Tag Archives: Human Interest

Stay at Home Mom versus Working Mom — This is just a stupid fight

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3 Reasons the Fight Over Working or Staying Home is StupidStay at Home Mom vs Working Mom

I’m so sick of the Mommy Wars I want to punch every woman I know in the vagina to make them stop judging each other. And now I’ve just judged other women myself, but trust me, you are not aiming violence at my poo-nanny. I’m just trying to say, people are stupid, and once again they are working overtime to prove my point.

Natural birth versus medicated:

Who gives a shit?

The call for doing it natural:

How about if all the wonderful fucking “natural moms” STFU and quit being smug about how awesome they are for doing something that is a female’s biological imperative? I had my son several weeks early, and was grateful for every bit of technological magic that kept him alive and me relatively pain free so that I was able to take him home two weeks before the doctors had projected. Hooray for modern medicine! If you want to judge my choice as “not quite good enough” you are certainly welcome to do so, but I hope we never meet because I won’t be able to control my urge to punch your face off your head. You’re not better than I am. You’re a snot ball.

The call for modern medicine:

How about if all the wonderful fucking “modern medicine moms” STFU and quit being smug about how awesome they are for ALSO doing something that is a female’s biological imperative? I had my daughter right on time, and decided I was going to do it completely natural. (I failed in that endeavor, because that shit HURTS, and also she got stuck because she has a huge head, but that’s irrelevant here.) My choice doesn’t make me a hippie or a weed-smoking peace-monger. It means I wanted to try and do what women have done all throughout history, sans toxins. If you want to judge my choice as “freakish” you are certainly welcome to do so, but I hope we never meet because I won’t be able to control my urge to punch your nose off your face. You’re not better than I am. You’re an ass-hat.

Do you get what I’m saying, all you bitches?

You both squeezed a baby out your hoo-hoo, just like I did with my son. Or you both had it cut out, just like I did with my daughter. Or you both turned a cartwheel and that sucker fell out, just like what NEVER happened to me ever. Get over yourselves already.

See — and that’s just one argument women have with each other. Everyone has to be part of some stupid “camp” in which they lord their special choice over the other teams. What if we changed the game? Nah… women are too busy being bitchy to stop stoning each other to death.

Another controversy that chaps my ass is the one where the Stay at Home Mom is all snobbish and thinks everyone can and should choose this option, and the Working Mom grabs the bait and starts making fun of the Stay at Home Mom for being a fat, lazy, bon-bon eater. God, you’re both so completely stupid. As long as the kids are turning out okay (which judging from most people I know in both groups ISN’T the case, but I digress), the laundry is done, and something has been microwaved for dinner… who the fuck gives a shit how you spent your day? In the house, out of the house — regardless, you are likely a very boring nitwit. Nobody cares. STFU.

This attitude, when offered in the comments section of another post on this topic, elicited responses from both camps, with ladies on both sides of the river shouting into their megaphones, “You’re just bitter because you…” and then fill in the blank with whatever it is I’m supposed to be lacking in my life. You know what I’m lacking? At the moment it’s caffeine, because my fucking Keurig broke down. It has nothing to do with whether I’m a so-called Working Mom or a Stay at Home Mom.

Shawanda is the new writer at the blog Fabulously Broke in the City, and she garnered all kinds of nasty responses when she dared to take on Salary.com ‘s ridiculous assertion that the annual wage of a Stay at Home Mom should be somewhere in the ballpark of $115K. As a mom who only recently stopped working outside the home, I want you to know how fucked up that is.

Here’s why.

My hubz and I were each working about 50 hours per week. We were behind on laundry, and seldom had a nice dinner — it usually came out of a box. Either of us were just as likely to get on task, regardless of that whole man vs. woman fight. Either of us were just as likely to say, “Fuck it,” and skip household chores so we could watch an episode of Dr. Who before falling asleep on the couches.

Our lives were miserable.

We didn’t see the kids nearly as much as we’d have liked. Fortunately for us, our second car broke down, and we were forced to take a step back and examine our position. Thus far we hadn’t had to pay for childcare, thanks to our loving family. But that was due to change too, due to circumstances beyond anyone’s control. No second vehicle, additional pull on our funds — this on top of the fact that we wished we had a live-in maid/nanny/life coach — it wasn’t hard to make our choice. His job was higher paying and came with medical insurance, therefore I quit my job. Were the situation reversed, he’d have quit in a heartbeat. He hates working for someone else as much as I do. The Stay at Home Mom plan would be ideal for either of us, regardless of sex.

My NEW job.

Our agreement when I quit was that I would take up the slack. I would keep up with the laundry, cook dinners, and begin the process of paring down, in hopes of going Minimalist. I also agreed to pursue my writing, run this here bloggy-blog, and focus on finding nontraditional ways to earn income from my laptop. This shit all needs to be done, so why is there suddenly a salary placed on it? It all needed to be done BEFORE I quit. Now I’ve joined the rank of bon-bon eaters, so my efforts have become appreciated? WTF? That’s backwards, stupid, and insulting. It also leaves out the fact that my hubz was contributing as much (or as little) to the household chores as I was.

Sorry, honey, you have a penis, so you are exempt.

Vaginas only.

Interlude: Can someone please tell me why the plural of “vagina” is not accepted by my spell checker? We may speak of one, but not of several, lady pits. Ludicrous.

