Our Funny Mommies Blog | Two Too Smart, Smartass Mommies

My Dog is an Asshole

Wed, 06 Feb 2013 22:32:57 -0700

Generally speaking, I am a good person. I am a rock star of a mom, I run my own successful business, I volunteer my time, effort and money to multiple charities and I make it a general rule to treat others even better than I expect to be treated. Mother Teresa I am not; but one thing I have done is adopt rescued animals. My current headcount stands at three cats and two dogs.

I treat these animals better than I treat myself. Exercise at the doggie park? Check. Specially cooked meals? Check, check. (Semi)Regular visits to the beauty shop??? Absolutely.

I don’t expect much from my cats. They are, after all, cats. And every time they look at me I sense their inexplicable and constant state of disappointment. Whatever. I can handle it. No judgment.

I do, however, expect slightly more from my dogs. They are supposed to be the “good ones”. Like a child who is your favorite but you could never admit that you have a favorite, because that is somehow just wrong, but everybody knows that everybody has a favorite child just nobody talks about it?? Yep. Just like that.

Dogs are supposed to be smart, intuitive, loving, loyal and protective.

Supposed to be.

Mine is not.

Mine is just an asshole.

Here are some of her more impressive traits:

Can dig a 10” hole in the backyard in 45 seconds flat.
Chooses not to come when called.
Only appears mildly interested if I say her nickname “Treat!”
Likes to steal my underwear out of the laundry hamper and then eat it.
Goes apeshit if she even thinks that you are thinking about giving her a bite of human food.
Borderline obese, probably from all those bites of human food I give her.
Treats my postman like a convicted puppy serial killer.
Refuses to do anything remotely resembling exercise.
Occasionally escapes from the house and proceeds to chase moving cars, specifically aiming for their tires.
Might have suicidal tendencies.
Barks at nothing. For no reason. Most of the day.

I have a completely fenced in backyard (primarily purchased especially for this particular little fucker). However, when I have to open the front door I’m forced to slither out like some sort of anorexic stealth ninja to prevent her from running away like a guilty perp being chased by the cops. On the plus side, she is very, very cute . . . she’s just not so “smart”. Her name is “Snowy”. I might have to re-name her “Paris Hilton”.

So . . . free to a good home: One dipshit dog.

E-mail me directly if interested.

(Kidding.)

(Sort of.)

My “Liberal, Progressive, Smartass Arsenal”

Sun, 20 Jan 2013 15:30:38 -0700

Back in July, we wrote a post specifically regarding the Chick-fil-A “controversy”. It was one of our most popular posts and we lost a grand total of one Facebook follower because of it. Awesome!

A few weeks ago, a gentleman from Utah named “Gregory” (his real name) stumbled across that image on our Pinterest page and posted the following comment (which he has since deleted):

I support Chick-fil-A 1,000%!!! Same-sex marriage is simply NOT NATURAL and God will PUNISH those who condone it.

Niiiiiiice Gregory.

So I responded with the following:

Good for you Gregory. Way to take a stand on only supporting what’s “natural”. Just be sure to keep that in mind as you eat some processed foods, drive in your manufactured car and play around on Pinterest. I respect the right to your opinion, which is why I am going to leave your comment for all to see. Just keep in mind, the masses used to not think it was NATURAL for whites to marry non-whites. So please, support Chick-Fil-A “1,000%” by eating their completely “NATURAL” food. I will, however, block your sorry self from OUR Pinterest boards for supporting homophobia.

and then I proceeded to block him.

Well . . . that didn’t sit well with poor Gregory.

So he contacted us via e-mail. What you read below is our entire, unedited conversation (pictures were added for the sake of a more visually interesting blog post; sweet Gregory is in blue, this Smartass is in red). Please enjoy.

Oct 19, 2012, at 1:47 PM, Gregory B***** <greg.******@me.com> wrote:
You blocked me, so I wasn't able to post on the picture, but I felt it my duty to make sure you head what I had to say to you. So here it is. In response to your response to my comment on your obscene meme about Chik-Fil-A.
Wow. I feel sorry for you. I really, really do. And to think, it’s people like you that call people like me “intolerant”.
I am not homophobic. I am not afraid of the people themselves. I love them and want to help them overcome their awful temptation, so they can know true happiness. The happiness that only comes from living the way God wants us to live. However, I am TERRIFIED of what will happen if we allow homosexuality to become completely accepted and supported in our society. If we do a thing like legalizing gay marriage, we run the risk of distorting the moral compass of the entire next generation. That will destroy us. God will destroy us, just like He did to other civilizations that allowed themselves to accept such depravity.
I am about as open minded as a devout Christian can get. I am open to new ways of thinking and all kinds of different people. But there are some things that just cannot change. Things that are eternally true and right, no matter what we do or say.
On Oct 22, 2012, at 9:38 AM, Smartass Mommy <SmartassAdmin@TwoTooSmartSmartassMommies.com> wrote:
Good morning sunshine!!
In your words, you are “1,000%” correct. I am completely intolerant - intolerant of such things as hatred,
bigotry, sexism, homophobia, racism, anti-Semitism and many, many other “-isms”. So if that is your definition of “intolerant” and calling me that makes you sleep well at night . . . then by all means, I proudly accept that title.
And while word “homophobia” ends with “-phobia” it is generally understood that the meaning of this word is not a “fear” of homosexuals but one who choses to discriminate against homosexuals. My favorite quote regarding this “confusing” definition: “I hate the word homophobia. It's not a phobia. You are not scared. You are an asshole”.
Furthermore, I am DELIGHTED that you feel sorry for me, for I really wouldn't want somebody with your moral superiority complex to really ever agree with me.
It does make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside to know that you are TERRIFIED of homosexuality becoming “completely accepted and supported in our society”.
Let's break that down . . .shall we?? And I will keep the math simple so you can follow along:
1. Assume that there are approximately 315 million people currently in the U.S. right now.
2. An often cited study from the 2000 Census estimated that there were 777,000 same-sex couples living together, which equates to about 0.50% of the total population (because you have to multiply the 777 thousand by two just in case you aren’t following).
3. Now, let’s assume that every state allows same-sex marriage (which it doesn’t). There is no reason to believe that gay couples would marry at different rates than heterosexual couples - a rate which is at an all time low of 51%. So if only half of those same-sex couples got married, you are talking about 388,500 gay, married couples living in the United States.
So . . . you are telling me that you are "TERRIFIED" of what 388,500 gay and lesbian happily married couples will do to the moral fabric of this society? Really, this is your fear?? It seems like being the wife of a Doctor in Utah has more dire consequences than this.
As neither a history buff nor a religious scholar, I can only assume that you are referring to Sodom and Gomorrah as “evidence” of a civilization that God “wiped” out because they “allowed themselves to accept such depravity”. If that is the case, then you must be one of those people that interpret the Bible as a literal interpretation of historical events and therefore are beholden to all of the scriptures as “God’s law”. Knowing this you must therefore: be Kosher, never cut your hair (whoopsie - I know that one isn't true), not let cattle graze with other types of cattle (uh oh - Utah is fucked) . . . . etc. And if you don’t follow ALL of those “rules” then you are admitting to only picking and choosing parts of the Bible that suit your fancy. And that, my friend, is called hypocrisy.
So please, don’t try to insult anybody’s intelligence by claiming to be “about as open minded as a devout Christian can get”. “Open minded” people don't take it upon themselves to tell consenting adults who are perfect strangers to you what they can, and cannot do in this regard.
And if you believe that “marriage” is a religious contract between a man and a woman in the eyes of God, why aren’t you working just as hard to outlaw divorce??
America was founded on religious freedom NOT Christianity despite what Pat Robertson wants his minions to believe. Speaking of which, why do y’all spend so much time thinking about what goes on in the bedrooms of other consenting adults?? That's weird. Seriously. Find another hobby.
And keep in mind - that the argument you made in your message below is the EXACT SAME ARGUMENT made in the 1950s and 1960s in this country to ban interracial marriage. How is history judging those people now??
Back in those days, a Georgia Senator who proposed an amendment to ban interracial marriage stated, “Intermarriage between Negros or persons of color and Caucasians within the United States … (should be) forever prohibited. Intermarriage between whites and blacks is repulsive and averse to every sentiment of pure American spirit. It is abhorrent and repugnant. It is subversive to social peace. It is destructive of moral supremacy.” (Emphasis mine). Sound familiar?? And if you can explain how your argument is different from the ones used in attempt to ban interracial marriage, I'd certainly love to hear it!
I do, however, have to take a moment to congratulate you on your well-written e-mail. When reading commentary from those who are against same-sex marriage, the comments are usually rife with colloquialisms and atrocious spelling and grammatical errors, typically reflecting the lack of education amongst them.
I also have to thank you very sincerely for obviously being a devout follower of our silly little "mommy blog". I have to say, that based on our traffic information provided by Google Analytics, we don’t really have any “straight” male followers, so yea for us!!
So enjoy your day. But if you think that you are going to persuade me to stop believing that I have a right to tell perfect strangers who they can and can't marry, you are fooling yourself, so you might as well save yourself the kilobytes.
And by all means, please continue this discussion with me in writing. That Chick-fil-A post/meme was so successful (in terms of traffic generated) that I have a brilliant idea for a follow-up post.
Oct 22, 2012, at 1:37 PM, Gregory B***** <greg.******@me.com> wrote:
The only point out of all of that that I think is worth my time responding to is your saying that if I'm following the bible literally I should eat kosher and all those other things that pertain to the Law of Moses. If you'd actually read the bible and understood it, you'd know that the Law of Moses was fulfilled when Christ came. No longer applicable. No longer the correct way to worship.
That aside, yes, I do interpret the Bible literally, with the exception of things that are obviously symbolism like the book of Revelations. People saying the Bible is all figurative is a cop-out. People being afraid of what it says. God DID destroy Sodom & Gomorrah. Jesus Christ DID create this Earth and numberless amounts of other worlds filled with people just like us, and established the same Gospel on every single one of them (that is Mormon doctrine. It's probably not news to you that I'm Mormon.). There are rights and wrongs that are eternal. No matter who, what, when, where, or why, homosexuality will always be wrong. If that were not so, the universe could not be.
You can use every weapon in your liberal, progressive, smartass arsenal to try and destroy what is right, or hide it, or make it look bad, but in the end your efforts will be futile.
By “the end” I mean 2 things. I mean it in the colloquial sense, as in “overall”, “when it comes down to it”, etc. You just cannot change what is right and you cannot change the consequences. Allowing things that God has firmly declared wrong will ALWAYS bring misery and pain, one way or another. You don't have to believe me. You will find out for yourself. Which brings me to my second meaning. I mean “the end” in a literal sense as well. The end of all the wickedness and rebellion, when Christ returns. Christ WILL return to this Earth and you WILL be held accountable for trying to destroy His kingdom. Unless of course you open your heart to His truth, repent, and change your ways before He returns.
Now, you may think I'm avoiding all your individual arguments because you outwitted me with all your statistics and sarcasm. That is not the case. I could waste my time fighting you line for line, and be right. What I have already said is the answer to all of it. There is right and wrong, homosexuality is wrong, there WILL be dire consequences, and whether you believe me or not, you WILL find out one day that I am right. I honestly hope you find out way before it's too late. I would love to see you standing at the gates of God's kingdom (if I make it there myself). I honestly, honestly would. I don't wish condemnation or sorrow on anyone. Not even Hitler. But that's all I can do. Love people and tell them the truth, hoping their heart is soft enough to listen.
Please don't respond. I won’t read it.
-Greg

So. I didn’t respond. Because I was “TERRIFIED” that if I did, words like “harassment”, “stalking” and “restraining order” might start getting tossed around a little too easily. So I will respond here:

My dearest Gregory,

First of all, let me start by saying that this has been the most scrumptious email correspondence from our blog. Ever. By far, my favorite quote was that I was using “every weapon in (my) liberal, progressive, smartass arsenal” to prove your points invalid. That might just be one of my favorite things ever said to or about me. I think I just found my anti-soulmate and might even have a bit of a crush on you similar to “Stockholm Syndrome”.

That being said, thank you so much for letting me know that the “Laws of Moses” are “no longer applicable”. Whew!! Good to know. Do you know how many hours of time, effort and energy that saves us from that whole “Ten Commandments” nonsense?

However, I feel it necessary to ask one simple question. If, by your reasoning, the Old Testament is irrelevant, how can you use “Sodom and Gomorrah” as the basis for your argument? Again, I’m not a biblical scholar, but I’m pretty sure the story of Sodom and Gomorrah was told in the book of Genesis which is, like, the first book in the Old Testament?? Although I am not entirely positive, I’m pretty darn sure there is nothing in the New Testament in which God utters, “Never mind that ‘Old part’.”

It is especially fascinating to know that you are “living the way God wants us to live”. In my humble opinion, it seems fairly narcissistic to be certain that you KNOW the will of God so intimately. I believe you may suffer from delusions of grandeur.

It is also good to know that you’ve got Hitler’s back. Awesome. Duly noted.

It is obviously more important to you that your gay neighbor not be happy, because that will obviously make you happy.

Marriage, in this country, is a civil contract. It does not require the benefit of clergy, and it does not require the two people to share the same religion. Therefore, by taking a stance against same-sex marriage, you are, unequivocally, denying those couples equal rights.

If you avoid conduct because it is against the teachings of your religion (in your case: drinking, smoking, and Victoria’s Secret) you certainly have the right to do so. But if you want to make something illegal or deny equal rights to others only because it involves a particular activity which your specific religion proscribes . . . well, that’s just wrong.

I’m going to go ahead and chalk this up as a “Win” in the “Smartass” column especially since you never even bothered to address my question about the difference between your argument and those used in support of a ban against interracial marriage all those years ago. Ironically, that was the one thing I wasn’t being sarcastic about.

So please enjoy your day dear chap and thanks so much for giving me the opportunity to place an intellectual beat down on your sorry, homophobic ass.

