On Raising a Girly Girl and Sundries on Facebook (in no particular order)

Yeah, yeah, it's been a while.

FOR YOUR MOM.

Yup. I went there. Felt good, didn't it?

Today is a wet and gross and altogether horrid day. I hate it. It can die in a fire. Nothing particularly awful has happened to me or anything. I just find myself staring out the window and thinking of random things. Give me some precipitation and I become a picture of non-productivity. So what better time to update one's forgotten blog?

I also feel I should post because I just want to write about Alice. Having multiple children is such a trip because of how different they are. And yes, I know this is obvious. No one seriously thinks that they are going to have three little clones, gorgeous in their similarity. But when I had a daughter, I imagined her baby and toddler years would be a lot like my oldest's.

ERNK. Sorry, try again.

Gabby never was that girly. Yeah, she went through a pink phase, and a Hello Kitty phase (where it got all kinds of Mariah Carey up in my grill) but at her core, she's always been a bit strong, a bit more "steel" than "magnolia." I like that about her. She's also a bit aloof, as if any kind of label (like "girly" or "tomboyish") would be offputting on a child such as her. Gabby has been a product of two kids in college, in grad school, reading a bunch of theory. And it suits her amazingly well. But Alice, woah, Alice. Alice's feet hit the floor in the morning, and she's wanting me to do her make-up. She comes into the bathroom where I usually am when she wakes, still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, her legs still toasty warm from the blanket. And she's reaching for the blush brush. Yes, my daughter wears Nars Orgasm blush nearly everyday. No, I'm not kidding. No, I'm not from Texas, nor was I ever on an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras.

I'm surprisingly fine with this. Yes, I am still the mother that bristles and complains when Matt calls her "my princess." She's not a princess. But she is a human being who enjoys the feeling of a natural hair brush over her cheekbones, likes the allure of "sparkles" (her word for make-up). To her, it is fun. And I agree. I think it is fun too--have since I was 13 years old and started wearing make-up, only not wearing it on days when inflicted with SEVERE stomach viruses. So I indulge her, and we do it together in the morning. Nothing strong, nothing I feel would cause a reaction with her skin. She puts on barely enough to even see. And we talk, about how we are beautiful without our make-up on. We talk about being strong girls.

Alice is girly in other facets of her life as well. She loves clothes and accessories--necklaces especially. I think this is a shared family trait because at just a little younger than her, Sam was obsessed with having things around his neck (his favorites were a big pink boa and a men's necktie that had a picture of the Eiffel tower on it). She tends toward the pink in life--she has a pink dump truck that she loves and at night when I put her down to bed, we look up at the ceiling and imagine that we are seeing a beautiful night sky. Sometimes she says she sees a plane, or a bird, or a light. But every night the moon is always pink in her little mind's eye (somtimes the stars are black, which seems to be her other favorite color, interestingly, and yes, I've dissected that like the good English major I am).

But conversely, she ADORES her big brother. And even more, his room. She goes in there and picks up cars and action figures and brings them back into her toys. The other day I found a Star Trek figure sitting in her Little People Doll House. She has become obsessed with a Batman Batcave of his and will retrieve it anytime anyone has the fool idea to put it back in Sam's room.

And then, last night, I was folding some towels. I usually watch TV while I do this, but in this case, I had the TV off. Alice came toddling in and said, "Mama, we watch baseball?" I went over to the TV happily, looking for the pregame to last night's world series. As soon as CJ Wilson's face came up, stats all around, she said, "I like watchy baseball wit you." She said it while wearing these absurd baby headbands around her neck (they are her necklaces, she says), a psychadelic patterned summer tank top she wanted to sleep in (with purple diaper and Minnie Mouse pj pants, mind you) and holding a tube of Benefit That Gal highlighter in her chubby little paw.

Yup, that one's mine.

So during the time that I'm not raising the most awesome child in existence (aside from my other two of course), I spend some time on Facebook. Don't we all? And here's the thing. I think we all have our beefs with this particular little piece of social media, but how do you resolve them? I am asking for your input on these, gentle reader. Fire away.

a) Can you defriend a family member if that family member has posted something so strange and rather off-putting (nothing political or religious, mind you) that you can't think of this person without a little uneasy giggle? Will they ever notice? What will Christmas be like if you did?

b) How wrong is it to just be friends with someone for the sheer fact they make you feel better about your own life?

and lastly:
c) What do you people spread on your pictures before scanning them? I know this one lady, who I could swear spreads about an inch worth of baby oil on each and every picture of her children and then scans it on a scanner she bought back when her screensaver was a flying toaster. And I'm sitting there wondering what in the immortal fuck I'm looking at, and people are commenting like crazy with "Lovely picture!" and "He is so cute!" Cute? That three headed beaver is cute?!?! Oh, that's her son. Nevermind. Perhaps I should pull out some old baby pictures of myself, get a bucket of vaseline and scan them up. Perhaps you will think I am cute then.

And let me just say this: when I call you, I don't want to hear music. I WANT TO HEAR RINGING, NOT YOUR FUCKING RING BACK TONE. The Beethoven you picked for Verizon to play for me does not make you seem smarter, nor does the country song about needing some rest make me think anything other than that you are an evil dumbass and that I prefer the sound of the freaking phone ringing. Because it is a phone. I'm calling you, probably for something you don't want to be called for. You don't have to entertain me. I have this thing called the internet for that.

I feel much better now.

Morgan and the Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day

I realize how horrible it is that I come back from an extended hiatus, where the last post was a typical sadsack type affair in which I quoted a Ryan Adams song and became very dramatic and angsty, and I return with a title like the one I just typed. But here's the thing. When today is over, as it will be in just 10 glorious hours, I will laugh about all this. Because from the outside, all of this is comical in a wonderful, belly laughing way. Perhaps for you it will be comical right now. And from what I've read on blogs and via Facebook status message, today just sucks for everyone, all around. Today, Tuesday, September 6, is just a giant douche. It should die in a fire.

Let me first start out by saying that it has rained here FOREVER. It started over the weekend, continued into yesterday and is still sort of sprinkling right now. Rain in VA at this time of year is usually of the variety that only sticks around for a bit, an hour tops, and then dissipates . This, however, has been unrelenting. Now, I know this is small potatoes for those of you affected by hurricanes and tornadoes and all of the jazz, but let me be clear: this blows. Unless you are at home, under your covers with a good book, there is absolutely nothing good that can come of this. Again, with emphasis: BLOW-Y.

The rain yesterday was so heavy that it caused a leak in my house. I, in all my years of living on my own, have never had a leak. This is important because it explains why I was running through the house when I discovered it, yelling insane things about buckets and towels and rain boots. Where does the leak spring up? Well, of all places that it could have happened, of all easily discoverable places, it happens behind my closed closet door. So I don't notice it or hear it until well after it got started. So all of my clothes got wet. Puddles formed inside of my pumps. I don't have to tell you that that BLOWS. I took things out of the closet, but I didn't get everything in time, of course.

So with that in mind, and just for ease, and well, because you guys seemed to like it last time I did it, I will give you a brief, truthful run-down of my day:
--Get up. Wonder if I am being tortured for sins committed in a past life. Getting up after a three day weekend is like that.
--Take a shower. Everything is still going ok here. I am surprised.
--Wander into kitchen. Realize that I have neglected to buy anything for breakfast the day before. Eat a cookie and drink some orange juice. NUTRITION! (I should point out that the cookies are ok, nutrition wise, made from this recipe.)
--Wander back into bathroom to blow dry hair. Find that the water and leak has tripped up the wiring, so now none of the outlets in the bathroom have power. Fiddle around with it, thinking I can fix it if I just click it on ONE MORE TIME until I have very little time to get ready.
--End up putting hair in very unfortunate ponytail.
--Realize that nearly all clothes are wet with rain.
--Find favorite chambray shirt clean and pressed. SCORE. Decide to wear it. Realize then that all of my bras and shapewear are wet from being washed on gentle the night before and totally forgotten in the washing machine. Shirt cannot be worn with out a cami underneath as it comes unbuttoned easily. DRATS.
--Find a sweater and cami from fall of last year and put them on. Try not to notice that the arms of the sweater are a tinge tighter this year. (If you had seen what I ate over the weekend, you wouldn't be a bit surprised.) Also try not to notice that horrible bra straps from horrible bra (only one not being washed) can easily sneak out from behind sweater neckline.
--Get the kids up. Gabby is abnormally grouchy. Sam has a meltdown when I tell him that we don't have cereal. Offer toast, eggs, any imaginable breakfast food. He refuses to eat any of them, and falls in a sleepy heap on the couch, rising only to eat a small cup of yogurt when begged, pleaded with, and cajoled.
--Put on make-up and a lot of jewelry, hoping that this masks the fact that rest of me looks like crap.
--Get kids out the door. Gabby lets slip that she has received a text message from an old acquaintance telling her that the school she attends is closing. Tell her this is a rumor and not to worry about it. Quietly wonder if it is true.
--Get to work. Check bank account. Realize a deposit that I thought had been made had not because of the holiday. Quietly freak out.
--Find huge stack of files and collection of passive aggressive notes left by boss who worked on Labor Day. Plot her demise. Smile graciously when she arrives to work.
--Call vice principal of school re: rumor and the independant study class that Gabby is taking (and I am supervising). Try to ignore her tone of voice regarding the class (more on this later). Have her tell me school will "probably not" close.
--Fire off slightly stressed sounding email to superintendent of schools. (It is best just to get out of my way on days like this.)
--Call insurance company to ask a question about vision benefits. Get so angry about phone answering system (and the fact that I don't have our policy number handy) that I hang up phone in disgust. Vision benefits can suck it! I'll buy my own damn glasses! Pay for my own appointments!
--Think better of this.
--Spend all day in quiet war with neverending stack of files on my desk.