Shawanda, along with Linda Sharps over at Mom, Interrupted (a syndication at Cafe Mom’s The Stir), are both advocates of the “Get Over Yourself” mode of thought. Do what you have to do to keep your kids safe, happy, and healthy. AGREED! And stop worrying about what I’m doing. I guarantee my kids are smarter than yours whether I had them naturally or not; whether I am a Stay at Home Mom or not; whether they were breast fed or not. Maybe if you spent more attention to your precious angels, you would have less time to be such an ugly beast.

I promised in the title of this post to provide three reasons the fight over being a Working Mom or a Stay at Home Mom is stupid. Sorry I’m a liar, but really there’s only one reason the fight is stupid.

If you can’t see why the fight is stupid for yourself, you have no business bringing up kids in the first place, which makes any stance you have a non-issue. *BAM*

3 Reasons Putting Your Kids First Is The Right Choice

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3 Reasons to Put Your Kids Firstkids first

Take care of you. You can’t take care of anyone until you’ve taken care of yourself. You deserve to be pampered. You have to put yourself first. You-you-you.

 

What I’m hearing is a whole lot of ME-ME-ME.

I will agree that you should put your air mask on before helping someone else get theirs in place. And yes, overextending yourself is only going to result in exhaustion, either physical or emotional — sometimes both. And okay, we do sometimes deserve to take a break and catch our collective breath.

 

But all the time?

REALLY? And are there THAT many people out there being so giving that an entire movement should be directed toward encouraging bubble baths by candlelight? Where do they live? I want to move to THAT state!

 

College For Your Kids Versus Retirement

Personal Finance blogs are notorious for this mentality. With regard to the topic of College Savings for Your kids versus Retirement Savings, you’re supposed to pick YOU, 100%. That seems a bit… selfish?

 

The Leaders Opine.

Uber-smart debt-reduction counselors Dave Ramsey and Suze Orman both agree — your kids can get a loan. Take care of you, because you won’t be able to get a loan to cover old age.

 

Ever flip through money magazines?

No, me neither — booo-ring! But I do know one of the top reads in this field is Kiplinger, and they also assert that, unless you have a very lovely inheritance on the horizon, put yourself at the top of the priority list.

 

How nice:

Pray your parents kick-it and everything will be okay.

Otherwise, every man for himself!

So yeah, I’ve read all the reasons why this should be great advise. And for people with money, maybe this does make sense. Never having had an extra dime on which to contemplate such choices, I can’t really say one way or the other. But I CAN tell you why this doesn’t apply to me, or anyone else in a similar financial situation.

  • (1)  One minus One still equals ZERO.

As stated, there are no extra dimes lying about, so there is no choice to be made. Any windfall raining unexpectedly from the sky would not be enough to pay for one month of my mortgage, much less an old folks’ home. Extra money always goes to the kids, because if it’s not going to make much of a difference either way, I might as well put it where it’ll be best appreciated today.

  •  (2) Put the Past to Rest.

In addition to my altruistic reasons for wanting to ensure my kids are college-educated, I have one admittedly very selfish reason. My parents never pushed me to pursue college. I’m still bitter of this. I managed to obtain a two-year degree, but it took me TEN years to do so. I want to be better than my parents. I want to be the parent they weren’t. I want to end the cycle of low-paying, uneducated bullshit running rampant through my family history. It stops here. My kids will go to college, regardless of what happens to me.

  •  (3) The Future is Hopeless.

At least it will be for my kids if I don’t struggle to get every cent pushed toward getting them into college. If I have any hope of them NOT ending up in my shoes, they MUST get a degree. Screw my retirement. I’m not worrying about that. I’m worrying that my kids have a fighting chance in this world. How could I face my kids in my older years, knowing that my choice to take care of ME first condemned them to minimum wage jobs?

My ex-mother-in-law once asked me, with regard to her college-bound daughter, “Am I supposed to give up MY dream for hers?” I remember biting my tongue because I wanted to smack her face off her head. My answer today, almost a decade later, remains unchanged.

YES.

You are supposed to give up your dreams for your kids.

That’s what being a good parent means. When I made the decision to have my son, I promised him that his dreams would trump mine, and that I would do everything in my power to ensure he had a chance to make it. His dreams, in essence, BECAME my dreams.

That’s not to say I don’t still have dreams. I do!

But they aren’t placed above my children’s dreams, or even my husband’s dreams, for that matter. In the grand scheme of things, my dreams are complimentary to theirs. My husband and I share a combined goal toward which we are working. My dream of writing a novel goes hand-in-hand with that. And our shared dream, above anything for ourselves, is to see our kids succeed. They come first. Always.

10 Things I Hate

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10 Things I Hate

Yeah, I said it. “Hate”. I know, I know, it’s a very strong word and I should be careful how I use it because blah-blah-blah. But I could say “strongly dislike” just as easily and it would mean the same thing only with more wordage. So I’m gonna stick with “hate”, and we can both agree that I pretty much mean it.

1. When someone distracts me while I’m writing. I have zero ability to multitask (a future blog on this lovely topic forthcoming), so whatever I am working on pulls all my focus. My husband constantly bugs me to “Come look at this, Babe!” or asks me, “What are you writing about, Darling?” or reminds me, “Hey, I need clean undies for tomorrow so can you run a load of laundry?” I snap at him. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. Which is ugly because he is really great and of course doesn’t deserve that treatment so then I have to apologize and explain for the millionth time, “I’m working over here!”

2. When someone walks up behind me and I don’t hear it, and since I’m so immersed in what I’m doing, I freak out and jump out of my seat and crack my patella on the desk and flip the computer across the room while shrieking.