Very sincerely,
A liberal, progressive, smartass mommy

The Haters’ (Sort of) Guide to the “American Girl” Doll

Mon, 10 Dec 2012 17:14:00 -0700

I’m not really sure that I would consider myself a “sparkly” person. But sure, I’ll let it shine. I’ll let it shine so hard. Can you feel it? Can you feel it shining? Oh me, oh my.

When I first walked into the brand-new “Sparkly” American Girl store in the Memorial Mall I wanted to puke on site. For months and months now I have had to stare at this giant Pink monstrosity being built. Now you’re probably going to say, “But Stacy, no one forced you to look at the store. No one forced you to look at the dolls. No one forced you to pick up one of their catalogues.” But to that I say phooey! I WAS forced to look at the store. Why? Because my kid has a major California Pizza Kitchen mac and cheese fixation, and we have been going to that very California Pizza Kitchen looooooooonng before there was a twinkle in the Memorial Mall’s American Girls eye. So unless they plan to move either my daughter’s favorite restaurant, or move the store, I am forced to look at it.

As far as the dolls go, I’m forced to look at these too. Why? Because of all the little girls walking around with their dolls and matching clothing in MY restaurant! And this is not an exaggeration, but I think the American Girl store is secretly implanting the smug looks on those little bitches’ faces with every purchase. Every child that owns one of those dolls acts like a celebrity. A smug little celebrity. And I can’t stand it. Now I know this blog is going to piss off mothers that have bought their little angels WAY over priced pieces of plastic with optional hairstyles. But before you tar and feather me, let me finish my rant. You may be surprised.

Since it’s my job to blog, and it’s also my job to drink over-priced coffee from Starbucks while I blog, I felt as though I was born to write about the American Girl Doll and the American Girl store. Let me start off by telling you a little story.

Once upon a time there was a friend of mine, her name is Sally. But for anonymity purposes lets just call her Nicole. Nicole has two daughters and one son. Well, her eldest daughter is DYING to get her hands on an American Girl doll. If you have multiple children you probably already know where I’m going here. If you buy one child the American Girl Doll, chances are her sister is going to want one too. And at $105 dollars per doll, that’s a lot of dough. So for example lets say you want to buy the Caroline doll, well let's do the math on that shall we? And let’s be honest: you know your kid is going to want accessories as well.

The doll itself is $105, and of course you’re going to have to get her the Tea Party set which is going to cost you another $68. Then you’re going to need a place to put the Party set, and for a table and chairs you’re going to fork over another $140. Do you have any idea how much vodka I can buy for $140 dollars?!? I would be wasting perfectly good booze money so I can pay for little plastic Caroline to sit down. Hell . . . I sit down for free. AND I’ll even do it on the floor to save you a buck or two. Don’t forget that little Caroline is going to need a new dress for her birthday which is going to cost you another $28. Then she needs a traveling outfit ($28), a boat on which to travel, ($175), and a girl’s gotta’ eat (basket full of plastic food: $32). We haven’t even gotten into the matching dress and bed, which the obviously financially irresponsible Caroline is going to require.

But wait! There’s more. Each of these dolls comes with a backstory. A traumatic, depressing, “this girl’s going to need a s**tload of therapy” backstory. For example, Caroline is forced to work at her father’s shipyard to keep it running after he becomes a prisoner of war during the War of 1812. I can’t make this stuff up. “Kaya” leads those she loves into dangerous situations. “Josefina” is still trying to come to terms with the death of her mother. “Marie-Grace” & “Cecile” are living in New Orleans as the town is being ravaged by illness. “Addy’s” family has been sold into slavery.

I can appreciate the American Girl focus on history, but does it have to be the worst part of our country’s history? They even practice segregation! The white girl dolls are wild and free to be picked up and played with, while the black dolls are all together, locked in a glass case. I tried to free them but got spooked by one of the sales ladies that kept walking around me all the while talking into her head set saying, “I need help over here in the East Corner. I repeat - I need help in the East Corner.” And because of that overly aggressive sales lady, all I was able to get was a blurry picture of the black dolls because I was in mid sprint.

And that’s when I told my little black plastic sisters that I would try and come back for them. Even though we both knew that was a lie.

Considering the fact that I had to bolt from the East Corner before the fuzz came down on me, I decided to make my way to the American Girl Restaurant area. I may have actually sat down for a bite considering I have a weakness for Tic Tac Toe pizza and lollipop brownies, but there was nowhere to sit. The restaurant is completely booked for another 2 ½ months! But this is where I started to shift a little in my hatred of all things American Girl.

The café was kind of cute!! ← I can’t believe I just said that.

Not only does it look like they have good food, but they will even let you have a tiny high chair and a free American Girl doll to “borrow” during your dining experience. How can you NOT love the tiny high chairs? Are you people heartless? And then I saw the ultimate American Girl Party room. Well, now I’m just hooked.

Did you know that you can have an American Girl Bistro party celebration????

This all-inclusive package features:
A delicious meal with signature pink-and-white cake and ice cream
Special goody bags and doll tiaras for each girl
A commemorative keepsake for the birthday girl
A set of invitations with matching thank-you notes
$28 per girl and $18 per adult, excluding tax and gratuity. For girls ages 3 and up

Why have I never been here before? It’s like a dream come true. And I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet! The hair salon! You can bring your American Girl Doll to the American Girl Hair Salon and they can do cool shit like this with your doll’s hair.

I asked them if they would do mine but apparently I have to be 18 inches or smaller to qualify. And that’s when my heart burst wide open.

There I was, a 42 year-old standing in the middle of a little girl’s dream store and my sole purpose for entering the store was to make fun of it. Don’t get me wrong; I’m still going to make fun of it. But, I finally have a perspective on why those smug little girls have smug little faces. Will I take my daughter in? Oh hell no. Luckily she has my DNA and is only interested in Angry Bird toys and shit that explodes. She is 100% my daughter, and even though we’ve sat near the American Girl store, and she’s seen the American Girl dolls, she has not once even batted an eyelash in that pink direction.

So for those of you moms out there who have bought your kid an American Girl doll, I will no longer make fun of you. But is it okay if I hang out on the East Corner? You know, just to keep the sales people on their game. After all, we need to make sure that the sales people, of all people, are letting their sparkle shine.

Advice from the Wife of a Shrink

Tue, 23 Oct 2012 15:23:10 -0600

Being married to a shrink is tough business. Not because he’s a shrink, but because he’s friends with shrinks, and works with shrinks, and I am surrounded by shrinks!

How would you feel if every party you went to you were constantly being put under the microscope?

“I think she’s bi-polar,” said one.

“No she has ADD,” says another.

“It’s an anxiety disorder. I’m sure of it,” says a third.

But the truth of the matter is - I just don’t give a flying fuck what anybody thinks. If they can’t see my genius and stand in awe of my ability to multitask, then they don’t deserve me trying to rearrange their furniture while I’m talking on the phone, making impromptu reservations to go to Tahiti, TONIGHT, only to break down crying because my cat doesn’t really love me as much as I love her.

If you can’t appreciate me . . . what was I talking about? And if me having a panic attack and locking myself in your bathroom is in no way entertaining, well than you just don’t know or love the real me. *Crying*

And THIS is why I need therapy! It’s not because I’m crazy, it’s because you want me to be crazy so badly that it irks you that I don’t care about your opinions. So go analyze someone else. I’m busy writing a damn blog here!

And to prove that those Shrinky people don’t know squat, I have compiled my very own list of crazy behaviors, and I haven’t even gone to school for this. All I have to do is go out into the world and BAM! Crazy is usually staring me right in the face.

So here we go. If you or anyone you love, or know, or just happen to be walking by is doing any of these things, it’s a good chance they may have a mental disorder.

If you go to a grocery store, grab a dozen eggs, put them in the middle of the isle and sit on them hoping they will hatch — you probably have a mental disorder.
If you take the oil stick out of your car, lick it, and then say “Yep, I’m due for an oil change,” — you probably have a mental disorder.
If you hang out at the DMV looking for your soulmate —you probably have a mental disorder.
If you’re so old and can’t go to the bathroom by yourself, but still insist on wearing glass stripper heels and making it rain — you probably have a mental disorder.
If you’re an adult and think the moon is following you — you probably have a mental disorder.
If you were born in the US but talk in an English accent because you think it’s cool — you probably have a mental disorder.
If you go to a Mexican restaurant and speak to the wait staff with a Mexican accent but don’t know a word of
Spanish — you probably have a mental disorder.
If you hover over an anthill and name every single ant before you squash them — you probably have a mental disorder.
If you feel the need to constantly procrastinate, but have the compulsion to do it perfectly and in a certain way — you probably have a mental disorder.
If you feel the only way to lose weight is to eat box after box of Junior Mints . . . well, you’re just delusional.
If it’s 2012 and you still think wearing leopard print parachute pants is cool — you probably have a mental disorder.
If you put a spoiler and spinning rims on your Suzuki SC100GX — you probably have a mental disorder.
If you’re wearing belly-baring tops and you’re trying to pretend your muffin top is just a really pale belt — you probably have a mental disorder.
If you’re still sporting a “sensitive guy” ponytail and listening to Yanni — you probably have a mental disorder.
If you’re trying to have a two-person conversation with yourself and one of you is giving the other one the silent treatment — you probably have a mental disorder.
If you got a job at a fat camp because you thought it would be an easier place to pick up chicks — you probably have a mental disorder.
If your last name is Mark and your parents thought it would be funny to make your first name Skid — then your parents probably have a mental disorder.
If you think Henry Kissinger owes you money for no reason at all — you probably have a mental disorder.
If you are having a two-way conversation with someone else’s answering machine — you probably have a mental disorder.
If you hate Chinese food but frequent Chinese Restaurants just so you can complain about the food — you probably have a mental disorder.

I could go on and on and on. But this is my list for now. And because the holidays are coming up, and my husband is going to most certainly drag me to the work Christmas Party, I’m going to do my very best to check each any every one of them off my list. All in the same night. Because shrinks need entertainment too. And not only that, but my husband will probably get a raise because they will think that he has the ability to harness all this crazy into a productive member of society.

So good-bye for now. Don’t let me catch you doing anything stupid. Because I’m just itching to make another list.

Note: The above referenced list has not been evaluated by the United States Food and Drug Administration and is not approved to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent disease. The information provided on this site is for entertainment purposes only and is not intended as a substitute for advice from your physician or other heath-care professional.
In other words, this is satire. It is funny.

Best Suggestion We’ve EVER Seen on the Internet

Sat, 06 Oct 2012 19:29:45 -0600

Overachieving Mommies . . . The Child’s Birthday Party Edition

Wed, 03 Oct 2012 19:14:33 -0600

A few months ago, a delicious little site called People I Want to Punch in the Throat took on the topic of overachieving mommies and kid’s birthday parties. If you haven’t had a chance to read it, I highly recommend doing so (just not right now). Jen writes some seriously funny shit. This post in particular made me laugh out loud because, simply put, I am:

Guilty. As. Charged.

What can I say? I have one imaginary child and I think everybody should have a really big deal made out of their birthday because it’s the only one real holiDAY.

Case in point:

New Year’s – The act of celebrating the time when you forget to change the date on your checks for at least another four months and the start date of a vast majority of failed diet attempts. We celebrate this . . . .why??

Valentine’s Day – Please. ~~Fuck you~~ Thank you Hallmark.

Fourth of July – This is a fun one, but I think it would royally (pun intended) piss us off if another country loudly celebrated kicking our ass back in the 1700s. I got it. We defeated the British a really, really long time ago. Let’s all collectively agree to move on.

Halloween – We have an obesity epidemic in this country for goodness sakes. An entitlement mentality on obtaining as much free candy as possible is probably not the best idea.

Thanksgiving – The time of year when Native Americans should legitimately give us all the finger.

(Notice I specifically didn’t include religious “holidays” – we’re just not going to touch those with a 10-foot pole).

So all that’s really left are our birthdays and we think you should rock that party like it’s 1999.

This past year, my imaginary child turned five and he’s currently going through a “Caption Jack” obsession phase. Pirates of the Caribbean? We own the entire collection and watching it on an endless loop is just fine with me thankyouverymuch. So what did I do for his birthday?? I hosed my house down in every piece of pirate-related shit I could find at the party store. Cake? Pirate. Decorations? Pirate. Goody bags? Pirates Pirates. Stuff inside goody bags?? Pirate, pirate, pirate.

In short, I went crazy. And I loved every second of it.

So bring it on mommies!! Own it! Go crazy with your bad selves. I think we should all loudly and proudly celebrate the day we extracted those little humans from our internal organs.

Just remember to recycle because after all is said and done, you do NOT want that shit hanging around your house.

Always Wash the Produce

Fri, 21 Sep 2012 10:18:51 -0600

If you’ve ever needed or wanted a really, really good reason to thoroughly wash your grocery store or farmers market bought produce . . . my five-year old IS that reason.

Here’s my typical grocery store/farmers market experience with MIC (“My Imaginary Child”):

Scene: (Mommy and MIC walk into produce section.)

MIC: “Mommy what is this green thing (touch) it looks like a cucumber (touch touch) oh look a green pumpkin (touch touch touch touch touch touch) I really want to get a pumpkin now for Halloween let’s go look at the tomatoes (touch) why are there so many different kinds of tomatoes (touches all the tomatos) I like the kind that look like more of an oval than a circle (touches most of the ovals) I hate avocados (touch) why do you like avocados so much mommy (touch touch) I do NOT want you to buy any onions (doesn’t touch) I’m bored let’s go to the cracker aisle (a touching inconsequential zone).”

Me: (Audible sigh.)

I would love for a reality television show to follow us around the grocery store. The end result would be a 90-minute documentary of MIC’s stream-of-consciousness verbal commentary on the vast majority of products located there. Why he likes them/doesn’t like them/thinks we should buy them/thinks we never should buy them/things that look gross/what looks good in other people’s baskets . . . etc.

And so on, and so on, and so on, and so on, and so on, and so on, and so on.

