer--bragging is bragging is bragging. Judging is judging is judging. Just because its about the holiest of holies job of motherhood doesnt make it ok or any less annoying to the rest of the normal world.

The thing that really grinds my gears is that being a first time mom, I KNOW how fucking hard it is!!!! So being constantly reminded how easy it is for you and how you are able to be an amazing wife, mother, teacher, and chef while staying in shape and loving every minute of it!! makes me want to chokeslam you into a brickwall. Im stoked when I remember to take out the garbage on trash day AND manage to get my child down for a nap--even though the things are completely unrelated--I did 2 things today, hooray!. Im happy when I dont resemble a homeless person at least 1 day a week. Im ecstatic when Ive managed to assemble something echoing a meal before 9pm at night. The thing is, when I DO have these small victories, I dont tell anyone. Why? Because nobody gives a shit about the day to day things in my immediate family, except my immediate family.

You shouldnt feel the need to tell everyone these things all the time. If there wasnt crapfest FB or twitter or Zoosk, would you feel so inclined to call that chick you had one class with in college and tell her you knitted your baby a sweater from organic alpaca wool? Would you write her an email letting her know that you couldnt believe you watched a woman in the grocery store give her son one M&M as a bargaining tool to get him to stop crying ? NO! The answer is no. The only reason you feel comfortable telling everyone any of this tripe is because you get to hide behind a profile picture.

And in case that wasnt enough of a reason for you to knock this shit off, heres an even better one--there are women in the world that are trying to raise families in terrifying and unlivable conditions. Women whose goal for the day is simply keeping their family alive and safe. Syria. Iraq. Africa. These women are the true Supermoms. They are the ones who get to brag at the end of the day. Because really, compared to them, none of us know anything.

So do me a favor. If you are reading this and getting offended, take 5 seconds today to think about why you post the things you do. What is your end goal in telling people how much better you are than everyone else when it comes to parenting? What do you really get out of judging others for being less awesome than you at raising kids? Just think about it for a bit. See if you can come up with any good explanations. If you cant, perhaps its time to do some self reflecting and figure yo shit out. Please stop being a douche. Thank you.

And if you are reading this and saying hey that sounds like somebody I know, go ahead and create a fake email and anonymously send them the link to this blog.

And lastly, if you, like me, just shoved half of a burnt poptart down your throat while trying to explain to your 5 month old that its physically impossible for you to remove the dirty diaper that is causing him so much woe while he has both feet in his mouth, I say, right on brothers and sisters. Keep up the 'Im doing the best I can without losing my shit" parenting style. Your kids are going to be fine.

Mine is

Have a great week players

~Maria