3. The movie Broke Back Mountain — not because of the gay stuff, which I’m totally fine with, but because the script was stupid and the music was overly dramatic. For movies with homosexual themes, I much prefer Milk, or Boys on the Side, or every episode of Glee. But Broke Back — dude, that movie sucked!

4. Zombies, for all the obvious reasons.

5. When people remind me that zombies aren’t real. I know they aren’t real. They’re still freaking scary as all hellz.

6. Cirque du Soliel. I’m so afraid someone’s gonna get dropped — and all my fears were recognized during their performance at the Academy Awards when performers were tossing each around and one of the guys fell. Too much stress on my heart and I’m too young to have a stroke.
7. Boats.Which makes my hubby very sad. But they make me barf so it’s not my fault. And don’t suggest Dramamine because all that does is knock me out. If I’m gonna miss the ride, shouldn’t I just skip it and stay home? I much prefer lying on the couch, curled up under an afghan with a good book, to puking or enduring drug-induced stupors.

***BTW, Afghans possess magical healing properties.***
(Regardless of what my hubz says. He doesn’t know.)

8. Horses. Which makes my daughter very sad. But look at their faces — don’t they resemble aliens to some degree? They watch things and have this knowing glance about them that makes me think they know just a bit too much, thank you.

9. Any book by Danielle Steel. And really all other romance novels. You may like them, and if so, that’s fine by me — you can have my share because I think they seriously suck. More than Broke Back Mountain even. She is my inspiration for writing a novel. If she can get that shit published, surely that’s proof of my abilities.

10. When the ceiling fan above my desk gets so dusty that I just know if I turn it on, the bunnies will fall all over me. Do I get up to clean it? Hellz no. I’m writing. When my book is published someday, I shall hire a maid.

This list is obviously just a starter piece. I could think of many other hate-ish kinds of things. But my afghan wants me. Goodbye, then. Be a love and shut off the light, would you? Don’t forget to leave your list of hates by the door, or in the comments.

Am I a Writer or a Blogger? Challenge Accepted…

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Am I a Writer or a Blogger? Challenge Accepted…Writingchallenge

My Story is a Sad One.

I have been feeling extremely guilty about the sorry state of the book on which I’m supposedly working. I have exactly two chapters completed, only three pages of which have undergone outside critique. That’s not exactly the sign of a burgeoning writer.

Crack that WIP.

WIP it out.

WIP it good.

I had to look this up. Not having been in the online writing community very long, I wasn’t familiar with all their little codes and abbreviations and hash-tags and whatnot. WIP stands for Work In Progress. Ha! For me, it’s more like Work In the Potty. Or as my 7-year-old says, “Work is PooPoo!”

But then she got serious and said, “Work is Practice”. I can live with that one.

WritingBecause practice makes perfect.

The problem with Practice is that you have to actually do it. And therein lies the problem. I keep signing up for challenges as motivation to get my ass into gear, but I can’t seem to find the time (or, to be fair, won’t MAKE the time) to add more words to my current tally. And it’s not like I don’t want to! I am very excited about my current piece. The characters feel very real to me, and their individual stories keep whispering in my ear. I can’t wait to get to know them better!

This month (June) is Camp NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month)

Camp NaNoWriMo is the summer version of the much more renowned campaign to write a 50,000-word novel in 30 days, which takes place every November. I’ve signed up the last two Novembers (and “failed”). I thought now that I’m not working outside the home, a summer session might just be what the doctor ordered. As I pen this post, I have exactly ZERO words added. It’s now Day Six. I’m a bit behind, yeah?

Not Challenged Enough, Andi-Roo?

I’m also following along with Jeff Goins on his 15-Day Writing Challenge, during which time we will learn Habits of Great Writers. I find this particularly pertinent in that Habit One is: Declare You Are A Writer, and Habit Two is: Believe You Are A Writer.

The first habit actually leads to the second, so I kind of got a “Free Pass” for Day Two. *And there was much throwing of glitter!*

I Do Hereby Declare,

and I Do Solemnly Swear

I Am Soulfully Aware

I am A Writer.

~ Andi-Roo (go ahead and steal this; you know you wanna.)

See, this past weekend, before I ever read the steps or habits or challenge information, I was forced into a metaphorical corner. A family member decided to take our financial situation into his own hands, and insinuated that I’m not pulling my weight in getting us back on our feet. Let me take that back; the piss-ant didn’t merely insinuate; he flat out said I need to get a job. I get a gold star for NOT punching said-piss-ant in the nose. And I have the most awesome hubz on this planet, because he jumped right in and defended me by explaining that I already have a job. Eat that, un-supportive family member!

Writing is my job.

I said it out loud, too, just to see how it felt coming out of my mouth.

Not, “I’m working on a novel.”

Not, “I’m working on a blog.”

Not, “I like to write.”

I’m a Writer. Writing is my job. I Write. I’m a Writer.

Tasted great, BTW. Not at all like chicken. Have some.

But here’s where I start to question things a bit. What kind of writer am I? I’ve been blogging every day since the Blogging from A to Z Challenge this past April, so I can say with no hesitation that I am a Blogger. I write blogs.

But what about my stories? My books? My fiction? My WIP? My DREAMS of being published?

Oh. My dreams.

Rex

Oh great! Now I have guilt!

That might be the rub. I recently read a post that set my heart to singing. Tracy from The Dao of Doing made it so clear to me what I’m doing wrong, why I am having such a hard time focusing on my WIP, why my bloggy-blog seems to have taken over the driver’s seat, and why I am feeling such guilt.

