Mama Still Wears Gucci

Hate Mail, Batshit Crazy Edition

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 03:56:00 +0000

I hope these fools never figure out how much I love the hate mail. it would be awful if they stopped sending it. Here's the latest. As usual, my comments are in pink.

Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "Contact Gucci"...

Karma is a wonderful thing GucciMama. Yes. If only it was real. I read your blogs, I only have the one? and now I know why so many terrible things have happened to you. Oh good. I do hope you'll be my guru, Oprah. All you need to do it *is look at your bullying activities on Twitter. You're adorable. Today your target was an elderly disabled widow who is very ill and preparing for end of life. Tiny violin. You should be ashamed of yourself. She was so upset after you attacked her. If by "attacked" you mean asked why she called me a "brainwashed bitch" because I don't hate myself and my children enough to be a liberal, then yes. I'm guilty of asking that "attacking" question. so the next time you throw yourself a pity party about all the bad things in your life and you ask, "why me", I don't ask, "why me". I have asked "why my children", but I somehow doubt their medical issues are a result of me calling out a twitter bitch on her hatefulness. you can start the search for answers by looking at your hate-filled attacks on people in the Twittersphere. Questions about why I'm called a bitch are "hate filled"? Good to know! You are a gutless bully. Says ANONYMOUS. It's no wonder you suffer from migraines...Your head and heart are full of hate. Yes, but my belly is full of pills, so it evens out. Your Cup of Karma is overflowing, and you deserve everything you get. Okay, Kitten. Enjoy your delusions. Say hello to the wizard for me.

That was a fun one, yes? You can see my twitter feed HERE, in case you're currently failing at life too much to follow me.

Just Some Words I Don't Want to Say About Things I Don't Want to Face

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Sun, 04 Mar 2012 22:18:00 +0000

It started with a bruise. Just a little one, no bigger than a quarter, right on the small of her back. It's in a place where it would be nearly impossible for a two year old to injure herself, but since complications of her autoimmune disorder include bruising, I ignored it.

Except she hasn't had a flare for almost a year. And she never gets the bruises on her back, just on her feet and legs. And they're never so large as a quarter; they're more like pinpricks. And they never come and go at seemingly regular intervals.

So I stopped hoping it would resolve itself and took my sweet little curly haired two year old bundle of perfection to the doctor. I wanted to be reassured. I wanted to hear that this was just a weird manifestation of her autoimmune disease. I wanted the doctor to laugh at my overprotectiveness.

I wasn't and he didn't.

We were immediately sent for testing of a wide range of blood disorders. Everything from a severe iron deficiency to leukemia.

I sat my little Beans on my lap and the tech searched and searched for a vein. Always before when she's needed an IV it's been in her head because she's so tiny. When she's had blood drawn in the past it's been from her foot or her finger. But they needed so much more this time. So I held her on my lap, one tech held her right arm down while the other hunted for a vein. My son stood in the corner of the room, pale and clearly nervous, but trying to reassure his sister. "It's okay, sweetie. I've done this before. So has mom and even dad I think. It hurts a little, but it's over fast and then mom gets you ice cream and you get to watch a movie at nap time".

They found a vein. When she inserted the needle, my baby's water thin blood sprayed the tech and ran in little rivulets down her arm. She panicked. Her brother panicked. I yelled at the techs. The techs yelled for another tech. They managed, between the three of them, to stop the bleeding and finish collecting the sample. Their brows were furrowed and their mouths were set in straight, worried lines. My children were hysterical. I was trying to soothe them and trying to keep a terrified little baby still so they could take the needle out of her arm.

They removed the needle. Blood went everywhere for the second time. Between the blood and the screams, it was as if we were trapped in the scene of a horror movie. Three of us clamped down on her little elbow and held her arm above her head to stop the flow of blood. It took five minutes.

I have never seen something so simple be so traumatic in my life.

When we left there I called the doctor to tell him what happened. He won't speculate until we have results but he did ask me to write down any symptoms or oddities I've noticed in the last few months. I have a full page. Looking at it now, I wonder how I didn't see it? These things don't seem related and individually they don't even seem like things that should be taken seriously. Many of her complaints I brushed off as jealousy of the attention her brother was getting because of his recent surgery. But taken all together, they paint a grim picture. A picture that I should have been able to see.