So I highly recommend thoroughly washing any non-packaged item bought from such a place. And don’t make any assumptions about what you think he may or may not be able to reach. I’ve caught him climbing on the outer edge of those open-faced grocery store coolers to “check something cool out”.

The problem is . . .everything’s cool to an imaginary five-year old.

Another ‘Sanctimommious’ Supermodel Waxes Philosophical on Childbirth

Thu, 30 Aug 2012 12:55:24 -0600

Dear, sweet, baby Jesus. Please help us all.

Another supermodel has opened her delicately shaped mouth about motherhood and childbirth. May I please introduce Miranda Kerr (a.k.a. “Orlando Bloom’s Wife and Baby Mama”).

From the Harper’s Bazaar UK edition:

I had made a decision that I wanted to do (childbirth) naturally. I had been watching all these baby-bonding videos, and (without epidural) when the baby comes out it goes straight onto the breast. Then they showed ones right after the epidural, and that didn’t happen. The baby was a little bit drugged up, and I was like ‘Well, I don’t want that.’ I wanted to give him the best possible start in life I could.

Deep breath.

If she had only ended her statement about childbirth with “I had made a decision that I wanted to do it naturally,” then I would have stood up and applauded her with loud, slow clapping noises and said, “Good for you sweetheart!! To each their own (but just know that no extra brownie points are ever given for a ‘natural childbirth’.”

(Side note: As opposed to what, an “unnatural childbirth”?? As in, “please allow me to introduce to you my robot baby”??!?)

It’s the rest of her statement that forces me to point out the sanctimoniousness of what she said:

Without an epidural, the baby comes out and goes straight to the breast . . . without it, the baby comes out drugged up and they don’t.

Translation: Epidurals drug babies and therefore they can’t/won’t breastfeed immediately after birth.

I’ll keep my response simple and use monosyllabic words in case she’s reading this:

That. Is. Not. True.

Since I am not a medical doctor, I’ll just go ahead and link to this one. And this one. And this one. And this one. And this one. And this study. And finally . . . this one. (I will apologize now if any of those links are outdated. I tried).

I wanted to give him the best possible start in life I could.

Translation: Everybody who chooses an epidural is choosing to NOT give their child the best possible start in life for their own selfish desire to avoid excruciating pain.

Here is my experience and my experience only. My little man popped his head out and attached himself to my boob faster than a drunk frat boy. I had an epidural. I also used Stadol (a narcotic). Both were flipping awesome. He was and is perfectly fine.

Quite obviously, I don’t think anybody is going to mistake a supermodel for a medical doctor. At least I hope to hell not – she doesn’t even play one on TV.

However, what these “celebrities” have to realize is that what they say does have an impact on some people and does influence others’ thoughts and decisions and these twits need to be more cognizant of that.

Nevertheless, it is simply irresponsible of anyone to pass along factually incorrect medical information. And additionally, it pisses me off when Mrs. “Judge-y McJudge-erson” implies that anybody who doesn’t do it they way she did it is, implicitly, harming their newborns (yes . . . I’m still looking at you Gisele Bunchen).

So here’s my parody of what Miranda said:

I had made a decision that I wanted to use my brain for a living. I have been watching all of these runway videos and interviews with supermodels and saw that none of them could put together a coherent sentence. The ones they showed were all drugged up and I didn’t want that to happen to me. I wanted to give myself the best possible life and not be known as a half-witted, walking clothes hanger.

Sarcastic translation: All supermodels are idiots. All supermodels use drugs. Supermodels do not use their brain for a living.

See what I did there?

Now, Miranda . . . bless your little heart. But please just keep your lovely little mouth shut and continue to stand there and look pretty.

But a sincere congratulations on getting knocked up by Orlando Bloom. That’s awesome. Marriages between actors and models always last forever. I’m just trying to give you the best possible congratulations that I could.

Private School

Mon, 20 Aug 2012 08:39:32 -0600

Recently I was formally introduced to the grueling process of applying to a private elementary school. When I went to a private elementary back in the 70’s, all you needed was a love of disco, some feathered hair, and you were in.

But today’s private schools are a different world. It’s all about IQ tests, letters of recommendation, three legged races, and some eye of newt. And my kid is only 5 years old. It’s Kindergarten for Pete’s sake! I had no idea this was going to be as difficult as it turned out to be. Nor did I know that I would have greatly increased my daughter’s odds of success if I had put her name on the waiting list when she was IN MY BELLY. Sadly, this is the reality. There are all kinds of couples out there, just putting their names down on waiting lists, in the off chance that they one day want a child. I, however, am not even close to being that organized. I’m still trying to figure out what to have for lunch.

So being the blind, narcissistic idiots that we are, my husband and I figured our sheer awesomeness guaranteed us admission to the school of our choice.

So we decided to put all our eggs into one very progressive private school basket. Aaaaand… we weren’t awesome enough.

My daughter got wait listed. What? You mean to tell me that the fruit of my loins isn’t good enough for your little hippie school? Maybe my kid doesn’t want to study the mating habits of butterflies in your pretentious little school garden. Maybe she doesn’t want to eat her lunch outside in the sunshine. And maybe, just maybe, she would think going to the Amazon Rain Forest for her future 5th grade field trip is a lame idea. Lame I tell you! Almost as lame as you putting her on the wait list after you said to my face, “She’s an incredibly sweet little girl. We don’t see any problems with her joining our school.” To me that was code for “Wink-wink. She’s TOTALLY in.” But apparently it’s code for “Cough-cough. Better luck next time, suckers.”

Well, I wish the head of administration had said something more along the lines of: “Yeah, your kid is cool. But I’ve seen better.” THAT would have been a comment I could have worked with.

So there we were. Wait listed for the only Private School we had applied to. The public school we’re zoned for was awarded a whopping three out of ten stars by the state’s board of education (but it did receive top honors for “most improved murder rate”). Oh great, not only does my kid have a speech problem (she has what’s called a “lazy tongue”), but she’ll be dumb as a stump, and will have to carry a Glock to school but would be calling it a Gwock and people will think she’s threatening them with an avocado based chip spread.

So on to private school number two and the all dreaded IQ test. I attached a copy of the application so you would know what we’re dealing with here. As you can see, it was a frustrating process:

But after all our hard work, private school number two accepted us. Not to mention they were “very excited” about her IQ test scores. So now number one is number done. I would much rather have a school that wants my child. Who is excited by my child. Who will embrace my child and all her quirks. Boogers and all. Not to mention the $500-$600 we’ll save in not buying her the gun. The only down side is, I am now a ~~mandatory~~ proud member of the PTA. God help us all.

Our Open Letter to Chick-fil-A

Thu, 26 Jul 2012 09:28:22 -0600

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Mr. S. Truett Cathy
Founder, Chairman and Chief Executive Officer
Chick-fil-A
5200 Buffington Road
Atlanta, GA 30349

Mr. Cathy (I purposefully left off the “Dear” part):

I realize that my boycott of your restaurant will make a mathematically inconsequential difference to your company’s revenue and earnings streams.

I realize that in America, (for the most part) you have the right to dictate your company’s support of any political party/cause/affiliation/group/membership . . . etc. of your choosing.

Furthermore, I realize that I have the education, the fortitude and the wherewithal to similarly establish a fast-food restaurant chain selling shitty chicken sandwiches. I also understand that my company can then go on to support whatever political party/cause/affiliation/group/membership of my choosing . . . should I so desire (I don’t).

However, I firmly believe that you and your company’s opposition to same-sex marriage will be viewed with the same disgusted set of disbelief that this “arrogant” generation now looks back on how minorities were treated subsequent to the Civil Rights Movement.

Quite frankly, I find it incredibly fascinating that somebody who built their business on “hard work, humility and biblical principals” chooses to put the weight of their support attempting to influence and dictate who perfect strangers can and can not have a relationship with. Might I suggest spending more time with your “Bible” and less time obsessing over the marital and bedroom activities of people you have never even met.

And that concludes the “positive sandwich” aspect of my letter (pun intended).

So what I am really trying to say is this:

Fuck you and the horse that you rode in on. Take your homophobic bullshit and shove it up your ass. I simply can’t believe that, in this day and age, after all of the lessons that this country has harshly learned that people like you still want to segregate others based on the way that they were born. Being gay is not a “lifestyle” choice, but being an asshole is. Knock it off.

Some people are gay. Get over it.

Sincerely,
Us.

P.S. Apparently, your P.R. team is run by a group of buffoons who likely don’t even have opposable thumbs.

The Rise of “Mommy Porn” (Pun Intended)

Tue, 10 Jul 2012 09:50:49 -0600

Well, now I’m just annoyed.

Why are things like Magic Mike and 50 Shades of Grey such a big, damn deal?

Why is the phrase “Mommy Porn” or “Housewife Porn” even being kicked around??

By default, does that make all other porn “Daddy Porn”???

But of course the best part about all of it is seeing lots of ladies pretty little panties getting into very, very tight little wads.

Personally, I thought 50 Shades of Grey was just plain silly. The writing was vapid, the protagonists were one-dimensional and the sex scenes were not that inspiring nor even interesting. So far, I’ve only read the first book, and I will continue to dislike the series until the very last page of book 3.

I don’t like it, but I’m not not going to read it.

However, quite a few are getting right on up on their little moral high horse about why they are not reading it. Basically, her reasoning behind not reading the book is that sex should only be between a husband and a wife.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

That’s totally fine and she is obviously completely entitled to her opinion. However, keep in mind that it’s a moral tirade against a work of fiction that she hasn’t even read.

(And I always laugh when some right-wing conservative starts ranting and raving about what sex and marriage SHOULD be. It seems like a vast majority of the time, these Bible thumpers are always the ones caught with a same sex, underage prostitute, especially if they are in politics.)

So feel free to judge away ladies. It’s your God-given right. However, since the book has sold more than 31 MILLION copies and is “breaking the Harry Potter record for fastest-selling paperback of all time,” I’m going to go ahead and say that you are in the minority so please just ignore me while I pull out my copy at the local Starbucks.

Now jumping onto Magic Mike (again, pun intended). I came across a Facebook rant from a female in her late 30s about how she went to see this movie and her post about it went something like this (ish):

Just a note: drug use absolutely is NOT tolerated even in a movie. Totally made me disgusted with the whole movie so thumbs down to Magic Mike.

You went to see a movie about male strippers and your only “takeaway” was that you have a problem with fictionalized drug use???

What did you WANT the strippers to be doing when, you know, they’re not stripping?!? Be door-to-door Bible salesmen???

(Note: I do NOT think that all strippers use drugs nor do I think that strippers can’t also be Bible salesmen. It is simply an outlandish metaphor to highlight the ridiculousness of her soapbox).

So just in case anybody here walks away from Magic Mike disappointed because they had Capraesque expectations of this film, please let me reiterate (Spoiler Alert ahead):

It. Is. A. Movie. About. Male. Strippers.
Seriously, does it even MATTER what the plot is or the “quality” of the dialogue??
For all I care, these guys could get onscreen and read the U.S. Tax Code for two hours.
(Actually, I wouldn’t mind if they did.)

So at the end of the day, take all of this “Mommy Porn” for what it’s worth: escape fiction.

And for all you guys out there crying and pouting about how these works only serve to raise women’s expectations of what men should look like, do and/or say??

To that I say, “WELCOME TO OUR WORLD BITCHES!!

Now you know how we feel when we know you’re watching the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show every year. It’s OUR turn!!

Mommy Business Cards

Mon, 18 Jun 2012 10:42:10 -0600

Jenny Larson is a genius. I swear, I still can’t think of the phrase “Knock, knock motherfucker!” without getting a severe case of the giggle fits.

So when I came across a post of hers that discussed “mommy business cards”, I just knew that at least one of them would have an F bomb in it.

I was right.

But it was printed in a cool font, so that made it a lot nicer.

The subject matter of the post was about being handed a business card by a mommy in the same playgroup, or as she puts it, “Somebody who had sex in the same month that her IUD failed”. At first she thought the mommy was joking, right up until she was handed a business card.

She states that “most ‘mommy business cards’ are a sign that you should run like hell because that chick is probably insane.”

I’m about to prove her right.

However, at the very least you can be dropping one of those suckers in every restaurant fishbowl in town. So what if you win free lunches for the rest of your life?? To that I say SCORE!

Therefore, I’m getting to work on printing up our own “mommy business cards”. Because the one I have for my real job (which pays in actual currency instead of sarcasm) is just plain boring.

Click on mommy business cards for full-sized image . . . .

Foreign Language Ability

Narcissism

Basic Business Card

Unable to View

Awesome Personal Encounter

Obnoxious Brat

Our Apologies

Birth Control Failure

Warning

Clueless

Timeline

That Damn Time Magazine Cover

Mon, 18 Jun 2012 09:55:22 -0600

So I was told by my favorite, fellow mommy blogger quote “Not to touch this with a ten-foot pole.”

I promise I won’t.

Instead, I’ll snuggle right on up next to it.

It took me a while to figure out what my “angle” was going to be with this one. As a chronic insomniac, I spent the early morning hours reading hundreds of comments, comments to comments and comments to comments to comments trying to figure what I personally thought about the situation.

And then I came up with the answer around 4:30 in the morning.

Which probably explains my answer.

My answer to the whole “situation” is this . . .

Everybody. And I mean EVERYBODY needs to just shut the fuck up.

I am furious!

I’m mad at Time Magazine for what is a blatantly obvious and therefore weak attempt to boost sales by fueling the fire of the “Mommy Wars”.

I’m mad that for whatever reason, it’s ok to ask the question “Are You Mom Enough” in an era where a story about a philandering “family man” politician is more the norm than the exception. How about “Are You Dad Enough?”, well then, keep it in your fucking pants, asshole.

I’m mad at the fact that there is such a thing as the “Mommy Wars”, proof of which is evidenced by the existence of the term “Mommy Wars”.