“When we started our very first steps down this path,

I picked something that wasn’t just

something I loved to do…

it was all about my big dream in life:

writing a novel.

I do love to write,

but by choosing writing as my first “DOING”

I tossed myself into the very deepest part

of my mental pool.

I was trying to relearn what it is to live a life

that includes things I love

while at the same time

trying to achieve my dream.

Those are two separate things.

Trying to do them at the same time isn’t so pretty.”

I couldn’t agree more! Doing something I love everyday – Blogging – may be a form of Writing – which I love to do – but it isn’t the same thing as trying to achieve my dream – which, like Tracy, also happens to be writing a novel.

So what am I? A Blogger? Or a Writer? I’m going to say BOTH. And that’s what I mean by “Challenge Accepted”. Just not necessarily both at the same pace. Yes, I’m signed up to write a book. Yes, I’m going to work on my book. Yes, I’m going to keep meeting with my monthly critique group and presenting pages from my book. But – and this one is important – Yes, I’m okay with only producing three pages at a time. Forward motion is still better than lying on the couch, curled up under an afghan, doing nothing. (Even though afghans do possess magical healing properties. FACT.)

(My husband says that afghans indeed do NOT possess magical healing properties, to which I respond, “Fuck you and your non-afghan-loving ways!”)

I think my friend Cari from Bubble Gum on My Shoe said it best:

“I don’t have to lean on the excuse,

I can only write when I’m feeling creative.

When you don’t have the option

to write whether you feel creative or not, you will.

And that friends, is what makes you a writer

instead of a blogger.”

 

I am a Writer. Regardless of what I’m Writing. What are you?

Don’t Use My Name Like You Know Me

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Addressing me by my first name in emails and form letters to make your correspondence seem more personal…‏ is just plain creepy, particularly if we’ve never even spoken to each other. As I have subscribed to more and more blogs, I’ve noticed a disproportionately large amount of the senders talking to ANDI like we’re old pals. Sometimes I have to stop and think about what I’m reading — Who the hell is this author again now?

 

As the Caterpillar asked Alice: Who. Are. You?

I don’t mind when businesses use my first name in correspondence if it’s a business I have actually patronized, and if the individual penning the letter has a clue who I am. For example, it’s okay when Debbie from Your Scrapping Cafe does it… because we’ve actually met and would recognize each other on the street and have even exchanged personal emails from time to time. Also, she is my friend. Well, I hope she is my friend. I like her an awful lot. Wait — you ARE my friend, right Debbie???

 

Dear Scary People: Please Don’t Talk to Me. Love, Andi-Roo.

On the other hand, Ramit from the personal finance blog I Will Teach You to be Rich is kind of… rough. He’s fucking scary, actually. Like almost as much so as Chelsea Handler or Penelope Trunk. I don’t know if I could handle either Chelsea or Penelope addressing me in any fashion whatsoever, much less by first name. I might poop my pants if that ever happened. Ramit talks mad at people and I’m always afraid he will find out I’m broke and come yell in my face about it. So I don’t really like that his email salutations pretend we are chums.

 

You hear that, Ramit? I’m afraid of you! Stop using my first name!

Be afraid. Be very, very afraid.

This whole thought process made me wonder if people are scared of ME in any way. I know I can be a bit growl-ish. I’m also very judge-y, and not afraid to call someone out if I think they are being stupid. Wouldn’t it be funny if Ramit, Chelsea, and Penelope were all sitting around at a bar drinking margaritas and whatnot, talking about that scary bitch Andi-Roo? ← Now see, my name alone inspires no fear. Andi-Roo sounds gentle, fun, and exciting. She sounds like a right good time.

Dear moms: Please don’t name your baby girls Loretta. That is all.

I read an article recently called “Names that Make You Shudder” which discussed the feelings associated with someone’s name. For example, I can never find love in my heart for someone named Loretta, because that bitch was so mean at me that just the sound of her name would inspire instant hate. I’m sorry to all you innocent Lorettas out there; you must bear the shame of that one Loretta who gave you a bad name… so to speak. Contrary to this, I will always find a way to forgive a Lola. I knew one of those and she was so awesome-kewl-funny that I have to believe she spoke for the entire Lola Nation.

Names are an important key

to what a society values.

Anthropologists recognize naming as

‘one of the chief methods

for imposing order on perception.’

~David S. Slawson

And what about Voldemort? Or Cain? Or other evil people? Could you ever carry on a conversation with someone bearing the name of PRIME BADNESS? I actually know a kid named Cain, and he is a pretty decent fellow, but I have to wonder WTF his mom was thinking. Kind of mean trick, if you ask me.

I wonder how Cain would feel if Ramit wrote an email to him?

“Dear Cain, blah-blah-blah. Sincerely, Ramit” ← creepy, right?

Names, once they are in common use,

quickly become mere sounds,

their etymology being buried,

like so many of the earth’s marvels,

beneath the dust of habit.

~Salman Rushdie

I wouldn’t mind becoming a household habit. Say it: Andi-Roo. Andi-Roo. Andi-Roo.

Kids: Why You No Dress Like Kids?

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Pick Up Lines That Work

Kids: Why You No Dress Like Kids?

Kids, Y U No Dress Like Kids?

1. A BRIEF DISCLAIMER SO AS NOT TO COME OFF AS A HYPOCRITE.

I dressed like those girls on MTV of old.

I do remember what it’s like being a teenager and wanting to be fully grown, adult-like, and capable of catching a guy. It’s part of our feminine DNA to preen about in hopes of attracting a suitable male. Like other young women in high school back in the ’90s, I wore tight pants and short shirts, flashing my flat belly and hoping to acquire attention from guys both hot AND not.