I'm her mother. I should have known earlier. I should have done something about it earlier. I should have listened to her more. I should have paid closer attention to her frequent tummy aches and loss of appetite and very odd sleeping patterns. I should have believed her when she said her fingers were tingly and that it hurt to brush her teeth. I should have seen it before now but I did not. I let her down.

I don't know what's wrong yet. I know something is, and I can only hope it is something easily fixable. We see the doctor to discuss the first test results in the morning.

At Least Half a Boob, I'll Have You Know

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 22:25:00 +0000

Click

Her eyes upon your face.
Her hand upon your hand.
Her lips caress your skin.

It's more than I can stand.

Why does my heart cry?
Feelings I can't fight.
You're free to leave me,
But just don't deceive me
And please believe me when I say

I love you.

Inspired by the beautiful music of Moulin Rouge. And because there've been entirely too many clothes around here lately.

Le Shit

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 01:22:00 +0000

Tell me I'm crazy. Tell me this is all in my head. I won't believe you, but empty reassurances would be welcome anyway.

I had really high hopes sending my baby into this surgery. I wouldn't have done it if it wasn't necessary and if I wasn't confident we'd see the 80% improvement we were shooting for. I wouldn't have done this if he wasn't in danger of losing the vision in his right eye and I wouldn't have done this if one of the top craniofacial teams in the world told me that we'd likely see a high degree of success with this relatively simple surgery and could therefore avoid major facial reconstruction.

But the thing is, I don't see 80%. I don't see 70%. I don't see 60%. If I'm generously estimating, right now I see about a 50% improvement. Observe.

Taken in the hotel the night before surgery.

Taken at home, four days after surgery.

It's obviously better. But for the trauma of a four hour surgery, two days of blindness, and continuing pain and severe light sensitivity, is it enough? I don't think so.

Today, at four days post-op, his eyes are half open. He holds his chin high in the air and looks down through hooded eyes to protect himself from the light. Even with every drapery closed and every light off, he often wears sunglasses in the house. For every hour he has his eyes partway open, it seems he has to keep them closed for two. He's still in pain. This would be so much more tolerable if the outcome was better.

He was in surgery for nearly four hours. These procedures typically take an hour and a half. He had six muscles and two optic nerves operated on. Most children have one muscle or nerve operated on. He had both his eyes done at once. This too is atypical. Again, all of this and the resulting trauma he experienced (and is still experiencing to some degree) would be so much more tolerable if we were seeing a drastic change.

We go back to UCLA in three weeks but in the meantime I've emailed the doctor a bunch of pictures and a bunch of concerns. It's clear he'll need more surgery and while that's something we knew all along, I'm now afraid that we won't be able to really fix this issue without the facial reconstruction they tried to talk me into last year.

I hope I'm just borrowing trouble here, but I know in my heart of hearts I'm not. I wish there was a task I could perform or a check I could write or an appeal I could make to lift this burden from my baby and bring it onto myself.

God, how I hate this.

I Don't Like This.

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 03:43:00 +0000

I keep waiting for the surgeons to call me and say, "just kidding!" but my phone isn't ringing. Maybe it's broken.

I don't like this. Stomping my foot isn't helping. Whining to my mom isn't helping. Even reading so much about the procedure and anesthesia and recovery that I could practically do the thing myself isn't helping.

I just don't like this.

And I don't want my baby to have to do it.

Pediatric Surgery is Bullshit.

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 01:54:00 +0000

Every doctor on the surgical team (there are three) has gray hair, so that's good. It's not so gray that any of their hands are bent or wrinkled, but it's enough that each of them has specialized in pediatric ophthalmology or pediatric craniofacial orthopedics for at least as many years as I've been alive. I doubt I could allow anyone to operate on my baby's beautiful eyes if he didn't have at least salt and pepper hair.

We are fortunate to live where we do so we have access to some of the top specialists in the world. They've all done this thousands of times. It'll be just another Wednesday for them. The first children they operated on surely have children of their own by now, and so while they say my son's is one of the most severe cases of strabismus caused by craniosystinosis they've seen in their careers, they're confident that everything will go smoothly.

But though they've done this countless times, I never have. And while they've operated on endless pairs of eyes, they've never operated on these, the most important eyes in the world. I made those eyes from scratch, you know.

We've cycled through many doctors, tried many treatments, crossed our fingers and hoped and prayed, but there is not, unfortunately, a nonsurgical cure for his condition. In fact, the surgery itself is noncurative. He will be better; he will not be cured. He'll need more surgeries. It's likely that eventually we'll end up back with the entire craniofacial team discussing the merits of facial reconstruction.