I’m mad at the headline editor for that patronizing question “ARE YOU MOM ENOUGH?” (And I re-wrote it in equally ridiculous shouty capital letters just to prove my point) the only reason being that the title prays on women’s insecurities and people’s judgmental nature.

I’m mad at that gorgeous cover model mom who just looks so defiant in the way that only Sanctimommies know how to look.

I’m mad at the Sanctimommies who believe/don’t believe you should/shouldn’t breastfeed ever/for that long/for not long enough. Never? Six months?? No less than a year?? NO MORE THAN A YEAR?!?! For God’s sakes.

I’m mad at people who referred to the cover as “inappropriate”, “vulgar” and believed “child protective services should be called”. Oh yeah?? Get your asses down to an impoverished area of any major city and see real reasons why CPS needs to be summoned.

I’m mad at the people who refer to the cover as “pornographic.” Seriously?? Chances are, these are the same people who just put down their copy of 50 Shades of Grey to write that comment.

I’m mad because the image of a mother breastfeeding her own child on a magazine cover is somehow more controversial than a reality TV show based solely on the premise of watching a bunch of idiots and what they do when they’ve had too much to drink. Yep . . . .I’m looking at you Jersey Shore and the Real Housewives of Whatever.

I’m mad at the message this whole “controversy” sends manages to be incomprehensibly both pro-breastfeeding and anti-breastfeeding at the same time.

But what I think I’m really most mad at are two things. One, at what point in time did it become open season on what women do with their bodies?? For some inexplicable reason: if I take birth control, I’m going to hell; if I don’t take birth control, I’m an idiot; if I have sex, I’m a slut; if I don’t have sex, I’m a prude. Government should pay for birth control; government should stay out of birth control. But by God, whatever you do, don’t stop covering Viagra, because somehow, that would just be wrong and really none of your business anyway.

Blah, blah, blah, blah.

Two, why are women our own worst enemies?? We sleep with other people’s husbands, we stab each other in the back, we aren’t supportive of our decisions, work/life balance, choices, and/or motherhood decisions.

Here’s a novel idea: My body, my boobs and my uterus are none of your goddamn business.

Here’s another novel idea: Everybody shut the hell up.

Seriously!! At the end of the day, life is so fucking short. Do you know what I do when I start to feel like I’m losing some perspective?? I think about all of the babies, infants, toddlers, kids and teenagers who are spending the night at a little place called St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, which is about five miles down the road from me. I think about how they don’t have a choice whether or not they have to be there. And then I find that whatever it is that has gotten me so worked up is, at the end of the day, pointless, idiotic, minuscule and ridiculous.

It’s your choice whether or not you are going to be a sanctimonious bitch. If I learned anything from my ex-husband’s affair and the God-awful period of my life known as the disgustingly innocuous sounding term “the divorce process” it’s that we certainly can’t control anybody else’s actions. For a while I considered getting the “Serenity Prayer” tattooed on my forehead just as reminder. And if those actions don’t truly impact you in any discernable way, back the hell up.

If you don’t believe in gay marriage, don’t marry somebody who is gay but don’t prevent anybody else from doing it either.

If you don’t believe in abortion, don’t have one but don’t prevent somebody else from making that choice.

If you think birth control is a sin, don’t take it but don’t limit access to people who want and need it.

If you don’t believe in premarital sex, don’t have it and good luck from preventing others from doing it.

If a women choses to breastfeed for however long, OR, choses not to breastfeed at all, why can’t we as a group of: woman, mothers, Americans, sisters, wives, girlfriends, dads, husbands, magazine editors . . . whatever collectively say, “Good for you! Way to go!”? Why can’t we, as a group, decide that women who stay at home versus women who work versus women who work from home are doing whatever it is they are doing because it’s in the best interest of THEIR OWN situation? Not yours. Why can’t we realize that some mommies will feed their kids kale chips and coconut water and some will feed their kids Goldfish and Teddy Grahams, but (with extreme exceptions), it really is OK either way?

So sit down, shut the fuck up, and get back to reading 50 Shades of Grey, because I know that’s what you were probably doing anyway. And let’s all make a pact to cut the crap, because life is hard enough without it.

Why We Should All Talk to Our Children Less

Wed, 06 Jun 2012 09:26:22 -0600

Admit it. You know you think about doing this.

You have a very bright child.

And you ask that very bright child a simple question (or vice versa).

Next thing you know, you find yourself sucked into a vortex where “toddler reasoning” takes hold and you end up regretting the question and inevitably questioning the outcome.

My child likes to ask me how things are spelled. Simple enough, right? Wrong bitches! For example:

Toddler: “Mommy, what does T-T-F-J-H-I-V spell?”

Me: “That doesn’t spell anything baby.”

Toddler: “YES IT DOES!! Letters ALWAYS spell SOMETHING!!”

Me: “But only if you put them in the right order.”

Toddler: “I DID PUT THEM IN ORDER! I ONLY SAID ONE LETTER AT A TIME!”

Exasperated Me: “Fine then. It spells ‘Ttfjhiv’.” (Makes somewhat of a spitting sound).

Toddler: “SEE!! I TOLD YOU!!”

If you’re honest with yourselves, you will readily admit that you want to talk to your kid less when the conversation begins with something along these lines:

Toddler: “Mommy, why _____________________________?”, particularly if the fill-in-the-blank portion has something to do with God, death, or where babies come from.

And you know that just because you DON’T answer their question and/or answer their question unsatisfactorily, does NOT mean that particular conversation is over. Oh no. It will get much, much worse. We all know that toddlers can go from “calm” to “full-blown melt down” mode in a fucking nanosecond when something doesn’t go their way.

Why does EVERY conversation you have with your toddler have to follow the following format:

Step 1. QUESTION

Step 2. ANSWER

Step 3. DISAGREEMENT

Step 4. REBUTTLE

Step 5. COUNTER

Step 6. CONCLUSION

Step 7. SURRENDER

Step 8. HYSTERICS

Step 9. IMBIBING

This is why we should all talk to our children less.

Conclusion?? I’m raising a damn lawyer. So if you are a Debate Team Scout for the year 2025, you might want to just think about holding a spot open on your team.

The Brickster

Fri, 01 Jun 2012 08:47:22 -0600

I don’t know how many of you know who Samantha Brick is, but she has weaseled her way back into the news once more. Samantha Brick or the “Brickster” as I like to call her, is a self proclaimed Trophy Wife. Aren’t we all?

Now I could do what many have done before me and make fun of her. If you’ve read any of my other blogs you probably already know I have the tongue of a serpent and an ass that you cannot bounce a quarter on. As a matter of fact I have not only tested my ass theory out, but I have so many quarters stuck in the dimples of my ass that I never need to carry change for parking meters or pay phones. My husband is probably reading this right now thinking to himself, “I wish she wouldn’t put herself down like that.” And it’s true, I find each and every way to pick myself apart. But that’s what makes me human. I think we all find ways to tear ourselves down. That’s what makes the Brickster so special. She not only has enough self-confidence for herself, but I believe she has a secret lab somewhere and is slowly sucking the self-esteem from each and every one of us. I envy her narcissism. I really do.

People send her champagne and wine just because she’s so damned beautiful. All I want to know is, where the hell is my champagne? People stop her on the street and give her flowers. With all this positive reinforcement I’m assuming her life must be filled with glitter ponies and rainbows. But that’s not the case, and do you want to know why? It’s because of all you bitches! You hags have the nerve to hate the Brickster because of her devastating beauty. Because of your deplorable jealousy she is forced to walk this earth . . . friendless. Alone. You should all be ashamed of yourselves. Can’t you see she’s a perfectly lovely person?

She loses jobs because of her beauty. Women have never extended the ever-coveted role of bridesmaid to her. Wait, that one might be a plus so I’m not sure we can count it. This woman has been forced to dress down at work. Her male counterparts couldn’t focus because her beauty was just too distracting. She is left to long for a time when she is old and aged so that she can blend in with the rest of us peasants. I have even set aside a roll of quarters that I reserved for her 42nd birthday. I think she and I are both excited for her to finally be able to share my pain.

As if her beauty weren’t enough her marriage is also great too. *Yelling at the Universe* “I want to be like the Brickster! Why do you have to be so unfair!”? In her most recent article she states:

My husband sets me a £250 allowance each month for my wardrobe, I ask his permission before booking a hair appointment and discuss with him what I will have done. He even has an opinion — which I adhere to — on how I dress and what I weigh. He prefers I wear classic ladylike attire and, at 5ft 11in, he insists I tip the scale at no more than 10½ stone. In fact, he’s there when I weigh myself.

I am going to need some clarification of what size stones she’s talking about for reference. Are these small stones or large stones? Because the size of the stone really can make all the difference.

This is the part of the article that struck me the most:

Since the time of our blossoming romance, a day has not gone by where I haven’t made an effort with my appearance. It pains me to read that women such as Hillary Clinton feel they’ve reached an age where they no longer need make-up.

Okay, now I just feel like shit. Because before writing this blog I went thru the Starbucks drive thru wearing my pajamas that I had slept in last night as well as no make up. And just to drive home my lack of effort in my appearance, I also didn’t brush my teeth. She then goes on to say, “If a woman doesn’t make an effort, it’s perfectly logical that her husband will assume it’s because she feels he’s not worth making an effort for. Can you then blame a man for looking elsewhere?”

Uh oh.

So as I sit here in my pajamas, drinking my coffee with my un-brushed teeth, one thought pops into my head. The Brickster is a troll. She’s not real. She is a figment of our already warped imaginations. This is a woman who has purposely said outrageous things just so she can stay in the spotlight. She has deliberately posted her rantings with the intent of causing maximum disruption and argument. And I fell for it. Hook, line, and sinker. I am so ashamed. I’m better than this.

Or am I?

I’m going to have to say screw you Brickster! Screw you and your little trophies. You may have a trophy, but I have a championship belt. And I think we can both agree that the belt is the perfect place to hide my quarters.

Time Magazine Cover

Sat, 19 May 2012 10:20:02 -0600

Yep, THAT one. I’m so over it, and I still have a post that I’ve written on my hard drive with my thoughts on the matter. However, I’m on vacation and so I think I will save that for later. Instead, I’ll post the “fun” one I wrote, because I’m just kind of done with the whole debate. Here’s a thought - I won’t tell you how and what to feed your healthy kid and you don’t have to worry about what I feed mine. Until then, I do have a few words for Time Magazine. And once again, I’ll use small words. Enjoy y’all.

Again, all of the real credit goes to Jez Alborough and his delicious children’s book “Hit the Ball Duck”. It’s one of our favorites.

(Note: In our bastardized version, Time Magazine’s Editor, Writer and Photographer are played by “Thing 1”, “Thing 2” and “Thing 3”, respectively).

Time Magazine is on their way, they are going to sell shitty issues today.

“I know!”, quacks Thing 1. “I’ll talk first. I’m so excited I could burst.”

Thing 2 says, “Right, I know what we’ll do. Mommies won’t know, they won’t have a clue.
Thing 3 will take a picture and Mommies will shout, ‘You piece of shit assholes – we know what you’re about!”

Thing 2 leans back, thinks hard and writes “Are You Mom Enough?” the headline does cite.

He clicks his computer, the photo is taken.
Then it goes viral, readers are shaken. Viral and viral and viral it goes.

“I can believe it!” Thing 2 surely knows.
“Where’s it gone?” asks Thing 3. “Can we all see?”
“Patronizing pricks!” cries all the mommies.

“What shall we do?” asks Thing 3 with a grin. “Milk it,” quacks Thing 1 as he sips on his gin.

The mommies are mad! Blogdom is livid!
Mommies say, “How can they make such a cover so vivid?”

“Hold on,” squawks Thing 1. “Use your head.” “We were just trying to start a dialogue instead.”

But with a click, and a “Share” and a one, two, three . . . Thing 1 posts that cover for the world to see.

“Gross!” cries the masses. “You can’t print that! It’s ‘crazy’, it’s ‘abusive’ that Mommy’s a ‘rat’!”

“Pornographic!” says one. “Unbelievable!” shouts another. “Let’s all start attacking each one and each other.” That’s when people take to the vast cyberspace. Everybody shouts “I’m better than you in this crazy mom race.”

But Thing 1 sits back with a shit-eating grin, he says, “At the end of the day, it’s Time that did win. We fueled the flames of this silly mom war.”

On the Internet, in the stands, “We sure opened that door! All we have to do is lean back and grin and watch the sales dollars start rolling in.”

“This was too easy,” says Thing 3 with a laugh. “We knew what we’re doing, this wasn’t a gaffe.” Thing 1 then does utter “It’s not even half!”

“The mommies will rage, and the next thing you know, posters and bloggers won’t be able to let go.”

“They’re right where we want them!” he thinks he’s so slick.

But little did he know, the world thinks they’re dicks.
Their intentions were obvious and shallow and lame, and these magazine people should take all the shame.

“It’s hard being mommies. You daft little minions. Everything that we do there’s another opinion.”

“I can say ‘Yes’ but she will say ‘No’. There’s no way to win this ‘Mommy War’ show.”

“We work very hard, this isn’t very easy.
And your attempt to drive sales, was really quite damn sleazy.”

“Let’s cut the crap out and get on with our day. Because it’s with our kids that we just want to play.”

“So drop dead!” all you haters and writers galore.
“Worry about your own families and stop this stupid mom war”.

“It’s pointless and stupid and a big waste of time.
Just support each other and read nursery rhymes.”

“Just let us play, thank goodness for that.”

So -

Dear Thing 1, Thing 2 and especially Thing 3. “Go back to your office, grab a sweet coffee cup.”

Sit down, find real news and “Shut the Fuck Up!”

Reason to Adopt

Thu, 10 May 2012 12:29:42 -0600

I have really been feeling sad lately. I think I may be having “One Child Remorse.” I’m not sure that is an actual ailment because I just made that up. But I’ve been feeling really badly about not giving my wonderful daughter a sibling. Not to mention my poor husband who had dreams of a smiling boy he could take hunting and fishing with him. But it just never happened. We had talked numerous times about adding to our brood, only to come up with the same conclusion. One child seemed to be best for the both of us.