Seeing it all typed out here, it sounds rather benign. It has not felt that way. But perhaps having typed it all out is a way of coping, a way of seeing it and saying, "Well, ok, that's not so bad! Chin up ole chap!"

I have to admit that I typed this out for another reason too. This past weekend, I went over to a friend's house to drop off some clothes she had purchased from me. We were chatting as she went through the items and we started talking about being a mom and and a wife in this time of Facebook and blogging and all of the other stuff that the demise of our world will probably be blamed on. We both ended up sort of lamenting the lack of "real-ness" out there, how that we both felt that we were floundering sometimes in the face of all of the "perfection" put out there by others.

And that's the thing about the internet--everyone is perfect here. Or at least that's what they would have you believe. No one admits that they have bad days or that somedays, they come to work with their bra straps hanging out but they just don't give a damn. No one lets it slip that they sometimes have cash flow issues, that best laid plans are derailed by having to get their damn breaks fixed on their damn car, that it is becoming more and more rare that they make it out for a run, that some days their house is a veritible sea of toys that they are lucky to wade through to the front door.

I'm here to tell you that I am not perfect. That my life today is a grand scale of fuck-uppery. That I've had a bad day, and it is mostly my fault--I forgot to take out the bras, I didn't buy the cereal, I didn't pay close enough attention to my bank account.

But oh well. Live and learn. And hopefully, September 6 will go peacefully and die in the corner like the horrible, mangy dog that it is.

DIY Can SUCK IT

This is going to come off a bit ranty. Fair warning, ya'll. This has been brewing in my psyche, worming its way around my brain through vacations and sleep and Pinterest sessions. And especially on Facebook. Facebook can just suck it.

Here's the thing. I am not crafty. Nor am I artsy. The lowest grade I ever made in high school (and no, I'm not shitting you) was in Home Ec, most notably, the sewing section. I made this absolutely atrocious pillow with a bunny on the front that I gave to my grandmother (aka, the sweetest woman on earth) for Christmas, and even she was like, "Um....thanks?" I have been tempted throughout the years to take up knitting or crocheting or something else equally as benign and then found myself cursing wildly within the first five minutes OF READING THE INSTRUCTION BOOKLET. It is just not in me. Just as it is not in me to understand science, science fiction or any of the Lord of the Rings novels.

So I guess I'm coming at this whole thing already at an 0-2 count. I know I can't do it, so subconsciously, maybe that is what is fueling my rage. Take it with a grain of salt, I guess.

But, I can't help but get a little, well, perturbed, when I see all this DIY stuff floating around on the interwebz. Like I am supposed to, as a woman, have this huge desire to make my own glue for my kids and sew their clothes and make little envelopes out of fabric for them so that when they get up each day, they can read a little inspirational note from me (an example I've thought of: "Gabby, If you don't pick up your laundry, I am going to staple it to your face. LOVE YA! MOM"). Yeah, I'm not going to do that. If you want to, whatever, I don't care. If you want to do it while naked, while smoking a bong, while listening to George Jones' Greatest Hits, I still don't care. Live and let live, ya'll. What I do, in fact, care about is the prevailing thought amongst many DIY-er's that I have encountered that you HAVE to do it. That it is not optional. That if you don't, it is tantamount to giving your kid a bottle full of Mountain Dew and a straight razor and saying "HAVE AT IT. Call me if you bleed or something."

This, I think, is just one more thing that we women have to struggle with in this endless battle of trying to be perfect. Or rather, to appear as though perfect. At last count, I figure that we all have to be doing the following on a daily basis:
1. Get up. Look perfect. Exercise. Put on a face full of make-up and blow out your hair every day to perfection. Be careful to not look "too" good though, because people might think you are having an affair if you do. Wear heels, but not really high heels, because really high heels mean that you are a slut and that you don't care about your children.
2. Fix a perfect breakfast buffet (with options for picky eaters!) for your children. Eat a banana and drink black coffee and call it a morning. In the middle of this, pack lunches that you have homemade, preferably of ethnic foods so that child does not become a bad eater.
3. Get everyone to school while quizzing kids with homework trivia on the way.
4. Go to work. Do perfectly. Smile a lot.
5. Come home to clean home. Clean it some more.
6. Make child a dress and supervise a craft project using homemade glue and a castle made out of an old pool noodle.
7. Prepare a lovely dinner. Not too much sugar! Go easy on the butter, FATTY!
8. Shuffle everyone to bed. Make sure no one has spent more than two hours looking at a screen of any kind. Wash behind everyone's ears.
9. Have amazing, glorious sex with husband, preferably utilizing three different positions, a feather, and a garter belt. Don't want anyone to get bored!
10. Go to sleep for 8 wonderful hours.

Ya'll, I'm just going to honest here, which is not something you see on the internet that often. This was my day yesterday.
1. Get up. Try not to wake baby who is saying "MOMMY" in her sleep. Turn on shower so that I can't hear her anymore.
2. Put dry shampoo on my hair since I'm too lazy to wash it. Hot roller the heck out of that crap. Curse loudly when I realize I'm out of Bumble and Bumble Setting Spray. Baby, who had gone back to sleep, rustles around. Say "FML" under my breath.
3. Strap on a pair of leopard print heels that are high enough to warrant future back surgery on my part. They are comfy though, and I like them.
4. Walk out through overgrown yard that my husband and I neglected to pay $80 to have mowed while we were gone on vacation. Be vaguely worried that neighbor will come out and give me a glare.
5. Drive to work with the gas light on. Drive to McDonald's to buy some oatmeal, but realize the line is too long and I'm a tad late. Go without breakfast. Remember to call the water company about the bill I totally forgot to pay before we left for our trips and blame them for my own forgetfulness since they are too stupid to automatically withdraw like every other company in the whole damn world.
6. Get to work. Wait until everyone is gone to meetings and curse at the typewriter for being a bitch. Forget to call someone about a meeting. Hang out on Facebook until I get mad at all the people posting how many miles they ran the night before while I was eating a strawberry shortcake at TGI Friday's.
7. Have a busy day and end up not eating lunch, but I did manage to solve some printing issues and get a shit ton of work done. Be happy with myself. Husband calls and tells me to pick up some butter on the way home. Curse husband.
8. Leave work. Buy gas and butter and get mildly happy when a weird kid checks me out at the gas station. Go to Pal's and buy a humongous tea and a large order of french fries.
9. Get home to messy house with the still overgrown lawn. Pick up baby who is wearing mismatched winter pajamas (that's on Matt, though). Sit down on couch with several catalogs and a big pen. Mark "must have" and "dream" purchases while baby watches Olivia. Pretend that I'm watching as well.
10. Remember that I have to do laundry from the trip. Start it. Moan a lot about it.
11. Remember that I have two other children. Go see them in their rooms. Child 1 is both texting a cousin in Richmond, while using her DS to talk to the same cousin. That's two screens. Child 2 is playing Magic on the Playstation and starts harassing me about buying him some more cards. Tell him I'll do it Wednesday. Make no plans to actually do that on Wednesday.
12. Fix mashed potatoes with lots of butter and honey glazed carrots with extra honey for supper while husband grills steaks. Delight in the unhealthiness of my contributions.
13. Clean off table but leave dishes dirty in the kitchen because we are out of dishwasher tabs and both of us forgot to buy them, and I did enough dishes for one day while I was making supper.
14. Play with youngest kids on the floor. Find a half eaten banana laying on top of the TiVo.
15. Leave husband in the living room with Child 2, still playing Magic. Check on Child 1 who is now watching something on TLC and still chatting on two devices with her cousin. Take Child 3 to bed. Find Java Chip Frappuccino ice cream in the freezer and decide that I love my husband again, despite the butter incident. Give him a hug, which he is surprised about.
16. Eat the whole single serving ice cream thingie and pass out in bed while watching Hoarders, leaving make-up on. Leave husband to put other children in bed.