Kids, Y U No Dress Like Kids?Hormones played a large part in the dance.

But I was also needy and looking for someone to save me. I don’t necessarily think that’s the case of girls today. They aren’t looking for an emotional connection, for someone to take away their pain and make life liveable.

They are looking for sex, you guys.

Primal, wild, straight-up copulation. The feathers have fallen from the peacock. Girls are nekked and ready to lie down in the mud if that’s what it takes to fulfill their needs. Hormones gone wild, the message tattooed in their tramp-stamps reads: GIMME THAT.

2. GIRLS ARE SELLING THEMSELVES SHORT.

Why?

Well, it kind of makes a sick sense, given that there are now more girls being born than boys. Males have their pick of the litter, so females are strutting about shouting,

“PICK ME, PICK ME! ME LOVE YOU LONG TIME!”


According to Michael Moore in his book Stupid White Men …And Other Sorry Excuses for the State of the Nation!:

The Census Bureau confirms that the number of male babies being born has been declining every year in the United States since 1990!

Plus, women are living longer and longer: 80 years, on average, versus only 74.2 for men.

So I have come to one ugly but irrefutable conclusion:

Guys!

Nature is trying to kill us off!

You can read an excellent excerpt on this topic here.

Think I’m off my rocker? Another sexpert verifies this data by offering her two-cents on the topic of girls throwing themselves at boys:

Today, more men – who would never get laid in a sane society where women took such things as the future of their potential children seriously – are getting laid in droves, and with very little accountability. I’m telling you that I’m seeing men – who apparently are getting laid FOR FREE – who would have had a hard time finding someone who would do it for MONEY years ago.

Chloe, over at her blog The Chloe Chronicles, wrote this in her post entitled “Think our Hooking-Up Culture Isn’t Affecting You?” She is a labor and delivery RN who describes herself as working “at BREEDING GROUND ZERO”. While some comments in response to that post indicated that sex has always been pretty rampant, I think they failed to take into account that we’re discussing CHILDREN. Not just high schoolers, but middle schoolers. We’re talking about not being able to find a one-piece bathing suit for my 1st grader. We’re talking about t-shirts for toddlers that say things like “chick magnet” on them. We’re talking about setting up babies early on for prime fuck-ability. Not exactly the same thing as female adults regularly enjoying a night on the town in the backseat of some random guy’s car.

3. MOMS ARE SELLING THEIR DAUGHTERS SHORT

IN ORDER TO KEEP UP W/ THE JONESES.

*grody*

I attended a sports banquet at my son’s high school earlier this year, and was shocked to see in person what he had been telling me all along:

The girls dress as skanks in seriously ridiculous fashion.

They are wearing slips with spaghetti straps that barely hold up under the weight of their gigantic boobies (and WTF is THAT all about? My tits STILL aren’t that big!); these tiny little bodices hug the butt cheek and leave a beaver-shot up front that is likely quite impressive for the guys. Their clunky high heals are the same as those worn by professional strippers.

[[[ I know this because:

(a) My hubz took me to Diamonds Cabaret when I turned 30, as a joke. It was funny; you probably had to be there.

(b) I visited Las Vegas on a work assignment, where the strippers were not strictly relegated to strip joints.

But I digress... ]]]

I asked my son, “Do their mothers know they’re dressed like this?”

He just laughed at me and answered, “Mom, who do you think is taking pictures?”

Sure enough, proud mommies filled the bleachers snapping photos, eager to post pics of their little hoe-bags directly on FaceBook as quickly as possible. I imagined I could hear them saying, “And here is little Rachel, all dressed up as a whore! I couldn’t be more proud! Just look at that twat shot! Gorgeous garden of love, isn’t it?”

I shouldn’t be shocked, I guess, as many of those mothers were dressed in similar fashion, tramp-stamps sticking out over g-string panties and jugs pouring out of their similarly low-cut blouses. I don’t understand the source of this pride. I can’t see my husband, my son, or me allowing our household baby-kins, the seven-year-old, to ever go out in public like that, much less encouraging such behavior. I thought I must have the last nice young man on the planet, but his friends all feel the same way about their ill-dressed female classmates. They think it’s grody, too.

Brene Brown, a renowned speaker on the topics of shame and vulnerability, promotes a book on her website which I intend to read so as to learn more about this disturbing trend:

So Sexy So Soon:


The New Sexualized Childhood

and What Parents Can Do to Protect Their Kids

By Diane E. Levin Ph.D., Jean Kilbourne Ed.D.

If you’ve read this or similarly themed books or blog posts, I’d be mighty grateful for your input. What’s your take on not being able to find a one-piece bathing suit for my seven-year-old? What’s your stance on middle- and high school girls dressing like Victoria’s Secret models? How do you feel about sixth graders engaging in oral sex? And guys — be honest — are you enjoying the age of the tramp? 

Let the Commencements Commence

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Let the Commencements Commence

My little baby boy graduates from high school tonight.

I know I’m not the only mom on the planet with tears in my eyes this season, so I won’t go into how emotional this milestone has made me. Graduating a kid is a big deal, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

If you get your children through school without them getting messed up on drugs, alcohol, teen pregnancy, or dropping out altogether — that is something to celebrate. I’m certainly going to raise up a hoot-n-holler, since I am one of the lucky mommies this year.

BY ALL RIGHTS, I SHOULD NOT BE ON THIS LIST.