I spoke to my husband recently about me having the baby blues. You know what I’m talking about. When you see a baby in the grocery store and all you want to do is hold it in your arms and sniff its tiny bald head. Don’t do this by the way, the parents of the baby tend to get a little testy and I’m told if I do this again I will be going to jail. And it’s for real this time.

*Sigh*

Sometimes I feel so misunderstood.

After watching my daughter play by herself for the last five years I just couldn’t take it anymore and called an adoption agency without my husband’s knowledge. He got so mad at me once for bringing a dog home from the pound that looked like a giant piece of carpet and was missing an eye. Can you imagine how upset he would be if I actually brought home a real life person??

Livid is the first word that pops into mind.

Choosing a child is not easy. But I got lucky and found an adoption agency here in Texas that has a rather large selection. Most of the children available for adoption are hearty mixed breeds. However, purebreds are always available. All children are adopted to qualified applicants on a first-come-first-serve basis. Adoption fees are $58 for larger children, otherwise known as “husky.” $67 for smaller children and $54 for physically disabled or small breeds. Also, all adopted children are spayed/neutered and have current vaccinations. The adoption agency also sends you home with a free bag of child food with every adoption. I was so excited!

But then it turns out that I was not at an adoption agency. I was at the SPCA.

Explains the barking.

But with so many needy children out there, I would think that adopting a real child would be a breeze. Think again. Try as I might I couldn’t get my hands on one single child. The adoption agency just kept saying something about my mental well being; yadda, yadda, yadda. Frankly I stopped listening once they cuffed me to the chair.

Frustrated, I decided to take matters into my own hands and find a child outside of the USA. So off to Venezuela I went. My husband thought I was at a church retreat. I was in Venezuela for a little over a week when I came across Francisco Jesus Monteverdi Adolfsson. But I call him “Danny”.

It was love at first sight. After speaking to his mother she was more than willing to give me her son. She claimed that she was tired of him living at her home and mooching off of her. All I could think was, this is one cold bitch. I asked her if Danny still nursed and she told me he had outgrown that. This was a real blow; I was hoping to bond with him while he suckled my breasts.

Once back in the States Danny and I went everywhere together. We would go to the park where all the other mothers would fawn over my little man. “He’s just so cute,” one would say.

“If you need a babysitter just give me a call,” another mother chimed in.

Before long I was frustrated. First off, I had to keep him hidden from my husband and daughter while I was still trying to convince my husband that adopting was a good idea. So poor Danny had to spend his nights in my walk-in closet. Once my husband would fall asleep I would crawl into my closet and lie next to Danny and comfort him. Telling him everything would work out.

And then to top it all off I had to deal with all these mothers who wanted to spend time with Danny as well. Yes, he’s cute. That dark curly hair, his sweet little smile, and let's not forget his sunny disposition. But if they wanted a boy from Venezuela, they were going to have to fly over there and get their own!

Recently I bought Danny some cute little hats and decide to take some pictures of him in an effort to sway my husband into my way of thinking. But before I do this, I was hoping to get your opinions.

Hat? Or no hat?

I think the hubby is just going to looooooovvvvveeee him!

My “Danny Boy”

Stop With All the Llama Drama!

Tue, 01 May 2012 20:24:28 -0600

Oh . . . My . . . God. It is so much fun to write a snarky blog. It really is a great way to ~~let off steam~~ express yourself ~~legally~~ creatively.

That being said, I could definitely do without the wadded panties one can find in blogdom.

Things to know about blogs:

People will get mad if they think something has been written about them.
People will get mad if they think something has been written about somebody they know.
People will get mad if they think something has been written about something they think.
People will get mad if they think that something applies to them.
People will get mad if something should have been written about them.
People will get mad . . . . . . . .

I don’t think I’ve ever found myself getting all hot and bothered over a blog post.

Maybe, just maybe, if a blogger made a statement along the lines of:

I think we should start making fur-lined boots with skinned kitty cats . . .

Ok then, I might comment on it.

But if I’ve ever come across something that was even borderline personally offensive, I always take into account the fact that these are, in fact, blogs.

We are not reporters for The New York Times.

We will not be appearing as lead anchor on the five o’clock news with our “stories”.

The vast majority of the time, what we are about is clearly stated on our site (confusingly found in an “About Us” section), so one can usually use that as a guideline to take everything we say with a grain of salt.

Whenever I see a “I can’t believe you wrote that/you do you think you are/you’re just jealous” comment on a blog, the first thing that comes to mind is the following phrase:

First World Problem.

And the way it appears in my head is usually in that font.

At the end of the day, if you are really going to get mad, pick a topic like: the prevalence of genocide in the world, childhood abductions, skyrocketing corn prices, the idiocy of politicians, taxes, Lindsay Lohan . . . . you know, something important!!!

However, knowing that a post about why posts shouldn’t be offensive will probably still offend someone, I’ve decided to write a book.

A children’s book.

Using monosyllabic words when possible.

(All due respect and inspirational credit goes to Anna Dewdney, author of the Llama, Llama books. Her books are awesome!!!)

Reader Reader,
Having fun.
Wine and gossip
In the sun.

Time to blog!
It’s Saturday!
Reader Reader
Wants to play.

First the checking,
Then a huff.
Reader Reader
Gets mad at stuff!

Reader reading
Lots of sites.
Getting madder
Left and right.

Reader Reader can’t believe
What she is about to read!
Gets her panties in a wad,
She starts typing really hard.

Reader Reader quickly types,
“I just can’t believe
You had the nerve
To post ‘bout me!!”

“Bitchy bloggers,
Lots of whine.
Posters that really start to grind.
Big, bad grammar, tons of crap.
I can’t believe she wrote that!”

Sanctimommies
And stupid butts.
Reader types, “She said what?!?!”
Types a word and then a race,
To post her sass in cyberspace.

Her big girl panties
Are in a wad.
She really thinks
You’re quite the twat.

Brand new mani
That Reader chipped?
The big, bad blogger gives not a shit.

Silly huff and hissy fit.
Reader doesn’t get the blogger’s wit.
Vapid reader with too much time,
Really, really just wants to whine.

Does not matter,
What the post.
Silly reader just wants her boast.
“It’s no fun at this website.
Stupid Blogger.
She’s not right!!”

“I’ll show her,
I’ll throw a fit!
I’ll get myself good and lit!”

“You’re so wrong!” and
“You can’t say that!!”
Are sorts of things that readers spat.

CRASH the board and SMASH those keys!!
No more reading!! Enough of these!!
Out go bookmarks and other stuff . . . .
Reader Reader has had ENOUGH!!

Sweet, sweet Reader,
Darling dear.
That type of comment’s
Not welcome here!

Please stop fussing, little mamma.
Reader Reader, Stop Your Drama!!
I think that blogging is silly too –
But at the least we’re here with you!!

Let’s see if we can make this fun
And get a silly blog post done.

Let’s be a team in this crazy world!
Now just grow up! You stupid girl.

Wipe those tears,
Mop up sweat.
Sweet, sweet Reader – don’t you fret!
That little post was not ‘bout you.
Please stop feeling oh so blue.

It’s quite, quite silly, to be such a mess.
You should be ashamed, I must confess.

First world problems.
That’s what you have.
You really don’t need
To care ‘bout that.

Get a real life and a sense of humor.
You’re giving yourself quite the tumor.

Close your laptop,
Take a breath.
‘Lest you give yourself
An early death.

Say good-bye to our silly blog.
Sarcasm is our little niche.
Reader, Reader.
Don’t be a bitch.

Lie: It’s What’s for Dinner

Tue, 01 May 2012 09:18:42 -0600

Lying to our children. Super original blog topic, right? Nobody has ever talked about this before. Facebook wars absolutely, positively have NOT taken place over this little gem.

</sarcasm>

I’m not going to even start in on the whole I-Lie-To-My-Kid/You-Should-Never-Lie-To-Your-Kid debate. I’ll leave that to the Sanctimommies. Which is pretty much like throwing a dog a bone or giving your kid an Oreo just to shut them up.

Additionally, I’m not even going to start in on the hypocrisy of Sanctimommies who say they NEVER lie to their kids except for Santa Claus/Tooth Fairy/Easter Bunny/When It Is Easier for Me debate either.

Because that’s just boring.

I read online (so it must be true), that the “average parent will tell their child almost 3,000 little white lies as they are growing up – just to get their own way.”

And I thought, “Geez. That number seems low!!!”

Instead, I’m just going to tell you some of the lies that I tell My Imaginary Child (MIC) for whatever reason is most convenient for me at the time. But no matter where you stand on the matter, the following lies are not exactly punishable by a court of law. Besides, kids are so dang gullible, it just really is easier:

Mommy made dinosaur meat for dinner!
This one is tricky as MIC is old enough to know that dinosaurs no longer exist but doesn’t yet have a full understanding and comprehension of where meat actually comes from. Plus, he’s a picky eater with constantly changing rules for: what he will eat, what he won’t eat, what food can/cannot be touching other food, how hot it is, how cold it is, and/or what the planetary alignment is for that particular day (that last one might be made up). Nevertheless, no four-year old boy is going to turn down the opportunity to eat dinosaur meat. Period.

When the ice cream truck is playing music it means they have run out of treats.

This bit, fat, super juicy lie is most certainly not original to me, but because that evil, entrepreneurial genius drives through our neighborhood all the goddamn time, this is a doozy that I have to say. Alot.

That’s not funny anymore.
Like any good, imaginary, four-year old boy, he has a wicked sense of toilet humor; fart jokes in particular are a household favorite. However, there are times when he has gotten himself all wound up, it’s past 9:00 p.m., and he won’t put on his pajamas lest the bottoms cover up his fart noises (they don’t). Additionally, I have to stop my own giggle fit because my laughter is certainly not helping matters. The fact that I apparently have the same sense of humor as an imaginary four-year old boy only adds to the problem, but telling him “That’s not funny anymore” just sounds so much sweeter than “Please go the fuck to sleep, baby.” Which I would NEVER say. Yet.

I’ll be there in just a minute!
Yeah. Sure kid. Whatever. I’ll get there when I get there, but since you don’t own a watch and/or have any definitive and accurate concept of time, I’ll either get there in 60 seconds or upon the sound of shattering glass. Whichever I deem more urgent and/or appropriate at the time.

All of the vampires live in Transylvania.
For the love. Inexplicably, MIC went through a period where he was obsessed with vampires and as God as my witness, I swear he didn’t pick this up from me! Yes, I own all of the Twilight movies (books too, natch), but the last one was so bad, I haven’t watched any (again for the umpteenth time) in months. However, his obsession with vampires required me to constantly remind him that:

(a) All vampires live in Transylvania (true);

(b) Vampires cannot go out in the sun (true;)

(d) Since vampires can’t be in sunlight and you have to take a plane to get from Transylvania AND planes fly during the day, it is therefore logistically impossible for a vampire to make it to our house.

(However, since we live in Memphis, I’m sure the day will come when he asks me why they can just FedEx themselves in a box. A big box, obviously.)

And finally, the mother (ha ha) of all lies:

Of COURSE I’m listening to you sweetie!
Not.

An Open Letter to Johnson & Johnson®

Sun, 29 Apr 2012 08:58:57 -0600

Dear Johnson & Johnson^®,

I am writing you today because I’m having some problems with your product, Johnson’s Head-to-Toe Baby Wash^®.

First you claim that your product is “Tear Free.” I can personally attest that this is not the case. While bathing my daughter I “accidently” poured some in her eyes to test your theory and she did indeed cry. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Don’t you know mothers like me like to push the envelope?

Secondly, the directions on the bottle tell me to apply your product to my child’s skin or hair using my hands or a washcloth. But then you tell me to keep your product out of the reach of my child. What does this mean? Am I not supposed to wash her hands? You’re sending me some mixed messages here.

I’m also concerned that you claim that your product is #1 in hospitals. What exactly do you mean by that? Does this mean I need to rush my child to the hospital after she goes blind by your “Tear Free” false claims? Well no wonder you’re #1 in hospitals, your defective product is making the hospitals richer with every bottle you sell. I highly recommend you change your packaging. May I make a suggestion?

This is what I would like to see in the future:

In the future I hope you’ll be more responsible with your claims. Until then, I would really be interested in trying out your Johnson’s Natural Head-to-toe Foaming baby wash. Question: Does my daughter need to have rabies for this product to work? Oh, and I expect you to send me a bottle for free. It’s the least you could do for leaving my child visibly disabled with dirty hands.

Sincerely yours,
Stacy

Physically Getting Out of the House in the Morning

Tue, 24 Apr 2012 12:37:08 -0600

After you have kids, you seriously wonder what you did with all of that time that you had before kids. You know you would sleep in late on the weekends, but at the most that only explains a few hours of what I now fondly remember as “empty time”. Seriously, what the fuck did you do all day?? Personally, I honestly can’t remember.

What I DO remember is how easy to used to be to get out of the house in the morning and get my day going. It was all about me, me, me. I could wake up, throw my hair in a ponytail, grab a cup of coffee, and be out the door in 20 minutes tops, if necessary. Now . . . .not so much. Now I have this tiny little human to look after and getting out of the house in the morning (to work, to school, to a playdate . . . it doesn’t matter), is like moving the Third Battalion.

Seriously, words don’t even describe the level of precision, execution, timing and strategizing involved and required in achieving the goal of successfully getting out of the house in the morning. Getting out of the house on time is completely optional and arbitrary and therefore, I can’t even be bothered to discuss it.

Sometimes, I don’t even leave the house because it’s just too damn much work.

So I thought I would just draw a picture. And by “draw” I mean “use my computer to create it” and by “picture” I mean “a PDF” file. Because that’s just how I roll . . . .