Now, I have better days. I was insanely tired yesterday from our trips and having arrived home at 2:30 the night before. But still. That's a pretty accurate portrayal of hum-drum life. It is not perfect. I am not perfect.

But there is a lot of love in the imperfection. Last night, Alice fell asleep and I looked at her, the same chubby cheeked profile she's had since birth. She is happy and loved and fun. My son is the kindest, most sensitive soul that I know. And my oldest daughter is amazing and funny and wise. I love them, and while I don't show them that love with crafts and love notes, it is there, and it works for us.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I should get back to work. And quit being vaguely tempted to try to make Alice a pillowcase dress (I have the cutest pillowcases from my college apartment, ya'll. It would be so cool---um, NO.)

My Kingdom for an Effective Strapless Bra

I had a very, very full weekend, one that found me out a lot and wearing a strapless bra every day (and interestingly, an airy, floaty dress that probably looked wretched on me). It was then that I realized how much I freaking abhor strapless bras, even this one that I bought duo's of last summer and that I thought would still work this year. Yeah, it kinda works, but it is not comfortable to wear for, say, three days of activity. And when I got up this morning and got out my Liberty of London halter-y (it is not actually a halter, just has a high neck and no shoulders...so it is a? I don't know. It is cute though, I'll tell you that) and realized I just couldn't do it with a regular bra, even though I am covering up with a cardi in office, I gave myself a momentary pity party. One more day of boob squishing. One more day of hiking this thing up every little bit. I resigned myself to it though, because it is hot, and the LoL top was the only thing I could think of putting myself into to any success. Then, I'm putting the bra on, thinking that I will set the convertible strap to halter (or to stun!), and the whole thing just breaks in my hands. Thanks, Victoria's Secret. Awesome. My $50 bra that I bought at the end of last year, EXPRESSLY for the purpose of having a convertible bra at the ready for early summer awesomeness was now in incapable of becoming a halter or anything else convertible. And the strapless-ness is not too great either because the little hook that broke has a remaining piece of metal that is stuck in its holder and keeps stabbing me. I ended up securing it with fashion tape and ignoring the pain. Wanting to be bra-strap free will make you do things like that.

So here's my question for you guys: what kind of strapless do you recommend? I would like to order one online because really, who knows when I'll actually make it to a mall to purchase one and be able to give this the time and care that such a delicate situation calls for. Plus, my options for bras are severely limited by living in the middle of nowhere (thus the fact that this other one came from VS which I really, really do not like). Any ideas? I really want something that is durable because this bra is going to take a licking from me, even if I buy a couple. And let's remember that I have humongo knockers to contend with.

Thank you in advance!

This Week in F?&k You: Oprah

I actually meant to write this post on Wednesday. However, I took the day off on Wednesday to stay at home and play SAHM with Al. This was just following our graduation service that forced me to be here for 12 long, excruciating hours in heels and work appropriate LBD, trying to find something to talk to our provost and my boss about that did not include the words "That's what she said!" And well, I took the day off on Thursday too, to go out with my husband, eat a fucking barbecue sandwich that was the size of a dinner plate, see The Hangover Part II, and then wash it all down with a veritable vat of ice cream.

But here I am, sitting at work on a Friday and there is no one here but me, being as how I'm the girl who drew the short end of the stick having to show up on a Friday before a holiday. And while I was gone, they brought me a new computer, and yes I know this is a First World Problem and boo fuckin' hoo, but the screen is so big that it now hurts my neck to look at it. WAAAH. I'll reserve my table for one at Weenie Hut Junior's, please. ANYWAY, all of this is more than enough to make me a little stabby, especially since I had a convicted felon come in an ogle my cleavage for about 20 minutes today in this totally creepy, off putting way. MEN OF THE WORLD: WE KNOW WHAT YOU ARE LOOKING AT. DON'T THINK YOU ARE BEING SLY ABOUT IT. AND WHILE IT IS A LITTLE FLATTERING, ANYTHING OVER FIVE MINUTES IS CREEPY AS ALL SHIT AND DOES NOT MAKE ME WANT TO LET YOU MOTORBOAT ME. Just an FYI.

Now, many of you might like Oprah. Lord knows she has a shit ton of fans, and I don't begrudge her that. Lots of people and things that I don't like have a shit ton of fans, and without that, I wouldn't be able to sleep at night with the smug sense of elitist entitlement that allows me to dream about things like The Fleet Foxes and Tolstoy. But Oprah, to me, is insanely off-putting. Basically, she has made a career out of saying a lot of inspirational psycho-babble that basically amounts to her tooting her own horn in about 50 different octaves. BUY HER BOOKS! LISTEN TO HER DOCTOR! BUY THE FUCKING KEY LIME PIE THAT SHE LIKES TO EAT! All of this will make you a better person and give your life some sort of meaning that it didn't have this morning while you were snaking your drain and living some life cursed by normalcy! Oprah, despite her humble beginnings or whatever else I hear about anytime I dare to not toe the party-line on this subject, is a BRAND. She is not an inspiration, she is not your friend, she is not someone to emulate and aspire to be. She is a marketing gimmick in a poufy wig and overpriced shoes.

I don't understand why most people are sickened by the kind of brazen self-promotion that we see the Kardashians and other reality show stars participate in daily, but let Oprah by with that level and MORE. Folks, Oprah has a magazine that she puts herself on EVERY DAMN MONTH. The next time you say something snarky about one of the Kardashians and her fame hungriness, just remember that she is a product of this post-Oprah world, a world that encourages you to be your own biggest fan and act accordingly.

So, in short, I'm really pretty stoked that she won't be on TV anymore. I'm jazzed about a world where I don't walk into a bookstore and find myself accosted by whatever she's deemed worthy enough for her 1,000's of followers to read. I'm thrilled that I won't see clips where she's talking about the perfect weight loss plan, the perfect banana pudding, the perfect poop. You can laud her all you want to, but the way I see it, she's been lauding herself for years, so I think she's gotten enough.

This has been This Week in F&*K You. At this point, I'm off to begin my lovely summer holiday weekend. Hope you eat something from a grill and wear something delightfully airy, no matter where you are.

Take off those godforsaken yoga pants and come sit by me.

As many of you know, I get a bit tetchy when I hear other moms playing the martyr card. "I can't even shower, much less put on make-up!" "I have spit up on my shoulder and it has been there for two days!" "I wear yoga pants all the time because I'm a good mom and don't have time for fasteners on my clothing!" "WOE IS MOM."

Yet, it is usually these moms who update Facebook 3-4 times a day, posting pictures of their offspring doing something "adorable." Priorities, folks, it's all about 'em. And if looking your best is not your priority, fine. Photography is not mine. But please don't assume that those of us who choose to actually give a damn about how we look are selfish and/or not being a good parent.

*End rant.*

Anyway, when you are a mom, or rather, when you are a sentient, active being in this crazy, 24/7 mobile world of ours, children or no children, you definitely do not have time for make-up and hair routines like, say, you did when you were 13 and could spend an entire day putting perfect blue streaks in your hair and lining your unlined, bag-free eyes with glittery Hard Candy eyeliner. You need a few quick tricks to get you in and out of your bathroom in a hurry so you can prevent your child from spreading toothpaste all over the ottoman you lovingly have moved across the damn country twice because you like the thing, or, rather, getting there 30 seconds after the kid has done just that so you can admire her handy work. This is a list for that. And I would be oh so greatful if you could leave your tips in the comments--I know I could always use something new in the arsenal, and imagine others could as well.