But for now they will repair six muscles controlling his eye movement; three for each eye. They will fix the fourth optic nerve that prevents his eyes from tracking together. They say his condition will improve by as much as 80%, which would be phenomenal.

The doctors explained all of this to me just as if they were telling me what they planned to eat for dinner. Just like it's routine, just like five year olds having major surgery is in any way acceptable. Just like I wouldn't crawl naked through broken glass and set myself on fire if it meant he didn't have to do this. Just like I wouldn't trade everything I own to be able to take his place.

It's not routine. It's not normal. It's necessary, but it's not okay. I made those eyes from scratch.

A Perfectly Rational Drunk

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 04:25:00 +0000

Jean Marais. Moan.

I've spent most of this weekend swimming in a pool of gin which has been pretty fabulous except when I achieve the kind of drunk where I weep over things like Neil Patrick Harris being gay and Jean Marais dying in 1998 so neither one will ever fall in love with me.

And I was having a hormone essentially all weekend which, on top of the drinking, added up to a lot of watching La Belle et la Bête and eating my weight in chocolate.

If I keep going this way it won't be long before the fire department has to cut me out of my house and load me in a whale sling in the back of some giant truck and hose me down with water on the way to the ocean to free my big fat Willy ass.

Christ.

I don't really know where I'm going with this except going through menopause twenty years before I'm supposed to isn't much of a thrill, though I wouldn't have a ute again for all the coke in Columbia either, so. I'm basically just epically unsatisfied no matter what. I'm also unsure of whether the coke/Columbia reference was correct. I never google that shit though, in case I'm ever erroneously arrested and they seize my laptop. I always go to the library if I need to ask google how to kill my husband and get away with it. And I sign in using the name of this bitch who spat gum in my hair in seventh grade. She's the one who should be arrested.

What was I talking about?

Go home. Not sexy.

Oh yeah. Neil Patrick Harris is gay. I was the last to fucking know that news. I've known a good six months now at least, but sometimes the sorrow over the whole issue comes creeping back up when I'm in the gin. I can compete against other women because, hello, I'm an Incomparable. But I can't fight nature. Stupid fucking nature. I don't know why nature couldn't have made that overrated tool Ryan Gosling gay. He's foul. If it were up to the two of us to repopulate the Earth after the apocalypse, the human race would snuff right out. He is exactly zero per cent appealing.

Anyway. I'm obviously a perfectly rational drunk. And now that I think about it, Neil Patrick Harris is too skinny anyway.

Hate Mail, Child Rape Apologist Edition

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 03:39:00 +0000

Apparently, a lot of assholes are fine with child rape as long as it's never allowed to interfere with college football. Between facebook, twitter, and this blog, I've lost about twenty people and received a lot of hate mail because I dared to say maybe child rape is more important than football, even if the coach allowing it to happen is really really good.

I guess I'm the asshole.

Oh, and one bitch really really didn't want to eat my ute. Psycho.

Anyway. Here are the choicest examples. My commentary is in pink.

Anonymous has left a new comment on your post Because Who Cares about Child Rape When FOOTBALL...
Oh. You again. I've missed you. The judgement that pours out of that ugly manicure is sickening. Who the fuck taught my manicure to out-bitch me? You were there then, and know exactly what happened? You, who admittedly knows nothing about football, is qualified to decide Yes. I is qualified. what JoePa should have done different? *differently.

Anonymous has left a new comment on your post Because Who Cares about Child Rape When FOOTBALL...
Your an idiot. Irony is hard. The media killed that man. He's lucky my son isn't one of the poor souls who was raped under his deliberately blind eye. The media would have had to stand in line.

Email excerpt re: Your Paterno Post...
I can't follow you anymore. At least give me a chance to grieve properly before you leave my life forever. You live in a world that is so black and white you immediately stamp out the gray Well, yes. Especially when "gray" = "I know my guy is raping little boys in the shower, but I'm pretty busy with my football team, so I'm not super worried about it". and I don't have room for that at all. I'm a huge Penn State fan and you unfairly villainize a good man who did a bad thing. That one bad thing doesn't erase all the wonderful things he did over the years. Actually, it sure as hot fuck does, thanks. I hope you never make a mistake, yes a huge one, only to have someone as cruel as yourself condemn your whole life for you without even knowing you. Allowing children to be harmed in the most base way imaginable is a "mistake" I can guarantee you I'll never make. Good luck apologizing for a man who gave a serial child molester free reign to commit his crimes though. Let me know how that works out for you.