Overachieving Mommies . . . The Baby Shower Edition

Tue, 24 Apr 2012 10:24:38 -0600

I have this amazing friend. She’s beautiful, she’s smart, she’s funny, she has an awesome husband who is, gasp, a Lawyer! AND she has a cute as hell three year-old boy. For the most part, she’s a SAHM who can party like a rock star in Vegas while simultaneously planning a killer playdate. So basically, I ~~hate~~ love her.

She got knocked up with their second child. I truly could not have been happier.

And then it came time to plan the baby shower.

Oh, the horror!

Before I go any further, let me assuage my Jewish guilt by saying that these are a fabulous group of women. Some are mommies, some work and we all have one thing in common . . . . we belong to the same “Mahjong” group.

However, we play Mahjong about as often as mommies who say they are in “Book Clubs” actually read the books. In other words; never. But on those rare occasions when we can all manage to get together, we can put away a few killer bottles of wine. Who am I kidding?? We can put away a LOT of killer bottles of wine. At the beginning of the night, the wine is of more than above average quality; but towards the end of the evening, we’ve worked ourselves to a level just slightly above Franzia.

(And if my piece-of-shit ex-husband's divorce attorney is reading this . . . . well then, fuck you. I'm just kidding.)

Nevertheless, when it comes to planning a baby shower, wedding shower, engagement shower, couples shower . . . (I just realized how much it rains in the South), these ladies want to bring out the china, the silver and order flowers.

For fuck’s sake.

The problem here is that these are the same ladies who I’ve seen do shots of bad tequila at the local karaoke bar.
Don’t . . . . try . . . . to . . . . fool . . . .me or anybody else acting like you just got out of a Cotillion meeting at the local Country Club.

Bitch, please!

I’ve held your hair back over a toilet before and I can assure you it wasn’t because of “morning sickness”.

So planning one the above mentioned “showers” takes more time and effort with this crew as moving the Third Battalion into DaNang.

I can stay fairly engaged in the conversation when we start talking about the basics: who will host, whose in charge of food, drinks (THE most important job), favors, gifts . . . .etc. It’s really not that complicated.

HOWEVER, as soon as the conversation turns to silver vs. china, stemmed wineglass versus stem-less and (my least favorite) floral arrangements, I have mentally, physically, emotionally, verbally and textually checked out of the conversation. I’m done. I’m a single working mommy and on my long list of priorities, figuring out if we should use the Baccarat or the Waterford is just enough to make me want to start smashing all of that crystal with a sledgehammer.

Please don’t misunderstand me. These are not junior cast-members-in-waiting for the “Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” who spend the vast majority of the day thinking about shit like this. They just want to throw a very special party for a very special friend and since we are all in our late 30s, the number of any type of shower left to plan is dwindling to zero rapidly.

But please excuse me if I show up to the shower wearing yoga pants that I slept in, my hair in a ponytail and my favorite ball cap on my head. I was waaaaaaay too busy taking care of other things.

You know, like my imaginary kid.

Ultimate Blog Party 2012 Welcome!

Thu, 19 Apr 2012 10:51:01 -0600

Howdy Y’all! (Because that’s how we really talk down in this neck of the woods). If you're reading this post, then I assume you found us at the Ultimate Blog Party 2012.

If you didn’t, here’s a little background on #UBP12 (the cool way of referring to this giant orgy). It’s a great idea where a bunch of similary styled bloggers link up with one another. Which basically makes us sarcastic sluts, but I don’t think you can catch an STD from HTML programming. Actually, I think if you really like HTML programming (like I do, natch), then your odds of catching an STD the old-fashioned way are statistically pretty low. I digress.

Anyway, to join this party, each blogger is required to write a little intro (that’s what this is) and then we just bed hop around (using only 1’s and 0’s) and visit each other. Which is actually really cool, because the writers behind our other favorite snarky mom bloggers are not only funny as hell, they are a nice group of bitches too. And if you don’t believe me, read our support of a fellow mommy blogger.

Back to our intro. Our motto is “Watching People Get Offended by Crap on Facebook Really Makes Our Day!” See, we even made a picture of it. But it’s not just Facebook troll baiting that gives us the giggle fits. Oh no. Stacy, in particular, is a master of ~~enraging~~ engaging people on the Yahoo! Boards. It’s really quite genius. I (Kimberly) on the other hand, am really not that clever conversationally, but I am fairly deft at pointing out jealousy, stupidity, hypocrisy and sanctimoniousness (here, here and here).

So basically, we are Two Funny Mommies. Stacy, married, lives in Houston and is the mom of a five-year old girl named “the girl”. Kimberly, divorced, lives in Memphis and is mom of a four-year old boy named “the boy”. However, in all of her posts, the single mommy only writes about imaginary children because of a delightful little letter she received from her adulterous ex-husband’s divorce attorney. Both Stacy and Kimberly are members of the “One And Done” Club. We’ve never actually met in person, but the single mommy went to college with the husband of the married mommy. The married mommy works full-time as her five-year old’s “bitch”; the single mommy owns her own bank consulting firm.

They became friends on Facebook and found in each other kindred spirits. And by kindred, they saw the same acerbic and dry-witted sense of humor with little to no tolerance for stupidity, ignorance or “those mommies”. You know them. Those who have too much time on their hands, whose kids “excel” at everything, who never leave the house without a full face of makeup on and who get their panties in a wad at the tiniest little perceived slight. If that sounds familiar or hits way too close to home, then this site isn't for you. For everybody else, enjoy!!

You can follow us on Facebook (Two Too Smart, Smartass Mommies), Twitter (@SmartassMommies) and even Google+ (Two Too Smart, Smartass Mommies), but the easiest way is to just subscribe to our blog Two Too Smart, Smartass Mommies! It would be a lot cooler if you did.

On our site, all names and faces have been deliberately erased, modified and/or obscured to protect the innocent and dumb (most of the time).

Warning: If you are easily offended, can't take a joke and things like irony and sarcasm are lost on you, leave now. Seriously. Go away.

Good Christian Bitches

Tue, 17 Apr 2012 13:59:51 -0600

I recently came across an article from a sophisticated news source (RadarOnline) that discussed a simply scandalous situation that, no doubt, has Viagra-and-nitroglycerin-fueled hearts fluttering in Texas.

Apparently, The Houston Chronicle’s “High Society” reporter, Sarah Tressler, was recently fired after The Houston Press reported that she had been moonlighting as a stripper for quite some time. I guess her additional job as a professor at the University of Houston wasn’t saucy enough to focus on. Yes, that’s right – a professor. The girl earned her MASTERS degree in journalism from NYU.

However, this was no big secret as the reporter had been blogging about her work as a stripper for quite some time. Consequently, she was shocked that another publication would deem it newsworthy enough to publish. She thought that nobody would ever be “that mean”.

Bless her little heart, but she doesn’t to be very knowledgeable about the inner workings of “high society” for they are some of the meanest people around. I should know – I’m one of them and look how “not nice” I am . . . all . . . the . . . time.

Or . . . she is a marketing genius!

If I had to guess, the “River Oaks” crowd has their La Perla in a tight little wad and this is probably THE topic of conversation on Sunday mornings at church. Ironically. Half of those prudes’ husbands have probably had this “reporter” literally in their laps. How does that conversation go at the local country club??

Reporter/Stripper/Professor: “Mr. Habersham (sounds fancy enough). It was simply delightful to see you last night at ‘Pussy Cats’!”

The Fictitious Mr. Habersham: Has heart attack. Literally.

According to the Reporter/Stripper/Professor, she could earn as much as $2,000 per night! working as a stripper.

Pardon me while I put my keyboard down and start filling out that application.

(And if my piece-of-shit ex-husband's divorce attorney is reading this . . . . well then, fuck you. I'm just kidding.)

While the publication didn’t name the exotic dancing establishment she was working for, I can only assume that, since she was making two large a night, it wasn’t at one of those windowless establishments out by the airport. In fact, I would have to guess that earning that level of income requires being patronized by those same people who are now so indignant that they were associating with this burlesque queen. Call it Strippers in the Midst.

As a Jewish woman, I am in no position to start quoting New Testament verses that would support these Good Christian Bitches’ stance on the matter, but I’m sure they can quickly come up with something. However, I know for a fact that “Thou Shalt Not Dance Naked for Dollar Bills” is not on God’s ‘Top Ten’ list of “Don’ts”. Just give me ten minutes, a good cocktail and access to The Googles, and I’ll betcha I can quickly find a whole of bible quotes about hypocrisy, jealousy, backstabbing and the like.

At the end of the day, it really is a genius move on her part. Get to know “the establishment,” greet them on a first name basis at the club (not the country club, the other one), and then write a book about it. But first, why don’t you think about hiring Gloria Allred and sue their little panties off for gender discrimination?? That would be deliciously ironic on just so many wonderful and different levels.

Sarah, you’re smarter than all of those Good Christian Bitches combined. Well done, my friend. Very well done.

Ten Little Zombies

Tue, 17 Apr 2012 10:45:12 -0600

10 Little Indians Lyrics

One little, two little, three little Indians 

Four little, five little, six little Indians

Seven little, eight little, nine little Indians 

Ten little Indian boys.

Ten little, nine little, eight little Indians

Seven little, six little, five little Indians

Four little, three little, two little Indians 

One little Indian boy.

That is such a sweet little innocent song. Don’t you think? I know I do. That is why when I saw the book “Ten Little Zombies: A Love Story”, I just HAD to have it! I thought this was going to be a cute sweet little book that is more in tune with the times. I was terribly, terribly wrong.

We have a little zombie obsession at my house. I have been reading zombie books and watching zombie movies for as long as I can remember. And up until recently, I was alone in my obsessive quest for Zombie-related knowledge. But thanks to the video game “Plants vs. Zombies”, and the TV show “The Walking Dead”, my family has joined me on my quest to destroy the brain-eating, entrails-chomping, grunting and growling undead.

Being as my daughter is only 5 we don’t let her watch “Walking Dead”. And it’s not because I don’t think she could handle it, but I don’t think I could handle it. The last thing I need is to be woken up at all hours of the night by my daughter’s blood curdling screams. Maybe we’ll let her watch it when she’s 6. But 5? 5’s still a little on the young side.

I guess I shouldn’t really be all that surprised at my daughter joining me in my fixation. After all, I did read “The Zombie Survival Guide” when I was 7 months pregnant with her. And we’ve all heard that what you eat affects your baby, and what you listen to affects your baby. So… by that logic, my daughter probably knows just as much about zombies as I do. Her DNA has been saturated with weapon selection (shotguns, duh…), survival tactics, and long-term solutions for how to recreate civilization. She surely instinctively knows the pros and cons of rifles, machetes and flamethrowers, and will consider the optimal defensive positions for various types of outbreaks. She and I will dominate any future zombie outbreaks. The hubby knows some stuff, but is not cut out for the hand-to-hand combat. He will have to stick to roofs and shrubbery. The man is a born sniper.

Where am I going with all this zombie information you ask?? Well I want you to know what you’re dealing with, and I want you to see why I did what I did. It all started out innocently enough. A zombie toy here, some car decals there. Yes, I have these on my car. Right next to my “My Dog is Buddhist” bumper-sticker. My kid loves them!

So after the toys and the decals, a zombie book seemed like the next logical choice. That’s when I saw this book on Amazon.

The reviews were wonderful. I knew Mini Me would just be ecstatic! Let’s check out some of the reviews together:

Mo Wrote:

“I had originally bought this book for myself, to add to my zombie library, but apparently the drawing scheme and such is perfect for newborns! I read this to my daughter every day (during daylight, don't need her having zombie nightmares at 2 months old, LOL!), and she pays AMAZING attention to it! Even when I count out the zombies for her, she watches my fingers as I point them out.   Her favorite part is apparently Kevin... Something about splatter I guess. :D  Good job! It's a quick read as an adult, but any true zombie aficionado will appreciate this... Don't have time to read long, boring epic novels while running from the undead! Definitely worth the purchase!”

But this is what Dan wrote: (←---- This is the review I DIDN’T read):

I wasn't sure from the reviews if this was an adult book with a kids theme or if you could really read it to kids. If you're a helicopter parent, then this is not for your kids. If your kids help your dress your own deer and help you pick out which cow we're going to eat this winter like mine, then the blood in the pages isn't any big deal. There's more I'd worry about in an episode of CSI than I would this book.
It's funny, has plenty of carnage, and has a love story at the end. It's cute and I'm glad I bought it.

So I told my daughter all about the cool new Zombie book that mommy just bought her. She was ecstatic! We waited in anticipation for its arrival from Amazon. Every day we checked the mail, and for everyday it wasn’t there our excitement grew. Then one day it came. I handed the small shipping envelope to my daughter in the back seat and she ripped open the envelope with a fury usually only reserved for Holidays like Christmas and Easter. She was so excited and I was just as excited to read it to her. We brought our new little “prize” home and then somehow got distracted and left it on the kitchen table. A couple of hours later after my husband came home from work Mini Me remembered that mommy had bought her a cool new book.

“Mommy, will you read me the Zombie book?” she asked in all her innocence.

“Of course I will, you perfect child you,” I said while looking lovingly at my blonde haired angel. I sat down on the couch with my cherub of a child and started reading.

“Ten little zombies walking in a line…”

Oh my God that is so cute; Look at those cute little Zombies, I thought to myself…

“One stepped in a campfire and now there are nine.”

What the fuck…?

And there it was, in full color, on page 3: A cute little zombie, engulfed in flames. And there was nothing I could do to help it.

“Nine little Zombies climbing up a gate.”

Oh, crap. I know where this is headed.

“One fell on a fence spear; now there are eight.”

Complete with drawing of bloody, impaled Zombie.

“Eight little Zombies chasing after Kevin.

Kevin shot his shotgun and now there are seven.”

At this point, my husband was in the living room, just a few feet away from where I was reading to my daughter.

“Stacy, what are you reading?”

“Ummm… Ten Little Zombies,” I informed him.

“Mommy, keep reading!”

Now I know my husband didn’t want me to continue but my audience wanted more. I just couldn’t let her down.

This is how the rest of the little Zombies died (*SPOILER ALERT*):

Zombie # 7: Crushed by a statuary.