1. Know what works for you. 7:30 on Wednesday morning is not time to try out the new glittery eye trend or bright red lipstick. Get a few basics and keep them. I am the world's worst for trying out every new marketing gimmick or product that passes through a magazine's hallowed pages, however, if I'm in a hurry, even I know better. Keep some of what works around at all times, just in case you having an inspiration-free day, or have to put your make-up on at your desk or while sitting on the couch, holding a baby and watching Max and Ruby. Here are my go to's:
Foundation: L'Oreal True Match
Blush: Nars Orgasm
Mascara: L'Oreal Voluminous (I always have a bit of DiorShow on hand for night time, but in a pinch, I love Voluminous, especially the new Carbon Black.)
Lipstick: Clinique Black Honey Almost Lipstick
Little sumthin' sumthin': Benefit Girl Meets Pearl

2. Hot FUCKING Rollers. (And I'm serious, whenever I say the word "roller," I think of nothing but The Oatmeal's hilariously apt Gay Roller, and I'm just sorry, but I can't keep a straight face. Heh. Straight face.) I used hot rollers in high school. Like a lot. I had this steam operated one, with little pink rollers, and you put the roller on top of this steam spurter and it made it...hot and steamy (that's what she said) and then you rolled it up and clamped it on. Anyone else have one of these? It was the SHIT. And when my hair was all nice and rolled, I let the little curls down, put my head between my knees and threw on an accordion headband and then threw my head back, stripper style and sprayed the shit out of that stuff with LA Looks aerosol spray. This made for a very, um, full look. Hey, it was the South, ya'll. I didn't know no better. But, folks, I'm here to tell you, hot rollers have changed. And I think lots of people use them. And not just in the lower South. And not just for beauty pageants, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. Or, at least, that's what the ladies at Ulta told me when they sold me my set. Basically, these things give you Cosmo-model hair, but without having to use a curling iron, which, let's face it, sucks balls. And the volume lasts. Like 12 hour work day lasts. Like I-had-to-take-my-heels-off-but-my-hair-is-still-PADOW! lasts. Still not convinced? This set in particular heats up in about 85 seconds. So basically, you can plug it in, brush your hair a bit, maybe squeeze a zit, and you're ready to rock.

I have started washing my hair every other day, and using this on the day when it is unwashed. I do a blow-out the other day, but truthfully, it looks better on the day that I use the rollers, even though the blow-out takes about 3x longer for me to do, what with all the clips and the round brush and yada yada yada. With the rollers, I just put it up, do my 5 minute make-up, make the kid's breakfasts and lunches, convince Sam that no, his legs are not frozen, and yes, he can, in fact, walk, and then pull it down. And I get compliments on my "lovely hair." And people, my hair is not lovely. It is fucking blah. But with this stuff, I can definitely fake it.

3. Carry stuff with you. No one looks perfectly pulled together all damn day with no upkeep. This is where it is important to keep your tools at the ready. If you drive or have a commute, trick your car out. I personally keep two pairs of shoes in my car at all times--a pair of stilletto heels, and a pair of low-profile running shoes. That way I can change if need be and I don't look like a tool being the mom at the baseball field in heels. I also keep duplicates of my favorite make-up in a free bag I got from Clinique a couple of beauty bonus times ago. That way it is ready when I am--and I don't have to worry about leaving my favorite make-up in the car/at home when I need it. Also important--babies like to play with make-up. Not like put it on. They like to look at it, carry it around, chew on the end of a mascara tube. So multipurpose. Hellz yeah.

4. Dresses ya'll. Lots and lots of dresses. I am a very, VERY firm believer that you should get dressed everyday in something you would allow someone else to see you in, no matter your vocation. I know people disagree with me on this, and that's fine. But I personally do not know anyone's mental health that was helped by a wardrobe of yoga pants and stained t-shirts from college. Let's face it--you take a shower and get dressed, some little part of you feels better. And it is so so worth it. I've had three kids, ya'll, and I can only think of one day that I went without a shower and fresh change of clothes, and it was when Sam was in the Pediatric ICU and there was no shower attached to the room. But I totally get how putting on a pair of jeans can make you feel uncomfortable. Jeans, no matter how well they fit, are not the best things for laying around the house, especially if they are rigid or if you are doing a lot of bending and sitting (which all of us do around the house). But dresses are another thing all together. There are some amazing day dresses out there, a lot of which can be paired with leggings for a very cute sitting-around-the-house-waiting-on-something-awesome-to-happen look. Even better is the fact that you can find a lot of wrap styles that are convenient for nursing. The best part? If you are on a budget, buying one dress is cheaper than buying a shirt AND a pair of pants. When my husband figured this out one day, he gave very real thought about picking up a lovely frock at TJ Maxx under the guise of "If it worked for J. Edgar Hoover...."

5. "I guess the key is that it doesn't matter if you look like the 'before' picture, just act like you're the 'after' one." --Mindy Kaling via Twitter. Could never say it better, not in a million years.

A Good Old Fashioned Monday Rant

Yesterday was Easter. Since I am not a religious person, I choose to celebrate the holiday in the truly American fashion, not in the religous one. This means, I spend way too much money on baskets for my kids (this year, personalized buckets!) and then I let a goddamned bunny take credit for my ingenuity. And then I prepare a humongous meal, fit to feed, say, a minor league baseball team. This year, I made, among other fattening, horrible, yet amazingly delicious things, a fluffy, homemade yellow cake with silky chocolate buttercream. It was wonderful. Trouble was, I continuously (and I literally mean continuously) found myself eating fingerfulls of the leftover icing. Like all day. From the moment I made it. At 10:00 last night, I had finally cleaned out the mixer bowl, and was sitting on the couch with Alice, who had eaten about 50 Hershey kisses and helped with the frosting as well. Everyone else was alseep, and there we sat, both of us, our t-shirts not hiding our distended, grotesque stomachs. We were both WIRED. And you have not seen wired until you have seen a chubby toddler and her similarly physiqued mother dancing to Yo Gabba Gabba at 11:00 at night.

Alice finally conked out at 12:06, but I remained up until between 2:30 and 3:00 when I finally succumbed to the ole balm of the weary. Which brings me to Rant Numero Uno:

1) How the fuck did I get this old? Seriously. When I was in college, I used to work the 4-midnight shift at a coffee house. I would leave work with a 20 oz. cup filled with leftover espresso, chocolate syrup, and a few chunks of ice. Basically an iced mocha without the milk, and add about 6 shots of espresso. And my dinner would consist of an everything bagel with cream cheese and two frozen brownies. I would drink/eat the whole thing greedily and then do some homework, and then pass out happily in my bed. Last night, I ate a lot of sugar, sure. But you have no idea how wired I was. Basically, I have turned into that lady who shows up at MacDonald's and looks at her watch before ordering an iced tea. "Oh, it's after 2:00! I shouldn't be having this!" Back in college, I used to laugh about those people all day. But now, due to my lower sugar lifestyle and my extreme age, I have become one of them. I cannot take the sugar, and I'm going to be a damn bitch about it.

I feel like I should be euthanized soon, before it gets worse.

I should also note that I brought up Facebook this morning and a friend of mine is turning 30 today. Which means that I am inching ever closer to the big 3-0. You know, I don't care about the age THAT much. What I care about is that I would really like to have some shit figured out by then. Moreover, if I reach that (advanced) age, and I'm still living in this area, I will strongly consider stepping out in front of a train. You think I'm kidding. Surely she jests, you say. You will think that when you find my little red purse beside a coal car.

(Apparently not getting much sleep turns me into a 13 year old girl who has spent the last hour listening to Nirvana's Unplugged album on repeat.)

2.) I do not give two flying fucks about the royal wedding.
You know, when I woke up this morning, I lived in AMERICA. Land of things like Nascar races and Baconalia and simultanously puritanical and pornographic views on sexuality. We rebelled so that we didn't have to listen to "King-This" and "Queen-That" and whathaveyou. Basically, we gave up free healthcare for all so that we didn't have to deal with that shit. And now? NOW? It is like I'm living in a goddamned Disney cartoon. I don't care what she wears! I don't care what he wears! I don't care if the entire United Kingdom expands with so much pride and love and whatever that the fucking place explodes and we all get covered in commemorative Will and Kate nuclear detritus!

Listen people. I'm just going to put it bluntly. I very barely cared about my own wedding. I mean, it was great, and I got to wear a pretty dress and eat bbq and my dad bought me a lot of champagne and that was AWESOME. But what I really cared about was the marriage, and for the love of God, the honeymoon. Somebody's wedding who lives in a whole different country? Oh and I don't know these people? Yeah, fuck that.

And if I see another Facebook status about this shit, I will spit on the picture of a baby panda. In fact, I'm printing out the picture now because I know I'm going to see it oh, in about 4.5 seconds. HACK. See? I spit on you.