Tabbitha1968 has left a new comment on your post Hungry? I'm Selling My Uterus...
OMG why would anyone want something your body so obviously rejected? I rejected it before it could reject me. Just how I roll. AS IF...losers!! I applaud the passion in your use of "OMG" and double exclamation points, especially regarding a joke you so obviously missed. But we can still be friends, hmm? You bring the placenta smoothie, and I'll bring my Clueless VHS.

Because Who Cares About the Innocence of Children when FOOTBALL!

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 04:05:00 +0000

So, people are posthumously dry humping Joe Paterno.

Gag me.

I'm about as far from a football fan as it's possible to be. I think I was 23 before I understood that the little yellow line you see on TV isn't actually painted on the field. But even I'd heard of Joe Paterno. He could coach the fuck out of some college football.

Big fat DON'T CARE on this end.

That is until he enabled the rape of innocent children. It was about the time he actively ignored the most base violation against a tiny human there is that I started to care. And now he's dead and people are vomiting hero worship all over his name while who knows how many victims of his blind eye are still trying to pick up the pieces of their lives.

Child molesters are murderers of the person their victim would and should have been. There is nothing more unforgivable than the violation of a child. There is nothing more vile, nothing more inhumane, nothing more evil, nothing more horrifying.

Enabling a child rapist is just as bad as being a child rapist.

So I don't care how many football games he won. I don't care what his accomplishments were. I don't care that leaving the job he loved so dearly (so dearly he sacrificed many mamas' babies for it) very likely hastened his death. Instead I choose to weep for the children whose lives were forever changed because Joe Paterno's football team was more important than their right to be innocent and safe.

********************

Doubtless some will be offended by my thoughts on Paterno. I'm offended by child rape. I guess we all have issues.

Unfinished Business

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 01:10:00 +0000

Click

Margaret Sanger Would Be So Proud

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 20:57:00 +0000

Your child doesn't have the right to live a long life. She's not normal. She's retarded. Her quality of life is, well, poor. It's not worth our time, effort, or resources to save her life. It doesn't matter what you feel or say, your child isn't like other children. Her brain is damaged. She has cognitive delays. Her face looks different. Therefore we will let her die. It'll be better for everyone.

Those weren't the exact words, I'm sure. Perhaps they were more tactful than that, if there's a tactful way to inform a mother that her "retarded" baby is not deemed worthy of a life saving kidney transplant, not even from a designated donor within her own family.

This didn't happen fifty years ago or thirty years ago or twenty years ago; this isn't some horrible concept for a novel, though all of that sounds more believable than the fact that this is happening now.

Doctors at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia are refusing to give two year old Amelia the life saving kidney transplant she needs, even though she will not be placed on the transplant list and the donor will be a volunteer member of her own family, simply because she is, in the doctor's words, "mentally retarded". She has a poor quality of life, he says. The drugs she'll need after the transplant can cause seizures, he says. They have to get the dosage just perfect, he says. Other children, "normal children" survive transplants and manage the anti-rejection drugs, but the retarded ones aren't worth the effort, he implies.

As a mother of children who've had significant health issues since birth, I am horrified. Horrified is not a big enough word for the rage this inspires deep within me like a churning, fiery thing. But you don't have to be a parent of special needs children or even a parent at all to be outraged at this incredible injustice.

It is so inconceivable that such inhumane treatment of members of our society who have special needs still exists in this day and age. I'm shocked, seriously shocked, that such evil is allowed to run rampant through the halls of our hospitals. I absolutely believe that denying any child life saving medical treatment is evil.

I know that I, and any mother worth her salt, would pluck out my own kidney and place it in my child myself if such a thing were possible and I know that Amelia's parents are not going to give up. We can help. We can spread the word on Facebook and Twitter using the hashtag #TeamAmeila. We can sign this petition calling for CHOP to perform this life saving surgery. We can come together as a community and not allow this kind of evil to triumph.

There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.
-Elie Wiesel

Almost a Man

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 01:05:00 +0000

Sniffle.

I have the uncanny ability to sense upset among my children even while sleeping the sleep of the post-op heavily drugged newly menopausal basketcase. I think most mothers have this sixth sense.