I should be on that other side of the coin — the one wherein my kiddo is a statistic, and not a good one. He should totally be a dropout crackhead with at least five kids notched on his belt.

No lie. In the game of life, I poorly played an already foul hand and should have come in last place.

FOUL BALL.

I have mentioned my issues with Depression. You can read all about that fun party if you missed it, but I’m not going to talk about it today. For the purposes of this post, let it be enough for me to say, being the child of an emotionally unstable mother wasn’t the best childhood experience. But we made it through.

STRIKE ONE.

 I had my son very, very young. As a matter of fact, he was born the day after I turned 18. I was young, impetuous, and unprepared. His arrival saved my life and changed it for the better.

It was the first thing I had done “right” after a long record of doing all the things WRONG. Being a young, unwed, single mother wasn’t the best way to start this baby’s life. But we made it through, he and I.

STRIKE TWO.

Because of my young, unwed, single, and emotionally unstable status, I kept looking for someone else to save me. As a result, I am a multiple divorcee, but married this time for good.

Still, bouncing around from one potential daddy to the next was really rough for him, and didn’t exactly provide the best example of what a man should be. Lack of a solid male role model from one year to the next wasn’t the best upbringing. But we made it through, he and I, and now my husband, too.

STRIKE THREE.

 Because of all the aforementioned lifestyle tendencies (are you keeping count?), we moved around a lot. No, I mean A SHIT TON of a lot!

Lack of roots, no village on which to rely, leaving friends behind and being forced to make new ones — all this should have made for a strike out.

BUT SOMEHOW IT DIDN’T.

 Somehow, he weathered each challenge and came out the better for it.

He kept up his grades, participated successfully in school sports, joined church and attended on his own, became active in community service, and is suddenly this respectable adult who by all rights should be a severely damaged young man.

His graduation tonight is the culmination not just of his education, but of an entire lifetime of making good choices in spite of crazy odds.

COMMENCE WITH THE COMMENCEMENT, ALREADY!

 The most famous commencement speech this year comes from one of my very favorite authors, Neil Gaiman. With no college background, he is another example of someone who made himself spectacular despite the odds.

How did he do it? The same way all great people do — a firm sense of purpose and direction; consistent forward motion; a desire to be happy, and the determination to see things through.

These innate qualities can not be taught within walls. They are characteristics one instinctively picks up along the path of life and intrinsically carries as part and parcel of one’s very soul.

We all carry this ability, but not all are attuned enough with their inner spirit to actively turn on the light. Most of us fumble in the dark for ages. Many will grow weary and lie down in the muck. Others will continue stumbling halfheartedly along down the unlit path.

A smaller portion will bravely set forth down the trail, slowly building a brazier bright enough to explode the cave into brilliance. And the tiniest fraction of these will lead the way for the rest of us, bringing us into the light with them.

Mr. Gaiman offered several great gems in his speech, but I took away these four in particular:

MoutainGO TO THE MOUNTAIN.

 1. View your goals as mountains toward which to aim. Keep your mountain in sight and always move that direction. Ensure every choice you make is leading you TOWARD the mountain, not away from it.

BE WISE.

 2. When you aren’t sure what it means to be wise, just act how you think a wise person would. Emulate wisdom. No one else will know the difference.

BEST TWO OUT OF THREE AIN’T BAD.

3. There are three qualities everyone looks for in a person. Lucky for us, just possessing two of the three is often enough to get by.

a. Be punctual.

b. Be kind.

c. Be talented.

If your work is always turned in on time, and you’re simply a pleasure to deal with, it might not matter so much that your offerings aren’t that impressive.

If you’re always a pleasure to deal with, and your skills are beyond measure, it might not matter so much that your work tends to run late.

If your skills are beyond measure, and your work is always turned in on time, it might not matter so much that you are a bit on the snarky side.

MAKE GOOD ART.

In the worst of times, no matter what’s happening around you, regardless of the worst of circumstances, always and forever. Make good art.

This applies to everyone. What ever you do, make it good. I know my son will succeed at this, because he already does. He makes it good. And that’s the best any of us can ask.

I Got Nuthin. And I’m not even sorry for it.

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I Got Nuthin. And I’m not even sorry for it.Nothing

After yesterday’s heavy, downer of a post on DEPRESSION, which I wrote partly in honor of Mental Health Month (which is every May), partly to vent my frustration about how badly people treat those suffering DEPRESSION, and partly because the topic had been on my mind a lot lately… I am just emotionally empty.

Today was supposed to be…

a fabulous homage to my favorite blogger and author, Jenny Lawson aka The Bloggess. But I fear I cannot do her funniness proper honor today. Jenny is hilarious and deserves better than what I can offer up at the moment.

It’s not that I’m suffering DEPRESSION per se…

but since, like alcoholism, one is never truly cured of this illness, I fear the best I can say of myself currently is that I’m a Recovering Depressive. And I’m really feeling that label today. Nothing feels funny.

I guess I had too much hurt,lockers

anger, and grey material to unpack, and now I need to take some time to put it back in its locker toward the back of my brain. I’d gladly hire a maid, but I’m that crazy sort who has to clean up before the maid arrives because I wouldn’t want her to see my mess and be put out by it. Yes, which does indeed defeat the purpose, you’re right, I agree. Shaddup.

So anyway, I can’t really say anything right now which wouldn’t come out sounding slightly bitter. There is an afghan calling to me from the couch, where I hear a nap awaits my arrival.

Jenny, if you’re reading this,

I promise to write about you on Monday. I’d promise Friday to you, but that day is already sworn to my son, who graduates from high school tomorrow. And as much as I adore you, I really do love him more.