3). I hate your faux sympathy. My office building is big, ya'll. Like there's a whole bunch of different offices and a whole bunch of different groups here, and I just don't know everyone. Let's rephrase that: I don't care to know everyone. I mean, sure I'll smile at you if I see you everyday, even if I don't know your name. But do I care to really get to know you? Get your life story? Ask your views on current events? No. I'm a horrible person, you see. Anyway, last week, a lady who works here, yet who I do not know, suffered a horrible tragedy in her family. When I heard about it, I was saddened. Not because it happened to her, per se, but because the world is cruel and awful and this happened at all. A card was hurriedly sent around and I signed it, even though that I knew seeing my name there would not help her really in any consequential way. And over the week, I've thought of her a couple of times and sent good wishes her way, even though I don't really know her. What I haven't done, however, is talk about it all day everyday. I haven't asked for gory details, I haven't tried to bully others into signing yet another card that I have purchased, I haven't asked accounting to reimburse me for said card, I haven't sat around spewing half-truths just so that I can feel close to some horrible tragedy so that I can have that tiniest feeling of excitement that such a proximity can bring.

Every thing that has gone on in here since this happened is indicative of how much I hate the way death is handled in my area of the world. Here, death is not a natural part of life or even a private family matter that is handled with grace and tears and silent questionings. It is a motherfucking event. If someone dies, it is like the community is brought together to gossip and eat fried chicken and talk about how awesome each person is for having done the gossiping and the fried chickening. I grew up with that, and it saddens me that my children have to live amongst it for the remaining time that we are here.

Which brings me back to my first rant.

If you need me, I'll be listening to Ray LaMontagne and growling at small children.

What You Can Do To Stop Pissing Me Off

Today is one of those days where just about everything pisses me off. Where about 4/5 of the status updates on my Facebook page make me want to randomly punch a baby. Where I generally think the worst of people. And I know...it is Friday! Which is normally a good day! And I'm wearing my favorite shirt (a chambray work shirt from Lands' End Canvas, for those of you who are curious)! And I had a perfectly lovely Greek salad for lunch! But I'm still just angry.

Here are a few things that you, the people of the world, can do to make it better.

1. Please know that I don’t care about your sick kid nearly as much as you do. You know, I hate when kids get sick. You know what else I hate? Tsunamis and earthquakes and fires and hurricanes and when baby pandas die and when kids go hungry at night. All of those things SUCK. And none of them should happen. And I really hate that your kid is sick. That is horrible. But you know what is also horrible? Trying to garner yourself some sympathy and attention off of said sick kid. I don’t want to see pictures of your kid in the hospital (you have 78! 78!!!). I don’t want to hear how your child doesn’t have her appetite back because she had pneumonia a month ago. Your child being sick a month ago does not make it suddenly ok for you to be late to work every day and then spend the 45 minutes after your late arrival updating everyone on your child’s morning activities (“She was so tired this morning. Poor baby! She must still be feeling bad! She didn’t want to go to school! She looked at me with her widdle sick eyes and said ‘Oh, mommy, don’t make me go!’” Which you know, if this is a symptom for being deathly ill, about 75% of all kids now have scurvy.) I.DON’T.CARE. Please go away.

2. On the same token, please do not fish for prayers on Facebook. Every morning, I see about 5-6 posts of people mentioning things that suck in their lives. Ingrown toenails. Sick kids. Unpaid bills. All very sucky. And then someone says something like, “I’m praying for you.” And that’s all it takes. The prayer horses are off and running. All of a sudden there are 25 comments of other folks saying “Praying!” or, in the case of one very determined individual, typing out full, 100 word long prayers that mention the person by name and include an identifying characteristic like your “beautiful hair” or “lovely voice” (just in case God has you mixed up with someone else, I assume). And I must say, I see quite a few of these posts every day and the same people respond every day. If you people are literally saying all the prayers that you say you are, how do you find time to work? Or eat? Or watch Hoarders? If you spent as much time doing something productive as you do saying prayers for people you barely know, you could run the WORLD.

3. If you and your husband are separated, please cease being each other’s Facebook friend. I think we’ve all seen it—the recently separated couple who still want to comment on each other’s status. And yes, it is a bit fun to watch, if you’re having a particularly boring day or if you can’t get that Rebecca Black parody to load right. But for the love of all that is holy, you’re making an ass out of yourself. Case in point: the other day I saw a post where an ex husband posts something nonsensical. Seriously. It was just word vomit. And a well-meaning friend goes, “OMG, you have too much time on your hands!” She’s just being silly—just posting something innocuous. He goes, “Well, yeah, SINCE I CAN’T SEE MY DAMN KIDS ANYMORE.” And of course, you know how that turned out. Ex-wife, who is still his friend, posts several more comments. And here’s the thing. These people have kids and families. Who they are also friends with on Facebook. Hell, these people have me, and I haven’t seen either of them in probably 5 years, and to be completely honest, totally forgot the dude’s name at one time. WE DON’T WANT TO SEE THIS SHIT. Because here’s what happens: I see this, and now I have an idea of who is “winning” at the divorce. I also feel bad for their kids because they have total dumbasses for parents. So avoid this, folks. DE-FUCKING-FRIEND. And just think—if you get back together, you can always friend each other again. You can plan a whole fucking ceremony around the friending and maybe hire a mariachi band and register at Target. And you can invite me because I won’t be pissed off at you for writing dumb shit on Facebook.

4. Just because it is 70 degrees outside, it is not ok to wear flip flops. I know you like them. I know you have been waiting for six months to dig them out. But people, my people….Let’s wait just a bit. For one thing, your feet are scary after a long, hard winter. Maybe look into a pedicure, or a PedEgg, or a light saber. For the other thing, Jesus Christ on a rubber crutch! This is what you are excited about?!? A piece of rubber you wear on your feet? After six months of snow and ice, you are excited about putting a pair of unisex shoes made out of the same stuff they make tires out of on your feet? My God, people. Flip flops look good on no one and should be worn to the beach or in a communal shower. THAT’S IT. If you are genuinely excited about the wearing of flip flops, it is time to take a long hard look at your life. And when you are done, go to a damn shoe store.

5. If we go out to eat together, please be nice to the server. I waited tables through college--it is how I paid my rent. I did not love it everyday, but it really wasn't a bad way to make some cash. The restaurant where I toiled away was good to work my student schedule/allow me to pick up extra shifts if I needed the dough/give me free burgers when I was pregnant with Sam. The one lasting thing I have from this experience is the desire--or rather, need--to be especially nice to my server when I go out. And really, even if I hadn't done this job for 3 years, I think I would behave in much the same way. I don't make horrible requests, I try to be understanding, and I always, ALWAYS tip very well. So, if I go out with someone, I expect them to be respectful and kind. Yelling "HEY, YOU. YOU FORGOT TO PICK UP MY PLATE." across the restaurant is not what I would call "respectful." Nor is saying, "He's good to look at, but he's not really doing the job that well, do you think?" Yeah. Well, that's the last time I go to lunch with that person, and probably the last time I go into the restaurant and am able to look anyone in the eye.

Don't you love how I don't write anything for a while, and then I come back with something vitrolic and full of hate filled speech at the other people of the world? Yeah.

This is how student loans make me feel:

I work for a college, and anytime I have a student come in and ask me about getting a loan, I want to say, "DON'T DO IT! BECOME A HOT DOG VENDOR! GO OFF THE GRID! LIVE IN A SUBWAY TUNNEL!!!"

I'm sure you can tell this, but I have had some student loan drama, and to be honest, I'm too tired of the whole thing to rehash it here. (And, to be honest, why would you want to know about the many HOURS I have spent on the phone with various people who may or may not be inebriated talking about why this department has the checking account information and the other doesn't.) But here's a little known fact:

The government can take your tax refund.

This was just mentioned to me, in a roundabout odd way, mostly as a threat of what would happen if I didn't call back within an hour (Note: it actually takes more like years of nonpayment! Not snafus and weird questions. So the guy who told me that, all nonchalantly can go blow himself. Seriously.) with a resolution about the loan that I have been paying monthly for several years. And although this does not apply to me, it shook me to my very core because I was all like, "BITCH, I know you are not getting between me and my motherfucking Ipad." Because that is what I am using my refund for.

This is just a hope, really, as it started last night with Matt and I doing our taxes and then deciding that we should a) have sex and make about 5 more babies for the tax credits and b) since I am decidedly Team Apple and he is decidedly Team Droid we are going to buy a tablet computer each and then use them to fight epic duels on our front porch where one of us will be blinded and then shoved into our fire bowl. Good news! The kids get to roast marshmallows!

However, in reality, I know that we will most likely use it on groceries, mascara and books, which is basically what every form of gift money we've ever gotten has been spent on.

Anyway, this is a short, nonsensical post, but I want you to know this, oh gentle readers. Please teach your children that they should 1) Never go to college and 2) Buy an Ipad. Haters to the left.