I was dreaming of rejecting the advances of Daniel Tosh because I could fly and he couldn't (the douche) when I heard it from my doorway.

Sniffle.

I half raised my head and muttered something through all the cotton some asshole stuffed in my mouth after I took all that Vicodin and fell asleep, which was all the invitation He Gucci needed to burst into tears and come running to my bedside.

Mom. He sounded so crumply and broken. Mom, I'm just so worried about you.

All he knew was that I had to spend the night with the doctor after he cut the bad part out of my tummy. Though I explained it, he was expecting me to come home and immediately be able to do the things I'd promised I'd be able to do after I wasn't sick anymore; he wasn't a big fan of seeing me struggle to sit up in bed and fitfully sleep away the better part of every day.

Is this how you're going to be forever now Mom?

He climbed up on my bed and wrapped his clumsy body around my very sore one and rested his cheek on mine. He's so bright and intelligent and mature that sometimes I have to remind myself that he's still only five.

Mama, I just miss you.

Well.

His mind is eased now, even if all is not yet quite right with his little world. He seems to think that the sheer force of his wanting things to be a certain way will make them so, and he's vastly annoyed that even checking me out with his doctor kit and giving me skittles, telling me to "take two and call me in the morning" wasn't enough to bring me back to normal.

Don't worry about me, Mom. I'm fine now. I'm almost a man, anyway. Moms don't worry about men, do they? You worry about you and getting better so you can run and play with me.

I will keep him.

Sniffle.

Hungry? I'm Selling My Uterus.

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 04:00:00 +0000

It's really not fair that having my ute ripped out (I opted out of the ritualistic burning in favor of auctioning it off to placenta eating hippies; it's a similar organ. More on that later) and the swelling is so tremendous I look six months pregnant.

I shouldn't care, since I'm convalescing at home and not allowing visitors, but I'm the kind of girl who treated herself to a fistful of spa treatments the day before surgery, and then had make up and a blow out done the morning of.

So.

THIS IS KIND OF BOTHERING ME.

How appalling. I hope, for your sake, that you were smart enough not to click the link. I blame the six pounds of pain pills I have to take every few hours for posting it in the first place.

The pain pills are responsible for many things, like how I named my bitch nurse Sergeant Snaglepuss or how I told my hot doctor he was "required to marry me after being elbow deep in The Gucciness for three hours".

But they also brought me this brilliant idea to auction off my ute to placenta eating hippies. There are people, I swear this is real, who will eat their own placentas oh my GOD. Apparently, cannibalism is the new thing, especially if you're one of those moms who wears shapeless skirts and gives birth in a tree. So I thought, why not? I have no use for her anymore, and she gave me nothing but problems while I allowed her to live within my perfect person, so why not make some money off the bitch?

I figure the ute is similar to the placenta. Both are exclusive to women. Both are necessary for growing short people. Both are things that should never be consumed by a human for any reason under any circumstance, but hippies love to do stupidly unreasonable shit for shock factor. And if you're not that kind of hippie, you can bury it under a sapling for good luck or something. I'm not sure what the reasons are, because I just can't bring myself to take it seriously enough to actually research, but whatever you want.

Once you're the proud owner of my shriveled, useless uterus, it's really up to you what you want to do with it. I kind of don't even really want to know.

Bidding begins now. We'll open it at $5000. Annnnd, go.

Later, lovers. I have six more pounds of pain pills to take.

News

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 05:35:00 +0000

Mama Still Wears Gucci will be on hiatus until after my surgery in January. Thank you to everyone who has checked on me and worried for me. I'm convinced all will soon be well.

I'm sure I miss you at least half as much as you miss me.

Best,
Gucci

HNT - Cold Shoulder

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 03:04:00 +0000

Click

You say
It's all in my head.
And the things I think
Just don't make sense.
So where've you been then?
Don't go all coy.
Don't turn it 'round on me
Like it's my fault.
See I can see
That look in your eyes.
The one that shoots me
Each and every time.

You grace me with your cold shoulder
Whenever you look at me
I wish I was her.
You shower me with words
Made of knives.
Whenever you look at me
I wish I was her.

Click for this week's delicious mystery guest.

These days when I see you
You make it look like I'm see-through
Do tell me why you waste our time
When your heart ain't admitting you're not satisfied
You know I know just how you feel
I'm starting to find myself feeling that way too

When You grace me with your cold shoulder.

Whenever you look at me I wish I was her.

Visit Os for the full list of the "nekkid".