Not that it’s a contest.

But, you know, you lose. 

Do You Tell Lies? The Story of A Chronic Lie Gone Awry

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Do You Tell Lies? The Story of A Chronic Lie Gone AwryLie

 

It’s not that I mean to get one over on somebody when I lie.

Mostly I’m just antisocial, impatient, and eager to stay out of trouble (you know, CRAZY). And sometimes that means saying the first thing that pops into my mind as being the easy way out. By telling a lie. A small lie. But a lie nonetheless.

 

LiesI’m not a bad person.

So when I told this particular lie, you should know I didn’t intend malice or cruelty toward anyone. Truly, I didn’t even think about my answer. Who knew that saying, “yeah”, instead of, “no”, could get you into so much trouble?

 

“When we practice to deceive, what a tangled web we weave.”cool pencils

Well of course everyone knows trouble follows when you utter untruths that spin out of control. It’s just that I think we assume this moral applies less to normal, boring people like *ME* than to criminal-types. Or those meanie-pants kids who used to steal the cool pencils out of my desk. Or those people who lie about late fees at the brick and mortar Blockbusters of yore.

 

Here’s how my lie went down.

I was shopping at my local grocery store, and as I approached the register I realized that somehow during my last purse swap I must have misplaced my loyal-customer-reward-card-thing — you know, the one that gets you so many dollars off, or adds so many points you can trade in for calling cards and vacations and cruises and other services you’ll never use. THAT loyalty-card-thing. So when it was my turn to pay, and the cashier asked if I had my card with me, my answer was, “No.”

 

(Hint: That is not the bit where I told a lie.)

 

I thought it would end there.

Or no, that’s not true. See? I just told another lie just then. I can’t seem to help myself. Totally chronic.

 

Anyway, I thought the cashier would ask for my phone number so she could look up my profile. Sometimes retailers do that sort of thing, but usually I can’t remember what phone number I registered under since it’s changed so many times over the course of my life.

 

Ice Cream SnickersAnd I thought this:

When she asks me for my phone number, I’m just gonna skip all that cuz my ice cream Snickers are melting and I just don’t care enough to worry about it.

 

But oh my goodness.

She didn’t ask for my phone number. What she DID ask was, “Did you just move here?”

 

(Hint: This is where I begin to tell a lie.)

It was a tough moment.

I know NOW what I should have done. But hind sight wasn’t with me. Only present (I don’t want my ice cream Snickers to melt) sight was with me. And I’ll repeat here, I wasn’t trying to hurt anybody when the lie slowly ribboned out of my mouth,

 

“Yeah. Yeah I did just move here.”

 

My spur-of-the-moment thought process was this:

If I lie and say yes, she’ll offer me a new card, and that way I’ll still get the points or discounts or whatever. I can pay and leave.

 

Perfect.

 

But If I say no, then I have to explain myself.Germany

I have to tell her that I left it at home or lost it, and that no I don’t remember my crapping phone number. Then I will have to tell her WHY I don’t remember my crapping number. And when I say I’ve moved around a lot, she’ll ask me where I’m from, which I can never answer correctly since I’m not really FROM anywhere, and that won’t be good enough because then she’ll ask me where I was born like THAT’S gonna clear up the matter, and then when I say Germany she’ll freak and ask if I SPEAK German or if I AM German or if VISIT the Germans.

 

(Yes, I’ve been through this multiple times.

No, I’m not answering those questions right now.

You’d only be disappointed. Trust. This is no lie.)

 

So all that flashed through my mind, how difficult it would be to “just say no”. And I did the easy thing instead. The wrong thing. The terribly horribly rotten thing.

 

I told a lie.

And here is an example, prime even, of why you should never, ever tell a lie, even if you think it won’t really matter in the long run. That girl fucking GRILLED me, hardcore!

 

Her: Where did you move here from?

 

Me: Where did I move here from? Oh, um, all over. Yeah, Pennsylvania. What’s my total then? ← LIE

 

Her: Oh really? How’d you like it?

 

Lemon[Then she turned to the bagger:

Can you price check these lemons? They aren't coming up on my screen.

The bagger left and I, the big fat hog liar, was stuck with Miss Question USA.]

 

Me: Um, it was fine. ← LIE

 

[What was taking that bagger so long to find the fucking lemons?]

 

Her: So is your family military?

 

Me: Yep. My family is military. ← LIE

 

Her: Really? What branch? Is your husband stationed at Wright Patt?

 

Me: Army. No wait, that was me. My husband is Air Force. Yes. Wright Patt. Can I just skip the lemons please? I’m kind of in a hurry. ← LIE

 

She looked at me all hurt, and suspicious, and confused. She looked at me, fwends, as though I had just told her a Big, Fat LIE.

 

And I don’t even fucking blame her.

 

BUT THERE WAS ICE CREAM MELTING, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!

I thought about forgetting the groceries and making a run for it at that point. But I really, really wanted to eat one of those Snickers. Then I thought about dumping the lie and coming clean, but that seemed too difficult.

 

So then I told another lie. 

I pretended my phone was ringing. And I had a pretend conversation with my military husband, who isn’t really military at all, and assured him I was bringing his ice cream Snickers as quickly as possible but there was a SNAFU with the lemons.

 

The cashier quickly totaled my order,Batteries

I paid, and I hightailed it out of there. I haven’t been back to the grocery store since. Not even for batteries.

 

I’d like to say this is the only time I’ve bamboozled myself by telling a lie over something stupid.