Blog of Vitriol, Hate and Negative Vibes

WARNING: If you are in a good mood or are seeking positivity, this is not the place. Turn around. Go read something else. Actually, you know, do your work or something. I am getting ready to unleash a torrent of anger and grouchiness that is not commonly seen in someone over the age of 2. Yes, folks, this is my temper tantrum. Instead of actually getting down in the floor of my office and flailing about like a carp in someone's bathtub, I am going to post stuff on the internet. If I don't, I might actually throat punch someone.

A note that should be noted: I have never actually hit someone. I have never been in a fight, not even in middle school when I think even the most mild mannered of us tend to go around with fists clenched, ready to kick some tween ass at the slightest provocation. "WHAT?!?! You talked to her on the phone?!?! And you all decided to both wear puffy vests today?!? FEEL MY WRATH, BACKSTABBER!!!!!" Yeah, that wasn't me. I was the kid in the corner with the ukelele, quoting John Lennon and begging everyone to just get along.

Kind of.

Anyway, instead of actually punching things, I am going to post the myriad things that piss me off today. Ready? I thought you were.

1. I am still motherfucking sick. The thing that BLOWS is that I am not sick enough to where I could take off from work and feel ok about it. As in, I'm not running a temperature. When I was a kid, I had to be running a temperature or throwing up before my mom would let me stay home from school. And since that is now ingrained in me, the same way that it is ingrained in me to never buy cheap sugar, I cannot get past it, even though I know that I should probably be sitting at home right now, watching Weeds and trying to kick this shitvirus. My nose is all clogged up and I'm all achy and just generally sick feeling. And that, my friends, PISSES ME OFF. I wish my life just stopped when I got sick, like I could stay home and my kids would magically be carted off to a land where they were fed fruit and whole grains by a magical fairy. But that is not the case. Even when I am sick, I have responsibilities. Reason #541 why being a grown up sucks.
2. My brother in law just got engaged. Now, normally, this kind of thing would not piss me off. Love is grand, ya'll, and you know, I was engaged once and it was awesome--there was a ring and champagne and my soon-to-be husband and I listened to David Bowie and drank way too much. But my brother in law got engaged in Disney World. And then he started posting all this SHIT on Facebook about having his own little princess now. I'm not even kidding. Did you just throw up in your mouth a little bit? Because you should have. That shit is revolting. Matt and I were discussing it and how that no female over the age of 3 should EVER be called a princess, unless she legitimately is one, and you know, has the papers to prove it. And yeah, I know, different strokes for different folks and all, but seriously. That's your partner in life, my dear brother in law. Not some kind of doll you put on a shelf and admire. Ickiness abounds. (And if you don't think it is bad and that women are princesses, oh fuck you. I'm too grouchy to even go further into this.)
3. Speaking of women's issues, I really hate Avril Lavigne. Allow me to tell you why. She has this new song called "What the Hell" that comes on the radio station that my daughter listens to. It sounds like a goat being beaten to death with a tire iron. The message is basically this: "Well, you know, up until this point, I've been a pretty decent human being. But then, I just decided, "what the hell" and I decided to make out with some unknown's best friend and create music that makes people want to chew the heads off of baby bunnies." Fuck you Avril Lavigne. I hate that girls hear this shit--this and Ke$ha and all the rest. I am not a prude, but for once, I'm getting all pearl clutchy up in here and begging someone to please think of the children. And I hate that Avril is making me do that! Let me just put this out there, just in case a tween is able to wade through my profanity laced tirade and get to this nugget of wisdom: Girls, there is so much more to life than being "bad" and "partying" and whatever else. Go read a book. And get off of my lawn.
4. I hate fax machines. Why is it when I fax something for work, I have to immediately go send an email confirming that I sent it? And then TWO DAYS LATER, I get an email back like, "Um, we never got that fax you sent.... Could you resend it? We've looked everywhere." Ok, first off, you could have let me know this two days ago. Second, where could it have been? Does Charlie Sheen live in your office? Did you look up his nose? Because maybe that's where it is.... Seriously. Where else could it be? Either it came out of the fax machine or it didn't. I didn't fax it with the special instructions to come out of the the refrigerator instead of the fax machine. But when I ask, "Well, can I just email it with the document sender instead?" I am met with this, "No, you better fax it. So we'll have a hard copy." WTF?!?! I'm assuming you have a printer. How hard is it to hit that print button?
5. If that damn groundhog doesn't predict an early spring tomorrow, I will need to be committed.

And you know, in spite of all this, I am pretty damn lucky. Last night I came home, sick. My grandmother fixed dinner for us, and we ate well, especially Alice who, much to my chagrin, could eat her weight in southern-style green beans. Matt worked late, so I put the kids to bed and Sam and I got through his entire Abraham Lincoln biography. Alice, who has recently acquired the ability to talk LIKE IT IS HER JOB (more on this later) entertained us all by answering every question asked to her with the word "No." "Alice, is it time for nigh-nigh?" "No." "Alice, do you love ice cream?" "No." "Alice, are you a princess?" "No." "Alice, do you believe that morality is not a social contruct, but rather innate and tied to man's disinclination to witness suffering and thus, his tendency towards compassion and empathy?" "No."

And then, Matt comes home and he is funny and happy and we talk and giggle and watch TV for a bit. And I realize that despite the fact that I have felt like crap ALL DAY and have wanted nothing more than to be in bed asleep, when he is there, there is nothing that I would rather do than sit up and talk to him about anything and nothing all at once.

Stop dry heaving--I'm done.

So repeat after me, gentle readers of all these negative thoughts--"FUCKITY FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUCK." Yes, I think we all feel just a bit better.

Chuck E. Cheese: A Rave and an Eensy, Tiny Rant 10 Years in the Making

When you mention Chuck E. Cheese to many parents, you get a groan and that look that says "DON'T SAY IT TOO LOUD! IF MY KIDS HEAR, I'LL HAVE TO GO THERE!" Yes, it is loud. Yes, there are lots of children around, and if you're like me and aren't terribly wild about other people's progeny, then, well, that can be an issue. Yes, there is an unfortunate teenager in a mouse costume walking around awkwardly. Yes, the food is not exactly gourmet. However. There is one absolutely wonderful thing about Chuck E. Cheese, something that cannot be contained on any menu, something that one would never understand unless they have verbal, inquisitive, wonderful little beings that they love and adore and want nothing more than to please and love and coddle.

And that thing is that if you go there, you can pry your adored little beings with tokens and pizza and you can eat your meal without having to answer why dinosaurs are not in the Bible. Or why Napoleon went into Russia that time. Or why Madison didn't invite you to a sleepover, even though technically it wasn't a sleepover because only one person ended up sleeping over. And, for that matter, why your mother won't let you stay at Madison's house because her parents let her watch Jersey Shore. And, while we're on the subject, what a "Snooki" is.

Every time my mother comes into town, we pick the kids up from school and take them to Chuck E. Cheese. I should note that it is an hour and a half away. But we drive, joyously. And we get there and we sit at the table and eat pizza (which is not nearly as bad as what you might think) and we talk. The kids run around and play games and talk to other kids and we talk. There are unlimited refills of Coke Zero and Diet Lemonade and we take advantage. And it is so, so nice. I mean, sure, I check on the kids every now and then. But if your kid has basic social skills and the knowledge of common courtesy, there are not many shenanigans they can get into in a Chuck E. Cheese. After all, the Chuck E. Cheese employees are guarding the door with this light and stamp thingie that makes sure that no one gets kidnapped or otherwise endangered. Chuck E. Cheese may be the place where a kid can be a kid, but it is also the place where a parent can gain some sanity. And you have to love it for that. Plus, there is Skee Ball. Show me someone who doesn't like playing Skee Ball, and I'll show you someone whose heart is two times too small.

I do have one beef with Chuck E. Cheese, and I'm just going to get it off my chest. Chuck E. Cheese knows that I do this--that I come into their establishment, tired and harried and that I just want to sit there and talk to whomever is with me and have my kids spend $20 to get a pair of stick on earrings and a rubber spider. They know that I am a mom, and because I am a mom, I like vegetables. Therefore, they sit this lovely salad bar in front of me, dangling it like a prize. But! That thing is like $6! For reals! For one trip, ya'll! And yes, I have $6 that I could spend on salad. But I'm also buying pizza and tokens and buffalo wings. And most likely, I have a coupon that enables me to get all this stuff for one, low price. But more importantly, it is the principal of the thing. I firmly believe that Chuck E. Cheese hikes up the price of the salad just to stick it us moms and that makes me very irrationally mad. So I absolutely refuse to buy a salad at Chuck E. Cheese. Not even if I win the lottery or write the Great American Novel or divorce my husband to marry a venture capitalist. I have now been bitching about the price of salad at Chuck E. Cheese for almost 9 years--I don't think it is physically possible for me to purchase the salad at this point. I will extoll the virtue of Chuck E. to any and all, but I will not buy your salad, Mr. Cheese. Take your $6 salad and suck it.