Zombie # 6: Run over by a car.

Zombie # 5: Melted by acid.

Zombie # 4: Shredded by a chainsaw.

Zombie # 3: Blown up by a hand grenade.

Zombie #2: Perforated by a nail gun.

As for the last little Zombie?

“One little zombie closing in on you.

[But you’re] tangled in the barbwire. Now there are two.”

As it shows a Zombie chewing on a little girl’s leg.

“Two little Zombies coming after me.

Can’t bear to destroy you. Now there are three.

BRAINS!”

My daughter stood up and applauded, screaming “Author! Author!” But my husband was none too pleased. I could feel his judging glare from across the room. I had messed up.

“Maybe I should have looked through the book before I read it to her?” I asked, batting my eyelashes and trying to look innocent. He didn’t buy it.

I ended up putting “Ten Little Zombies” on a shelf where my daughter couldn’t find it until she was mature enough to not be scared. Apparently she has already hit that growth spurt because she loves those crazy ten little gory Zombies. And my husband, well I caught him recently reading my daughter the book. My kid may not pick her own cow to slaughter, or dress her own dear. But she sure as hell can build one hell of a Dakota Hole and knows that if Zombies get into your home you should hold up upstairs and then light the staircase on fire so they can’t get to you. Don’t forget to fill your upstairs bathtubs full of water - you can get might thirsty battling the undead.

So, no. I’m not a helicopter mom. But I’m also no parent of the year. I am human. A living, breathing human who sometimes makes mistakes. A living, breathing mistake-making human that knows a shotgun is way better than a chainsaw when you need to take down the living dead. And that, my friends, is what makes me valuable as a wife and a mother. BRRRRRAAAAAIIIINNNNNSSSS!!

SanctiMommious Bitch: Biting the Hand That Feeds You

Fri, 30 Mar 2012 21:16:35 -0600

According to the Huffington Post, in a recent interview with MTV, Kate Winslet said that hearing the theme song from “Titanic” makes her want to “throw up.” In the interview, she stated:

I do feel like throwing up. I wish I could say ‘Oh listen, everybody! It's the Celine Dion song!’ But I don’t. I just have to sit there, you know, kind of straight-faced with a massive internal eye roll . . . Every time I go into a bar in a hotel where there's a live pianist, or into a restaurant where they’re changing their music according to who walks into the door, it’s thrilling for people to ‘surprise me’ with that song.

Somebody hand me the Kleenex.

Boo-fucking-hoo.

Poor, poor Kate. I am sooooooooooo sorry that hearing a wonderfully composed and executed theme song associated with a blockbuster movie that put your name on the map and made you millions upon millions of dollars upsets your little tum-tum. A case of Pepto-Bismol is on the way. Bless your little heart.

(Side note: There are two meanings behind the saying “Bless your little heart” in the South. The first is said with the utmost sincerity and is used to express an extreme amount of sympathy. The second (and my intent) means “Fuck You”. Usually said with a smile.)

So here’s my advice. And I will try to use monosyllabic words when possible so these celebrities can understand. I will attempt to offer up a radically simple solution which, when executed, should free these people from their apparently miserable existences:

Get a new Fucking job!

Leave the acting “biz” and take a gig as a secretary. You’ll then be free to spend your days listening to whatever the hell you want to on your specially designed “Pandora” station.

Pros:

No more paparazzi to deal with, because you bitches are always complaining about these people.
No more red carpets to walk as, for some reason, this requires in an inordinate amount of time, money, energy and other people to execute. You will be, however, free to randomly stick out your leg in an awkward pose at any time you see fit.
No more interviews giving you the opportunity to stick your bitchy little foot in your mouth. When somebody asks you a question, you won’t be able to Google your answer for time immemorial.
No more giving a percentage of your earnings to: agents, managers, publicists, stylists and the like. You’ll do what we all do and just give a share to the government.

Cons:

It might be a slightly difficult adjustment period going from earning multi-millions of dollars a year to something in the mid-five-figure range.
Rush hour traffic. Yep – have fun with that one.
No more personal anything (chefs, nutritionists, housekeepers, trainers, stylists, bodyguards, nannies, hair and makeup people . . . nada). You have to do everything yourself.
Juggling work, kids, social life . . . . etc. on the significantly lower income and staff help.

By the way, Katie-poo, Celine Dion called and she said to tell you “Fuck you very much”.

But she said it in French so it sounded a lot nicer.

Regifting (a.k.a. “Re-gifting”)

Tue, 27 Mar 2012 12:13:23 -0600

Holy cow. Sanctimommy alert. A great stationery product line that I’m “friends” with on Facebook (yes, I’m friends with paper) recently posted the following question (which they inexplicably do more often than not. I’m beginning to wonder if they are moving from selling paper to making social commentary. Wait . . . what the hell! That’s OUR job. I digress).

The question was: “Would you ever re-gift for a kid’s party? What about for an adult?”

Answer (in my head): “I can smell the Sanctimommy-ness coming on. Ready in 3 . . . 2 . . . .1 . . . Go!”

I got my wish.

Actual Answer from Somebody Else. Definitely not me:

NEVER regift. Very rude. You didn't put any though (sic) into your gift. Plus if you give it and the recipient already has it, it breaks or doesn't like it, they can't return it. Biggest pet peeve to not include a gift receipt with a gift.

Let’s break this little gem down, shall we?

“Biggest pet peeve to not include a gift receipt with a gift.”

BIGGEST pet peeve?? Really?? If I had to list my pet peeves in order without putting too much thought into it (because I have to pick “the boy” up from school in about an hour. Oh wait. Fuck. I mean, I have to pick up my fictional child from his imaginary school), I would say something along the lines of Biggest Pet Peeve = “People Cutting Me Off On the Interstate” because, you know, that can result in a massive, multi-car pileup resulting in significant bodily harm. Or even death. Which I think is worse. Not including a gift receipt?? . . . not so much.

“You didn’t put any though(t) into your gift (when you regift)”

Bitch . . .the HELL I didn’t!! I THOUGHT about giving a gift that I had previously received that I:

a) Didn’t want.

b) Had no use for.

c) Thought you might like.

d) Didn’t want to buy because I’m broke.

e) Didn’t want to buy because I am environmentally friendly (meaning, I didn’t have to drive my SUV ALL AROUND THE DAMN TOWN looking for a separate gift for YOUR bitchy ass); and,

f) Didn’t want to buy because I don’t really like you all that much; however, I still have some societal obligation to get you something (for whatever reason) and therefore couldn’t be bothered.

See??? That list took some serious “thought”.

Finally,

“Plus if you give it and the recipient already has it . . . . they can’t return it.”

You’re RIGHT. They can, however, re-gift it. Just like we do. All the damn time. Even the gift bags!!

Greenpeace . . . you’re welcome.

Case of the Stolen Grocery Cart

Thu, 22 Mar 2012 10:56:09 -0600

Do you ever just ask yourself, “What the hell is wrong with people?” I ask myself that question constantly. What the hell IS wrong with people? People! Recently I went grocery shopping while my daughter was being watched by my once a week for three hours nanny. That’s right. I have a nanny every Wednesday from 2-5 pm. And I got her just so I could say, “I have a nanny.” Well that’s not really the reason we got her, but I still get to say it anyway.

So of course now that my kid is out of my hair I do what any mother with a limited amount of time does. I went grocery shopping. I don’t think people who aren’t parents understand just how important grocery shopping ALONE is to us mommies. Sometimes it’s the only time we have a chance to get away from our families. It’s not that we don’t love them, but do we really have to like them all the time? I don’t think so.

I can’t tell you how much I enjoy wheeling my little germ-infested cart up one aisle and down the next without my wee one begging me for toys she’ll only insist I buy, so she can throw them in her closet and never play with them again. Goodwill totally scores when my kid is busy watching TV because I sneak bag after bag of crap into my car when she’s not looking and drop it off to kids who will actually play with the toys instead of collect them. There is a very good chance you will see my daughter on the show Hoarders. She will be the one clinging to her Barbies for dear life even though the dog has so severely disfigured them that CPS stops by my house once a week just to check on Skipper.

So off to the grocery store I went. Now we have possibly one of the best grocery stores I have even seen in in my life here in Houston. It’s a Super H.E.B. I didn’t even know what an H.E.B. was until I moved here. But Super H.E.B.? It’s like I’ve died and gone to grocery store heaven. They have everything you could possibly want. One day I was perusing the juice isle and a little girl approached me and held open a cigar box and asked me if I wanted to buy a necklace! I couldn’t believe it; they even had midgets selling jewelry! It doesn’t get any better than that. And, if she had only waited until I hit the wine section and loaded up on all the free samples of wine, I just may have bought a couple of her black market necklaces.

There I was taking my sweet time looking at the homemade soaps, buying my daughter her yogurt with mini M&M’s, and stocking up on ~~vodka~~ mineral water. ‘Cause I just love my mineral water.

About an hour later, cart full, I slowly made my way to one of the 20 or so checkout stands. I stood patiently in line because I could. You see I didn’t have to get home for at least another 45 minutes. Life was really really good. And to make my wait all the more enjoyable, the checkout lines have magazine racks filled with travel magazines. I just love the travel magazines. I love to look through them and torture myself with trips we don’t have the time or money to take. But a girl has got to have a dream.

I was next up in line and had my back turned from my cart for maybe two minutes tops. I grabbed two of the travel magazines and when I got home, I planned to see what the e-Bay going rate was for footless Barbies. Hey. Gotta’ make it to the Galapagos Islands somehow. With my head full of dreams of seeing the Galapagos Islands’ famous domesticated goats, I turned around to put the magazines into my cart….and my cart was gone. BUT, who ever took my cart was kind enough to leave me their cart, full of two cases of diet coke. Which is even crueler than just stealing my cart in the first place. Because I have a little anxiety problem and am not allowed to have caffeine. What in the hell? Someone stole my cart! Where is my fucking cart! Second by second I could feel the rage building up inside me.

Perhaps I should mention for those of you who don’t already know, that my daughter has some sensory issues, and to get her to eat or try anything new is nothing short of a miracle. So the fact that we were able to get her to eat the yogurt with the mini M&M’s was practically cause for us to plan a trip in celebration. Domesticated goats! SCORE! But as it happened, the last two packs of M&M yogurt were in my now abducted grocery cart.

“Ma’am, are you ready to check out?” The post-pubescent boy at the check out stand asked me.

“Wha…?” I answered in a daze.

“Are you ready to check out?”

“This isn’t my cart,” I told him. Wait a second!

“THIS ISN’T MY CART!” Now you would think that people might be sympathetic to the fact that you had just spent an hour shopping in their store only to have your cart stolen. But that was not the case. They looked at me like I was a crazy person who had just wandered in off the street to get away from my family. Okay, well maybe that last part was true. But my Super H.E.B. was all of a sudden not so super. Why? Because I could tell by the way they looked at me they either didn’t believe me, or they didn’t care.

I looked all over the place and even enlisted the help of one of the baggers. But we never found my cart. I was so mad at this point I reached into my messenger bag that I was smart enough to keep on my body and not in the cart like I usually do, and pulled out my small bottle of Xanax I keep on me in case of emergencies. And this was an emergency! I was going to kill someone. I now had exactly 30 minutes to shop all over again, and no stopping to smell the soaps this time. My nanny was leaving at 5 pm and my ass needed to be home.

As I bolted through the store like a woman on fire, I threw the essentials into the cart and ran over women, men, and midgets selling jewelry. I had no time for shenanigans this time around. And that’s when I hit the yogurt section, praying that it had been restocked. None. Zero. Zip. I even asked a man to check in the back of the store for me. Nothing.

I made it home on time. And the first question my sweet, picky-eater child asked me was, “Mommy, did you get me yogurt with M&M’s?”

“No baby. Not this time.” I’m still kind of mad about the whole cart thing. But the Xanax helped. A bit. I also Google-search “Woman stolen grocery cart,” or “H.E.B. stolen cart prank,” and “Assholes stealing MILF’s grocery cart” all the time. But I have yet to find myself on YouTube with some young punks snickering about the expression on my face once I realized my cart was gone. And I’m not going to describe what I DO find with the MILF searches. But I keep looking. And once I find those little bastards I have 50,000 volts and a hot pink Taser with their names on it. And mommy is coming for a little payback. Like I said, the hell is wrong with people?

Our Cute Kids

Mon, 19 Mar 2012 08:49:22 -0600

We’ve been seriously busting our collective asses trying to do well in this “Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Mom Blogs” contest. And by busting we mean sending out a lot of e-mails and Facebook requests and by asses we mean the intelligent donkeys we’ve got penned up in the back yard. We’re not scared to admit it. In fact, we are owning it!

In looking for ideas to increase our popularity, I changed our profile pic. This action was a bit confusing to a long-time friend of mine and the conversation went something like this (I give myself permission to plagiarize myself on my own blog). Let’s call my friend ‘Erin’ because that’s her name:

Erin: “Geez. You guys really confused me by changing your profile pic. Let’s hope it doesn’t happen again.”

Me: “So sorry. I decided to try using my kid's cute school picture to see if that would help our cause.”

Erin: “It does. It’s a cute one.” (See! I told you!)

Me: “I certainly think so. I'm hoping other mommies see that adorable little face and think, ‘Awwwww, poor thing. His mother writes like a rambling idiot, so I better vote for them because he probably needs new shoes.’ Or something like that.”

Erin: “Throw him on a Memphis corner tomorrow with a sign that says ‘Vote for my mommy “Two Too Smart, Smartass Mommies,” provide an iPad so that people stopping by can quickly log in. But give him a jar to collect change anyway. At least you could get some cash out of it. Or use it to bribe him to sit out there.”