But sadly, it is not. I have done this many, many times and should be an expert by now. Just last month I told a lie to my mother about whether or not I had installed the shower cleaning device she’d purchased for me.

 

She just kept asking me about it OVER and OVER again, 

every time we spoke, and my mouth finally just said “YES” without even consulting my brain. I think my lips take over the reigns sometimes because they know my thinking process is jammed up and needs help. And clearly a lie is the only thing my lips can come up with.

 

My sister totally called me on it later:

“You have not installed the cleaner thing yet, have you?”

 

No, sister. 

No I haven’t. And why? Because it needs fucking batteries, and I just haven’t gotten around to buying them yet. But at least I have my ice cream!

Andi-Roo


I am a full time blogger and mommy-kins
www.theworld4realz.com

What has YOUR kid done to make you eat your own words?

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What has YOUR cretin done to make you eat your own words?eat words

Not too long ago, I asked the village in which I live to stop packing their kids’ Nintendos, because it’s against school rules and puts me in a bad position — the one where I have to be the jerk who says “NO” and then get awarded the privilege of listening to my seven-year-old argue, “But, Mommy, they get to bring their games!”

You can learn many things from children.

How much patience you have, for instance.

~Franklin P. Jones

Little MonkeysI was proven incorrect…

after an alert mom contacted the teacher for clarification. Much to my chagrin, it turns out that while the school may indeed have a “no toys or electronic devices” rule, my daughter’s teacher did in fact grant permission for the little monkeys to bring stuff like that from home to play with during inside recess. So I stand corrected. Kind of.

When you realize you’ve made a mistake,

make amends immediately.

It’s easier to eat crow while it’s still warm.

~Dan Heist

But still…

I don’t think those moms were packing with inside recess in mind; I’m pretty sure they were packing because WHERE’S THE HARM? and also WHO CARES, ANYWAY? as well as IT’S FUN AND MY KID WANTS IT AND I ALWAYS DO WHAT MY KID WANTS. I could totally be wrong, of course. It’s just that, I doubt it.

The thing that impresses me most about AmericaObey your Parents

is the way parents obey their children.

~Edward, Duke of Windsor

zombiesBut wait, there’s more!

All this might have been bad enough, easily filed away in what I refer to as my “sigh pile” — a stack of arbitrivial nonsense that ticks me off but isn’t worth the battle except as a rant here on my bloggy-blog. But no. There’s always more. Because God, don’t forget, wants me to get eaten by zombies. FYI, This sentence was completely off topic in YOUR mind only.

Freaks are the much needed escape from the humdrum.

They are poetry.

~Albert Perry

Apparently I’ve raised a sneaky-pants.Sneaky Pants

When my daughter went off with her father over the weekend, she slipped her Nintendo DS into her bag on the sly. Later on, according to her father, she asked if she could bring it into the store to play on it while they shopped, and he about had a fit because he knew very well she wasn’t supposed to have removed it from home. So in her bag it stayed, the entire weekend, right up through Monday when she got off the school bus and wouldn’t let me check her folder for homework. I thought she was being silly, but I found the Nintendo and the SHIT. WENT. DOWN.

When angry, count four;

when very angry, swear.

~Mark Twain

Just kidding.

There was no shit. She bawled, we talked, she’s grounded from ALL games for a week, and she had to call dad at work and tell him about her poor choice in being such a stinky-sneaker. Admitting to her crime is always the worst part of any “punishment” I can deliver, cuz girl gots an ego higher than the sun, moon, or stars, and she hates when it takes a hit.

Your children tell you casually years later

what it would have killed you with worry to know at the time.

~Mignon McLaughlin

I love this quote, because it’s quite true.

At least for me and my sister. There were many indiscretions we committed as children to which we have only admitted in our adult years… now that Mom can no longer ground us.

For example…

Our parents once left the teenager versions of us home alone (isn’t that always how the trouble begins?). Suddenly, a wild rumpus appeared in the apartment upstairs. That’s what it sounded like, anyway. There was stomping and bass and walls shaking… so I took the broom and banged on the ceiling as a hint that our excited friends might want to quiet the fuck down.

No dice.No Dice

The music got even louder.

So I banged harder.

And put a hold in the ceiling.

When the parents came home, they didn’t notice, because really — who looks up to check if there are broom-handle-sized holes in their ceiling? They failed to notice for several weeks.

They just kept not noticing.

So we just kept not drawing their attention to it. Until at some point, Mom finally freaked out and screeched, “What the fuck is that hole doing in our ceiling? Which one of you did it?”

My sister, bless her heart, covered for me and blamed a friend of ours who had visited a few months prior. And Mom bought it. And so we escaped with our asses intact, no groundings, punishment narrowly avoided.

*whew*

Many years passed before Mom ever knew the truth.

We told our mother last year that the hole in the ceiling of that one apartment we lived in about fifteen years ago was, indeed, our fault. She didn’t even know what we were talking about at first. And then she just laughed it off. I’m glad she found it funny after the fact, because I’m here to tell you right now, she would have beat our butts with a wooden spoon if she’d known we had a hand in it.

I wonder.

I wonder what kinds of things my little one is doing that I don’t know about. The DS isn’t that big a thing. But that’s only ONE event in which I’ve caught her red-handed. Surely where there’s one crime in the light, several more lurk outside my sight in the dark. Will she have to wait fifteen years to come clean? Does she fear my recrimination, the way I feared my mother’s? Thoughts like this are the ones that keep me up at night, questioning my abilities as a parent.