(When I was a freshman in college, I worked in the library. There were Starbucks everywhere on our campus, even at that long ago time. There was one right outside the door of the library, and it was pretty much a given that if you were going to the library, you were going to stop at that Starbucks and get a drink. Another student employee of the library set up a coffee pot in our breakroom and made a big sign that said "When the Revolution comes, Starbucks will close!" And he brought some of the nastiest coffee you've ever tasted for any and all to share. To this day, I believe that it was made out of pencil shavings, pocket lint, and marijuana detritus. Anyway, his name was James, and my husband says that I am "the James of the Chuck E. Cheese salad world." And I wear that label with pride.)

Anyway, though, if you are asked or forced or begged to take your child to Chuck E. Cheese, accept the invitation with pride. Go and sit and enjoy yourself--hell, bring a book (Matt and I have studied Biological Anthropology in a Chuck E. Cheese before--not kidding, but this takes a superhuman ability to tune crap out, one that can only be honed if you have a child very young and are very dedicated to your craft) or at least someone who you don't mind talking to for a couple of hours. Just go with the flow. Enjoy it. Just don't buy a salad.

When the Revolution comes, a salad for mom will be included in the combo.

Teen Mom

This is not something that I share with a lot of people, but well, here I am on the damn internet typing it all out. I mean, it is pretty obvious if you know how to do math--I am 27 and my daughter is 11, so that means....

I was a teen mom.

Yup, I was once 16 and Pregnant. I was one of those girls that you have probably seen and shook your head at, one of those girls buying a prom dress with a baby in tow. One of those girls at Wal-Mart looking forlorn while her mom tucks the diapers in the cart, the formula, the little onesies, all the stuff that she can't afford on her own with her hostess job. You've probably seen her 100 times, riding the Bart train with a cell phone, ignoring the tiny being in the stroller beside her while she catches up on the latest dramas, fluffs her hair. You've seen her holding the baby and wondered what her life is like, will be like, if the baby knows what a shit situation this all is, if its wise little face is cognizant of the odds stacked against it. I was her, and that baby was mine. Is mine.

I say this because I am seeing a bunch of magazine articles about teen moms lately. If they will find love, if they are pregnant again, if they are broke. And yes, I know it comes from that MTV show. I will be honest--I watched selected episodes of 16 and Pregnant, but hopped ship when they started the Teen Mom thing because I didn't like that it made celebrities out of something as serious as teenage pregnancy. Really, these kids need to be worried about getting educations and developing relationships with their children--not looking pretty for MTV. Further, it bothers me that people think all teenage parents are like that--hitting their significant others, crying about missed opportunities, constantly embroiled in some sort of made for TV drama.

It is not like that. Teenage moms are moms. They are just like you--they feel the same things, they are overwhelmed, they are joyous, they love their children. Yes, things may be harder for them and they may not have the same life that you have or want. But the thing that bothered me when I was a teenage mom was feeling so different from other moms when I knew deep down that I was experiencing much the same things. I was so lucky in that I had a wonderful mother and a boyfriend (now husband) to support me. Unfortunately, a lot of girls do not have that. And it bothers me that we as mothers and women look at these women and feel revulsion and pity and sadness. We feel like we know them because we have seen them on TV or because we think we know what they are like. But we do not. And that is sad. Just as you shouldn't judge someone for their shoes or their skin color or their religion, you shouldn't judge them for having a child early.

I recently became aware of a program in my community that provides mentoring services to teenage moms. I am getting involved with it (obviously!), but I would encourage you to look for similar programs in your area. I'm not saying devote your whole life to curing this or any other societal ill you hear someone bitching about on the internet--just see if there is a place to donate used clothing or see if they need anything. Or next time you see a girl in Target, trying to make sense of the diapers, smile at her. Smile at her baby. Ask her if she needs anything. She might tell you no, and that will be fine. But she might have a legitimate question. And she might just want someone to talk to who won't judge her. Who knows? Just be that person for a few minutes and see what happens. You could be very surprised.

Weekend Wrap-Up

Our weekend started early because the kids (and I) got out at noon on Friday. The kids went up to my mother in law's house for a while, and I went shopping for birthday party stuff. I was fully planning to find my son a Star Wars cake pan to make his cake. Yeah, that didn't happen. I ended up doing ok with what I had, but I was STRESSED THE EFF OUT. I finally came home (after spending way too much money and time) and cleaned and baked until I went to bed at midnight.

The next morning I cleaned and cooked more. The party was 12:00, so it was a mad dash to get everything done. However, when the kids and family members go to the house, thing went smoothly. You can read more about my son's birthday party in the following post if you are super interested. It was definitely a fun party. We ended up having guests until 4:30 or so. After that, I folded some laundry that I had done pre-party and then took Gabby to her ball game to cheer.

Now let me make a special note to all you parents out there: Try not to make an ass out of yourself at children's sporting events. Please? For me? The game was just all together uncomfortable. I happened to be sitting next to this real gem of a guy who just lost his ever loving mind on a kid who looked to be about 6-7 years old. Here's the thing guys--kids are...kids. They are going to do some pretty crazy shit. And it is not going to make sense to you or me. Some of it will be pseudo-dangerous and the rest of it will just be insane. However, no matter what they do, it is not ok to get down and yell in their blubbering, sad little faces about what a disappointment they are. Especially when you are in public. Now, if you want to yell at your kids in private, ok, sure. That's not my choice in parenting, but whatevs. It is your kid. But in public? Come on, now. I'm pretty sure that that is how serial killers are made. In what possible universe can embarassing your child and making everyone else incredibly uncomfortable work as a discipline method? Yeah, there's not one. So, Football Game Douche, chill out. Maybe just sternly tell the kid what they are doing wrong, explain why it is wrong and then quietly tell them that you will talk about it later. They will get the message. And in 18 years, there won't be a Very Special Dateline about some kid who carves "I AM NOT A DISAPOINTMINT" into the backs of drifters, or at least, if there is, it won't be about your kid. Oh, and a note to the same family--it is September, folks. Let's maybe put shirts and shoes on our kids before they attend an outside function. Cool? Awesome.

*stepping off soap box*

Anyway, the game was wretched and awful. We lost 30-12 to the town's biggest rival. One mother almost got thrown out for yelling at the ref's. Sigh. I came home, ate some cake to assuage my nerves, watched some TV and went to bed.

On Sunday, it was rainy and gross outside. We stayed in during the morning. Alice and I catnapped and watched a truly awfully delicious Lifetime movie starring Hillary Swank as a rebellious teenager who swings a corded phone at her alcoholic mother and gets locked up for assault. After Alice got up from her nap, I took the girls and we went shopping. I had to get a blazer for a meeting I have later this week. We went to TJ Maxx and JESUS CHRIST ON A RUBBER CRUTCH! Now, I'm not what you would call a Maxxinista (or I haven't been in the past). I can pretty much count on my fingers the times that I've been in there even though I'm in that shopping center all the time to go to Target, Old Navy and PetSmart. It just seems like too much of a chore to go in and sift through the stuff looking for treasures. But I found SO MUCH STUFF. I ended up finding a Martin + Osa blazer for $20, a tweedy Calvin Klein dress with a studded belt for $50 and a pair of Enzo Angiolini peep toes in black suede for $30 (I have a pair exactly like those in orange croco and love them so you can imagine my happiness in finding the black ones). I was incredibly ecstatic. I am tempted to go back over there this afternoon without the girls (who were getting a bit restless) and see what other treasures I can turn up. I know they had some boots in the $70 range that looked nice, but I didn't really have the time to inspect them. And there was a London Times dress that I needed in the next size up that I didn't go back to look for but now think that I might be dreaming about it. There are a few trendy pieces I was thinking about looking for (military jacket--I have one that is a bit too baggy--fur vest, etc.) that would be cheaper there and probably cute. Anyway, it made my weekend. GET THEE TO A TJ MAXX!!! We then went to Target and I got some earrings and some socks for Alice and Gabby got a book. Gabby and I tried on some things, but no winners there. However, I only tried on two dresses and in one of them, someone had broken the zipper in the only one that was my size. Guess it just wasn't to be. We also did a quick walk through of Old Navy, but I had left Alice's stroller in the car and she was wiggly, so we didn't stay long. They looked to have some cute chunky cardigans if you are looking for that kind of thing. I might go back and look more if I go back today.