It's Just Me. Sitting on My High Horse. Judging You.

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 03:44:00 +0000

Empirical evidence suggests I'm a pretty awesome fucking parent. Let's not kid ourselves. My children are four (five in just over a week. FIVE!) and two. And a half. The half is very important to She Gucci. So almost five and two and a half. I'll admit, it's not a very long time I've been wearing my mom jeans. Not that I wear mom jeans. Seriously. However in that time, I've managed to teach them some very important things like...


How to shoot guns.


How to be bad ASS.

How to take care of each other.

How to be pampered.

I've taught them other shit too. Simple things like, "please", "thank you", "sir", and "ma'am". Things like "hold my hand in the parking lot" and "don't grab shit off the shelves at the grocery store even if it's chocolate fudge pop tarts". The point is, my kids know how to behave and do so the vast majority of the time and it's not because I'm "lucky". It's because I'm in control. I have a love affair with the word "no". I discipline them. I teach them right from wrong. I don't buy into the "self esteem through self expression" happy horseshit. My children are happy and secure and bright because they know the rules and they know the consequences for breaking them. They have and respect boundaries. This isn't fucking rocket science to me, and yet I see parents all the time who can't figure out why their little hellion won't shape the shit up.

In a weak moment over the holiday weekend, I may in fact have told a woman that if she "continued to fail at parenting," her "little terrorist would grow up to be an art history major, get face tattoos, live in her basement and wonder why he's unemployable". In my defense, that kid was a being a total shitbrick. His out of control, defiant, destructive behavior was a direct result of her idiotic idea that he'll get his feeeeeeeeeeeelings hurt and will have no self esteeeeeeeeeeeeeem if she told him to shape his shit up or ship his shit out.

Moron.

But I saw something this weekend that was even worse than that. I suspect I'm going to ruffle a few feathers here, so let me first state that no, I don't automatically think you fail at life and suck as a parent if you put your kid on a fucking leash like he's a household pet, but I do judge you harshly. Because, hello, it's your child. Not your golden retriever.

But apparently not everyone feels this way. There seem to be quite a few parents who see nothing wrong with tethering their children up like animals and walking (or dragging) them around. Quite frankly, I think it's pure laziness. You don't have to watch your brat if you know he's attached to you. You can fuck around on your phone, shop, work on your prostituting, whatever it is you do while your kid gets his feet tangled up in rope and trips. I don't know what you leash people do.

I've had my kids in airports, fairs, malls (The Mall of America, even which incidentally does not come with the parking lot of America), and other horribly crowded and publicly smelling places since they were babies. She Gucci weighed just four pounds when she took her first plane ride which meant He Gucci was all of two. I used a stroller pretty infrequently (Mr. Gucci still hasn't unwadded his little pink panties over my $800 double stroller that I used like twice). Other than that, if they knew how to walk, they walked. If they didn't, they were in the Moby wrap.

Now that they can both walk, that's what they do. They know to stay close to me and to ask if they want to go somewhere not as close to me. They know to act right in public or they will be taken right the fuck out of public and will not appreciate whatever psychologically torturous punishment I come up with, like not allowing them to watch Garfield when we get home. I've never even considered putting them on a leash. That's just lazy parenting. And demeaning. And ridiculous. And actually quite horrifying.

Leash moms seem to think leashes keep their kids safer, but I'm convinced that safety is an illusion. If it's a "kidnapping" thing, and I've heard that argument frequently, the vast majority of kidnappings are perpetrated by family members. And if some freakfuck was brazen enough to walk up to you and snatch your child away from your side, a five foot piece of nylon wouldn't deter him. (Sidebar: This fat ass Gucci Mama can run. And hit. And shoot. So someone would immediately regret being a freakfuck around my Gucci Cubs). The other "pro" is that a leash keeps children "in control". Um? It's called parenting? Try it sometime?

I doubt you'll change my mind (who are we kidding; I know you won't) but if you leash your kids, tell me why and I promise I'll still love you. I'm really curious why any otherwise good parent would do this to her kids.

In the interest of full disclosure, while I've never leashed my children, I do sometimes tie She Gucci up with her own fake pearls. Just to remind her who's in charge.

HNT - FTG

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 02:30:00 +0000

Well, this is unspeakable. I think we all know I only participate in things if my victory is all but assured. It's not that I care about football or anything, but I do care about not winning. And there's really no excuse for the horrible outcome of the game considering my team was ranked number ONE and Os's was like number SEVEN. Doesn't that mean my team is seven times better?