I stopped on the way home and got pizza and then we came home and I relaxed with some baseball and some magazines. All in all, it was a great weekend. Except for the fact that Alice is cutting not one, not two, NOT EVEN THREE, but FOUR teeth right now. Usually the only real way that you can tell that Al is teething is that she is up a lot to nurse during the night. So I'm pretty tired today (and my boobs are thinking of running off to join the circus), but I am wearing my Gap Modern Bootcut pants, and the twisted neck shell from Loft (no longer online) so at least I look cute. I would have worn the new dress and heels, but you should see the outside of my house--all rainy and muddy and blech. I didn't want to put my new shoes through that. So it is the old BR black slingbacks for today. They've lived through far worse!

Debby Downer

This week has sucked. Like major, no holds barred, BLOWN. My husband is waiting to hear from his company because he may have a promotion, which would be AWESOME, but he hasn't heard from them and the waiting is sucking for all of us, there is drama at my daughter's dance studio, Sam is having a birthday party on Saturday that hasn't been properly planned for, I want an intravenous drip of chocolate and have yet to get one, etc, etc. I thought about posting something jolly today, about the new make-up that I have, but I'm not in the mood. So I am going to post about things that I dislike. Because when life gives you lemons, you should let them go rotten and then complain about it. On the internet.

1. I hate Farmville updates. And I hate when people post status messages and say "I need this for my farm," and I start thinking "Do they really own a farm? Can I buy some eggs?" and then I realize that it is for Farmville. I don't care what you need for your fictional electronic farm. Why don't you just send a message to the other people you know who play Farmville? Geez.

2. Alice has learned to remove her BumGenius's. I was going to send them to be converted to snaps, but that was going to be a huge production, so I started putting onesies and things over them at all times to keep her hands off of them. Then she started pulling them off through the onesie. Now, she has started pulling them off JUST to pee in the floor. I wish I were kidding. A couple of times, I have seen her take them off and have run her to the bathroom, but she ends up peeing on my leg as I run. And she laughs about it. I am starting to think she is an Evil Genius. She is potty training herself at 12 months, just to make my life a living hell. Thanks, Alice. Remind me buy you something really heinous to wear for school pictures when you are about 10. Just for this, I'm also going to refuse to cut the crust off of your sandwiches. So there. Pull it off again, sister. Let's see what else I can get out of.

3. I hate how anyone who can pony up for a fancy camera fancies themselves some kind of photographer. Um, that is an art form folks. Setting up some kind of "fall scene" in your unfinished basement and shooting pictures of your kids trying to eat fake leaves does not equal art. Nor does constantly sending me Facebook messages telling me that I can bring my kids to a local hiking trail and you will take pictures of them "professionaly." Oh, ok, sure. Tell you what: my 6 year old will teach you how to spell in exchange for some pictures that I could take myself. Cool? Thanks.

4. I hate that the ball just fell out of my mouse. WTF? When I was in high school, people used to steal the mouse balls just to throw at other people. Now, I'm pretty sure someone has been in here, taking out the mouse ball and hiding meth up in the mouse. Great. My mouse is a drug mule. The times they are a-changin'.

5. And finally, I hate that the high temperature is 91 today. 91. And it is September. Granted, it is cool this morning, and I'm sure it will be tonight. But in the middle of the day, it will be melt-your-face-off hot. And I'm stuck wearing the same old things because I don't want to get my new stuff all sweaty. Sigh. Sometimes I hate VA.

Stay tuned--I promise to be a bit more...sunny in future posts. Plus, at some point today, the voting will go live for the Talbots contest that I'm still involved in, and I would appreciate any votes! I will post the link on here when voting starts. Until then, Happy Thursday!

Rant: Back to School Shopping

When I was a kid, back to school shopping was fun. My mom would take me to Wal-Mart, and I would tool around quietly, buying the Crayola crayons 64 pack (the biggest one they had when I was a kid), a few Lisa Frank folders and a bitchin' Trapper Keeper. If I was supremely lucky, she would then take me to Sanrio Surprises in the Kingsport Mall and buy me a backpack with Hello Kitty on it. All my pencils came from my mom's office and from gift stores at the beach (that was always my souvenir). These purchases would be made effortlessly, happily even, and then I would go home and organize my stuff, vowing that his would be the year that I actually used those little reinforcements and kept my stuff securely and perfectly in the Trapper Keeper. My mom would be pretty effortless in the whole thing too--it wasn't terribly expensive and she didn't have to do much--just push the cart around and admire the rainbow-hued dolphins on my folder.

School shopping today is nothing like this. School shopping today is more akin to say, having your intestines ripped out through your ear. Yesterday, I took my kids school shopping. We walked into the Target all fresh faced and happy, having just eaten a refreshing lunch at Chili's (where they serve fresh pineapple with the kids meals and have more options than just chicken tenders--yea for Chili's!). Two hours and $160 dollars later, we walked out, defeated, sad and tired. My kids had gotten a few things they wanted--Spiderman lunchbox and backpack for Sam, locker materials for Gab (sniff, sniff, yes my baby gets a locker this year), but mostly we had purchased things that were on their "school supply lists." "School supply lists," I've discovered, were probably dreamed up in a joint conglommeration between Scott Disick and Atila the Hun. Yes, they seem all idyllic and perfect, and I can see their use--the kids get what they need for the classroom, not a bunch of superfluous junk, and the teacher is able to come up with plans that use those items. But. BUT. When you are spending over $80 just to purchase the things on the list, there is a problem. When your sixth grader has four teachers, and thus FOUR seperate lists, there is a problem. I effectively purchased Gabby more supplies yesterday for a year in the SIXTH GRADE than I did for my entire high school experience. For one class, she had to have a 3 inch binder (the cheapest they had was $10) with 2 packs of filler paper and a five subject notebook, among other interesting things. What exactly is she going to write in this class? A sequel to War in Peace? A biography of Proust spelled out in pictograms?

That is not even to mention the amount of time it takes to find all of those things. Especially when you are in a crowded Target with a bunch of other woebegone parents who look like prisoners of war. Especially when your infant daughter just learned to make this noise that can only be described as the cry of the hounds of Hell as they rip out your soul and she insists on making it every 2 minutes or so, always with this big grin so you're not sure whether to fall to ground covering your ears crying or praise her for being so cute and inventive. Especially when you thought this was going to be a fun day and you thought you might even score a dress or a nice cardigan at Target and now your husband is frantically adding stuff up on his cell phone and looking as if he might cry/start a revolution/start trying to eat pencils to smuggle them out unseen so the idea of the dress is now completely and totally massacred.

The other thing that really irked me was that we spent a lot of time (and money) buying disinfecting wipes and sandwich bags and hand sanitizer and Kleenex for the classroom. I have absolutely no problem with the teachers requesting these items--kids need to have these things around, and come flu season, I'm really going to appreciate it. What peeves me is that these items should be provided by the school system. Now, I'm not going to go into too much detail here because the same school system does sign my paychecks (although I work at a high school, and if anyone wants hand sanitizer there, you best be buying it yourself and then having it surgically grafted onto your arm so that it will not be stolen and drank), but I'm pretty sure that each football team in the system could take a tiny financial hit (that they probably wouldn't even notice) and we could buy the teachers some sanitizer. Since I started working for the school system, I have seen the kind of egregious budgeting mishaps that come about at schools. And I think of all this when I'm loading down my shopping cart with dry erase markers for the teachers (yup). Imagine you had come home as a small child with a letter from the school asking your parents to pony up for chalk for the teachers. Wouldn't your parents have been a little, shall we say, quizzical?

And it worries me so about the kids who can't afford these things. In my work as a homeless student mentor, I gave all my students a binder with paper and then talked to them about good study skills, organizing, etc. That was the extent of their school supply. That was just part of my schtick. I can't imagine what they would do at the elementary level when there is so much that they need. Even backpack drives just furnish kids with backpacks--they don't look individually at the list and make sure that if the needy kid has to have a 3 subject notebook instead of a 5 that they are getting it. Or maybe they do, and I'm just not aware of the right ones. It is just so sad that so many kids have not even started school, and they are already behind. I am thinking of calling the school on Monday to see if there is a kid that they know of that I can adopt and purchase his/her items as on the list. Sigh.

I guess this is all just part of my incredible unrest with the educational system, especially in the area where I currently live. I have discovered, though, that there is no "perfect" school--there is always going to be something that you don't like, so you just have to deal. But. I am really starting to realize why people homeschool, and that is really starting to look like a viable option. I think if I lived in a more urban area and was able to join so sort of homeschooling group so that my kids still go social interaction, I would already have done it. I don't know. Maybe I'm just grumpy because my fun day did not come to fruition. Maybe I just need to go back to Target and buy that dress.