If you haven't been following along, Os went to the University of Montana (The Grizzlies) and I went to Montana State (The Bobcats). My school, town, and football team are vastly superior in every way, but there are some (our dear friend Os included) who are deluded enough to believe otherwise. So every year we wager on the outcome of the football game between the two Montana colleges and this year, Os got really, really lucky.

Click

I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Os likes to play that he's a Grizzly, but he was a Bobcat long before he went to that other school in Montana. So "his" team may have won while mine, um, less than won, but at least I am not a traitor.

Click

And so this is my penance. The Bobcats lost the stupid football game that I didn't even watch, and now I have to wear this horrible scarf with that other team's name on it. So distasteful.

Visit Os for the full list of the "nekkid".

My Ute Hurts. I Didn't Need This Shit, Bobcats.

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 03:40:00 +0000

Fucking Griz.

Seriously.

I'm not a college football fan. I'm not an any kind of football fan. I don't like it, I don't understand it, I don't care about it. I was literally 22 years old before I understood that the little yellow line on the TV doesn't actually exist on the field.

But.

Fucking Montana Grizzlies.

I'm pissed.

See, Os went to the University of Montana (the stupid Grizzlies). I went to Montana State (the fighting Bobcats). Their football game is huge in Montana and it's huge for Os and I. We have "nekkidness" riding on it, of course.

And...

This is hard to say.

I lost.

Fail.

I think we all know the 'Cats heard about the bet and threw the game in hopes of seeing The Gucciness, but still. It's painful to lose. Even though I hate football almost as much as I hate cats and democrats.

I have to wear a nasty little Griz scarf for my HNT this week. The horror.

Speaking of HNT, le sigh. If you haven't heard by now, the whole thing is coming to an end which, predictably, makes Bunny cry.

I consider Os to be a very close friend. He's one of the few who live in my computer that I've met in Real Life Land where there's beer and fried cookie dough to consume in excess.

He and I talked about the end of HNT, as I'm sure he talked to others, and I'm still recovering from my butt hurt about it being over. He knows. I think he must be sore over it too, especially since there seem to be some who are rushing to claim credit for its demise.

I was a Lookie Lou long before I started posting my own pictures, though I was a super secret anonymous guest at my favorite Cowboy's place many moons and rains ago. When I mustered the bravery to post my own pictures under my own name on my own site, I was immediately embraced by this wonderful community of bloggers. I was (mostly) supported and loved on (how could you not love me?) and through it I met some of my favorite people.

I'm sad to see that after everything Os has built with HNT and OHNT, with all the time and effort and creativity he's put into it over the years, with the relationships we've built and the memories we've all made and even the people we've lost, I've seen smug satisfaction in the "demise" of this tradition. I thought about linking to the specific post I'm talking about, and I'm sure I'll be called "passive aggressive" too for not doing so, but I can deal. I've been called worse.

Instead of reinforcing the negativity though, I want to take this opportunity to give Osbasso a big, heartfelt thanks for this gift he's given us with HNT over the last several years. My only regret is that I wasn't a part of it from the very beginning. Instead of bitching about comments being down or fewer people participating or pretending like the end of HNT revolves around me (there's that passive aggression again) I'm going to be thankful I was privileged enough to be a part of it.

And I'll still be posting some half "nekkidness" around here from time to time.

Half "Nekkid" Scrapbooking

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 05:13:00 +0000

Let's just face it. I'm not typically a crafty girl. With the exception of knitting (which I recently taught myself to do) I don't do things with my hands. I don't create anything other than brilliant pieces of writing. My kids don't have baby albums. Maybe He Gucci does, but it's still in the package sitting in a storage bin somewhere.

It's just not my thing. And I think that's more because I'm not very good at it than some kind of aversion to craftiness. I tend to stop doing something if I'm not immediately a gold medalist. Plus, who has the time to haul out fancy paper and scissors and cut and paste and hot glue and shit? Not this girl. I have pedicures and massages to get to.

So if we're being perfectly honest (which is, of course, my specialty) I was a little surprised when My Memories contacted me to review their scrapbooking software. I don't think I'm a typical memory saver. But I am always intrigued by new things and so I agreed. Now that I've spent more time than you'd expect (I even skipped a pedicure over it) playing around with it, I realize I am exactly the type of person who needs scrapbooking software.

Click to continue reading (and for more half "nekkidness").

HNT - Remember

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 03:14:00 +0000

When will I see you again?

We left with no goodbye,

Not a single word was said.

No final kiss

To seal every sin.

I had no idea the shape

We were in.

Click

I know I have a fickle heart

And a bitterness

And wandering eye

And heaviness in my head,

But don't you remember?

Don't you remember the reasons you loved me?

Click

When was the last time

You thought of me?

Or have you completely erased me

From your memory?

I often think about

Where we went wrong.

The more I do,

The less I know.

Why don't you remember?

Don't you remember the reasons you loved me before?

Baby, please remember me once more.

Visit Os for the full list of the "nekkid".

There Was a Little Girl...

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 04:12:00 +0000

When I was little my grandpa used to recite this little poem to me before I went to sleep.

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
And when she was good,
She was very very good.
But when she was bad,
She was horrid.

As I was brushing my baby's beautiful little curls tonight after her bath and reciting that very same poem to her, I couldn't help but wish he was still here to create that memory for her as he did for me.

Le sigh.

Secrets, Part II

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 03:49:00 +0000

My laptop is gathering dust. I've been spending a lot of time in bed, mostly heavily drugged to take the edge off the pain, and dicking around with insurance companies. And when I'm not doing that, I've been on Post Secret. I might be a wee bit addicted.

Anyway, since the only thing I have to write is, "goddamn, my fucking uterus hurts", I'm going to share more of my secrets instead. You are welcome.

Share your secrets in the comments, anonymously if you wish or using your name if you dare.

HNT - Set Fire to the Rain

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 02:30:00 +0000

Click

I let it fall, my heart,
And as it fell you rose to claim it.
It was dark and I was over
Until you kissed my lips and you saved me.
My hands, they were strong
But my knees were far too weak.
To stand in your arms
Without falling to your feet.
But there's a side to you
That I never knew, never knew.
All the things you'd say
They were never true, never true,
And the games you'd play
You would always win, always win.
I set fire to the rain
And I threw us into the flames
Well, it felt something died
'Cause I knew that this was the last time, the last time.

Visit Os for the full list of the "nekkid".

My Body, My Choice? Not if Your Last Name is Duggar, I Guess.

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 04:00:00 +0000

Michelle Duggar is pregnant again. This will be the Big Twenty. Twen. Ty.

Holy shit.

I have two children. I used to think I wanted four, before I had these two, but I quickly realized (when She Gucci was about three hours old) that two children is the absolute perfect number. Especially when I have a boy and a girl. Perfection. I couldn't imagine having more.

The more I think about it, the happier I am I'm having half The Gucciness ripped out on the operating table pretty soon. I don't have to worry about any surprises. You know, if I magically have sex anytime in the next century. That's still up in the air.

Anyway.

I love the Duggars. There. I said it. I think they are psychotic a little, but they're obviously a very loving family. I wish I was half as patient with my two kids as Michelle is with her 19. I wish my husband looked at me after seven years like Jim Bob looks at Michelle after more than twenty.

I would never ever want their life. But I admire them.

So I'm vastly annoyed at the outrage I've seen today over Michelle being pregnant again. The irony is that most of the outrage is coming from the pro abortion/pro gay marriage crowd. Apparently we're supposed to "stay out of the bedrooms" of the gays and we're supposed to chant "my body my choice" when it comes to killing babies in utero, but not when it comes to actually growing them.

I will never stop being pissed off at the disgusting hypocrisy of the "open minded" and "tolerant" Left. God.

Congratulations, Duggars. I'm hoping for a successful, healthy pregnancy.

I Will Pistol Whip the Next Girl Who Says the Word "Curves".

noreply@blogger.com (Gucci Mama) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 02:35:00 +0000

I've pretty much just been knitting and self medicating. Sometimes I read the Post Secret app on my iPhone and leave snarky replies like, "Bitch, they're not curves if you're a size 24". Well, they're not. We all know it.

Curvy

Fat

You're welcome for the illustration, even though I can't get the goddamn pictures to align properly.

I'm just pretty busy feeling sorry for myself. My doctor told me weeks ago I need surgery, and for weeks I've been enduring this ridiculous pain while I wait for the insurance company to unfuck itself.

I'm tired of being frustrated, I'm tired of being in pain, and I'm tired of girls who weigh a half ton thundering on about their curves.

Cranky Gucci.