Me: “Well . . . that wouldn't work very well, because votes are registered by your IP address, so it would only do the trick once. Secondly, we live in Memphis, so it wouldn't take long before somebody steals the iPad. Thirdly, I'm not sure what the success rate is of a cute, redheaded Jewish kid panhandling on the streets, but I'm guessing it's pretty low. Fourthly, he's four, so he thinks 75 cents is a LOT of money. Somebody would toss him a couple of quarters, two dimes and nickel and he'd be done for the day. Lastly, he doesn’t ‘just sit there’. He never ‘just sits there’. But other than that, it's a great idea.”

So I started thinking more about this whole concept of ‘using our kids to get what WE really want’ and I realize that every parent does it at least once a year, all at the same time! It’s called Halloween bitches. Let’s really be honest about that “holiday,” shall we? How much of that chocolate deliciousness to WE eat while simultaneously telling our children NOT to even though they did the vast majority of the ~~begging~~ trick-or-treating in the first place.

So yes, I am showing off the kids. After all, they need something to show their therapists in about ten years.

(Side note: Stacy says that in this picture “the girl” is showing her daddy a ‘boo boo’ she got on her middle finger. Yeah, I’m not buying it either.)

Note to readers: Yes, this post has been changed from the original, due to a fabulously written letter that one of us received from our ex-husband’s attorney. I’m not saying which one of us. So, henceforth, please review the disclaimer found in the “About Us” section of our site. Because it’s just awesome.

Google Analytics

Sun, 18 Mar 2012 18:16:07 -0600

One topic of conversation that mommy bloggers (still working on replacing that term) talk about “behind the scenes” is knowing the who, what and where of our readers. Some ladies explicitly ask their readers how they found them and some like to see what “Google Analytics” has to say about it. Basically, we can’t tell what you look like, but we know what area of the country you’re reading us from, how you found us (assuming, of course, you used “the Googles”) and your blood type (kidding. Maybe).

One of the most entertaining bits is finding out what search term people used that led them to us. 99% of the time it makes perfect sense: you Googled the name of our blog, or a subject matter that we happened to write a post about, or you found your way from another blog that likes us. That really, really like us.

This is not one of those times. The only thing I could possibly say about this “data” is, what in the hell?

Pressing Questions from my Toddler to ‘Siri’

Sat, 17 Mar 2012 15:08:07 -0600

I wanted a new iPhone one for a while (mine was the 2010 model which meant that is was OLD), but I didn’t want to spend the money. Unfortunately for me, I took “the boy” on a hike, put my iPhone is the same pocket as his sippy cup which, of course, leaked. Basically, my iPhone spent a good 30 minutes marinating in apple juice. (More on pricey strollers not having mommy cup holders later. Bastards.) Plus, the irony that my iPhone was ruined by apple juice is not lost on me either.

I did the “cover-the-iPhone-in-rice-overnight-to-soak-out-the-moisture” trick to no avail. When I went to the Apple store, I wasn’t even going to try to lie to them. The phone was ruined and I would have been busted.

So, I got the new iPhone. The “4S”. which I actually think is the “5^th” iPhone, but I’m pretty sure it runs on a “3G” network around here. Yeah, not confusing at all. Whatever version it’s called, it’s the one with ‘Siri’. If you don’t know what I am talking about, you can basically talk to your phone to do things that apparently have proven much too difficult in the past. For example, instead of pulling up your weather app to see today’s forecast, you can ask ‘Siri’ something really clever like “What’s the weather going to be today,” or “Do I need an umbrella?” Yeah, kind of freaky.

However, you can also tell ‘Siri’ to refer to you however you wish. So from henceforth, according my iPhone, I am now knows as “Princess Kimberly”. FYI.

Well, clever mommy that I am, I thought it would be hysterical if I let my four-year old boy ask her questions as well. (Queue the music) Bum . . . bum . . . BUM! Big fail.

First of all, ‘Siri’ can’t understand him. And by God he doesn’t like that AT ALL! For whatever reason, no matter what question “the boy” asks ‘Siri’, “her” response is, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you mean by ‘Or Or Or Or Or Or Or’. How she translates whatever he says into “Or Or Or Or Or Or Or” is beyond me.

However, once we got beyond the ‘Lost in Translation’ issue and I started instead just dictating what he says to her, we arrived at issue number two (pun intended). Apparently, the best thing for a toddler to ask ‘Siri’ is all about “potty words”. For example, “Can you show me a picture of ‘poo’?” or “I want to see a ‘butt’!” Awesome! From henceforth, we now have a “you-can’t-ask-the-phone-anything-about-a-potty-word” rule. I’m pretty sure this is a true definition of a first-world problem.

Once “the boy” learned his ‘Siri’-asking parameters, it was like duck-season in Arkansas. If you’re a duck (Siri), game on and watch out. In a 90-minute period, ‘Siri’ was asked no less than a total of 127 questions, ranging from: “Do you know about real pirates??” to “How far is it to Transylvania??”. Yep . . . loads of fun for mommy and ‘Siri’s’ battery.

Actually, it was pretty cool to know what’s top of mind of a typical four-year old boy. It’s not paying bills, famine, or world peace. It’s diarrhea, Captain Hook, and vampire proximity.

All in all, I think he’s going to be ok. Now . . . . it’s my turn. I’ve learned that ‘Siri’ is quite the snarky little bitch. Yep, we’re going to get along just fine.

Daylight Savings Time from a Mommy's Perspective

Fri, 16 Mar 2012 14:05:08 -0600

I used to really look forward to the time change in the fall (i.e., extra hour of sleep). Now I really look forward to the time change in the spring (i.e., one less hour to entertain “the boy” on that day):

Sweeping Generalizations of Parenting Styles

Thu, 15 Mar 2012 14:04:41 -0600

I am new to the “Twitter World”, and to be honest, I don’t really like it. 99.9% of the people who follow @SmartassMommies look normal enough on my iPhone, but when I get to my laptop to check them out, they all have www.xxx-_______________-.com as their profile address. Sorry. Not interested. For now.

However, I’m always insanely curious about topics that are “trending” and am fascinated at the concept of how a seemingly random subject matter gets started.

While playing around, I noticed that two recent “trends” were: #BlackMomsCatchPhrase and #WhiteMomsCatchPhrase.

Now . . . . I could get into a whole dissertation about how blatantly racist/sexist/‘momist’ these hashtags are. But I will save that for later. And by “later” I mean “never”. I think all of these posts were made with absolutely no ill intent so let’s just ignore any collective panty wading and admit that some of these are funny as hell.

So I have collected a handful of my favorite from each of these categories and have added a third – the Jewish mother response. Amazingly, this is not a trending topic on Twitter. I would think that half of the population of Manhattan could add something new to this conversation. But since they didn’t, I will do it myself.

(Author’s note: I have a Southern, White, Jewish, Mother. I live(d) in fear of her. Her parenting style is a combination of all three in roughly equal parts. I love her dearly, but pretty much everybody I know is scared of her).

GENERALLY speaking, the breakdown to describe each ethnically different set of parenting styles can be summarized:

White - Over indulgent coddling
Black - Threatened acts of physical violence
Jewish - Guilt, and lots of it. Capable of convincing their children that they are personally responsible for the genocide in Darfur. A child’s ill advised actions usually result in the hypothetical death of the mother.

Knowing this, we thought we would provide a list of common parenting themes and a typical response by each type of mother:

Subject	White	Black	Jewish
Punishment	You go to your room right now!	Stop crying before I give you something to cry about!	Let’s talk about it.
Talking Back	I don't appreciate the way you're speaking to me!	Say it again and I will slap the taste out of your mouth!	I'M YOUR MOTHER! YOU SHOULD BE SO LUCKY!!
Timeouts	Go sit in your timeout corner!	Go get your dad's belt!	I'M YOUR MOTHER! YOU SHOULD BE SO LUCKY!!
Warnings	I'm going to count to three . . .	Do it again and see what happens . . .	I'M YOUR MOTHER!! Are you trying to kill me??
Food	What do you want for dinner?	You are going to eat what I cook!!	Of COURSE my children love my cooking and eat everything I make for them.
Public Humiliation	Sweetie, please stop embarrassing us in the store.	Don't make me embarrass you in the store!	Oy vey. I could just DIE right now!
Fighting	You embarrassed our whole family by fighting today.	Who won?	N/A
Decibel Levels	Don't yell at me. I'm your mother!	Hello 911. There's going to be a body waiting. Click.	I'M YOUR MOTHER!! ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME??
Potty Mouths	Go wash your mouth out with soap!	You sit there while I knock you into next week!	If the Rabbi heard you right now . . .
Friendships	I'm just trying to be your friend!	I'm not one of your friends!!	You're too good for your friends.
Timeliness	Good morning! It's time to get ready for school.	You better not miss the damn bus!	Your father will drive you on his way into the office.
Sports	Doing your best is what's most important.	Who won?	A Bar Mitzvah is definded as the day when a Jewish boy realizes that he is far more likely to own a professional sports team than play for one.
Career Aspirations	You can be whatever you want to be when you grow up.	Let me explain reality to you.	My son is going to be a doctor.
Emotions	Baby, what's wrong?	Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about.	Let's make an appointment with Dr. Goldstein.
Weather	It's cold out, go get your Uggs.	It's cold out, better put on a coat.	PUT ON A SWEATER!! YOU'LL CATCH A COLD!!

Online Mommy Activities

Mon, 12 Mar 2012 11:55:07 -0600

Patron Saint of Lost Children

Fri, 09 Mar 2012 11:08:10 -0700

Did you know that there is no such thing as a Patron Saint of Lost Children? There are, however, Patron Saints of Plasterers, Boy Scouts (I could really get inappropriate with this one), Skiers, and even one for Cramps. But there is not a Patron Saint of Lost Children. Abandoned Children, yes. Lost Children? No. This is precisely the reason I have applied for the job.

I didn’t go looking for this job; this job found me. I probably should tell you that I am one of those paranoid mothers that never once took my eye off my grocery cart while my infant daughter slept soundly in her car seat. She’s five now. See, I did a good job. But I instill in her the importance of never, ever getting out of my sight. Especially in public places. Now I’m no helicopter mom, but as far as trusting society, I don’t. This probably stems from my many years as a bartender. If you want to know about a person, serve them alcohol. You’ll find out all kinds of shit you probably didn’t want to know. And trust me, you WILL be amazed (and scared)!

Luckily, I have raised a daughter who has some sensory issues. For one, she doesn’t like it when you brush her hair. Two, she will hold her hands over her ears if she’s in a loud place. And three, don’t ever, EVER try and touch her. Even her own Grandparents get the face palm every now and then. On the other hand, she is extremely affectionate to my husband and myself. But because of her “condition” she doesn’t like strangers very much, which is fine with me. Sure my kid won’t smile at you when you tell her she’s cute. Why? Because she doesn’t trust you! You see, she didn’t need years of slinging booze to decide that society is flawed; she was born with that knowledge.

So as far as strangers go, they are going to have a tough time trying to coax my kid with a little candy and promises of a puppy. I’ve also given her the 411 on those little tricks. But what amazes me is, the lack of safety on the part of other parents. Do they not know that children are taken on a daily basis? It infuriates me!

Just this last weekend I took my daughter to the Memorial City Mall here in Houston. Now the Memorial City Mall is pretty cool for a kid. They have a train inside the mall that is not on tracks so the conductor can drive you and your kid willy-nilly all over the mall for three bucks a pop. They also have a carousel that I have to close my eyes on because the spinning makes me want to vomit. But because I love my child, I go on it anyway. And the Crème de la crème of the mall is the play center. The play center looks like Puff the Magic Dragon was there and threw up a pastel castle. For a kid this place is AWESOME! There are tunnels and slides. There are dragons you can climb on. They even have a hole dug in the floor on one side of the castle made of some child friendly material painted to look like a small pond. The kids just jump right in and roll around in the non-existent water. And they love every germ-infested inch of it!

I’ve been taking my child to the magic castle for a few years now. The weather in Houston isn’t always kind, so it’s a great place to go and let your child blow off some steam. They have a strict “no shoes” policy and a real life security guard who enforces it. The castle is surrounded by a multi colored circular wall and there is only one entrance in and one entrance out. And that entrance is guarded by the shoe police, I mean security guard.

Now when I take my kid I usually sit near the entrance and let her run free inside. I figure as long as I keep my eye on the door she’s not going to come or go without my knowledge. If I haven’t seen her blond knotted hair fly by me for a couple of minutes, I track her down just for my own piece of mind. Inside the castle walls are moms and the occasional dad looking tired and haggard playing on their phones and just trying to enjoy the little “me” time they get by sitting back in the cushy benches the Mall has been kind enough to provide. Even though I’m not this kid’s mom, or that kid’s mom, I’m still a mom. And if I saw someone else’s kid leave the play center I sure as hell would say something.

That was apparently not the case this last Saturday afternoon. After my daughter and I left the play center we sat down on some comfy little couches in the mall to put our shoes back on. Next thing I know, Mini Me and I are standing there staring at a tiny little thing with dark curly hair, a pink dress, and no shoes. What the…?

“Where is your mommy, sweetie?” I asked the small person. She looked at me and then pointed to one side of the mall.

“Is your mommy down there?” I asked pointing in the same direction. Once again she pointed. Ah, this is a game I see. Who can find the non-speaking child’s mommy? I want to play! I want to play! And that’s when I took out my Scooby Snacks and enlisted my daughter’s help.

“Mini Me, will you help me find this child’s mother for a Scooby Snack.

“Ohray!” My kid will pretty much do almost anything for Scooby snacks. So let the games begin! Here are my clues:

She’s short. Could be a midget dressed as a kid.
She’s eerily silent. Either she’s not old enough to talk yet, or she doesn’t understand English.
She has really nice teeth so she most likely belongs to someone. Hummm….maybe I should be looking for a dentist.
She’s wearing a pink dress. That would either make her a really cute little girl. Or a gender confused little boy. I’m going to go with the first option on this one.
She doesn’t have any shoes on. That’s when the light bulb went off in my head. MAGIC CASTLE!

“We need to find your mommy,” I told the wee one, even though I briefly thought she would make a wonderful new addition to our little family. And if that didn’t work out, she would also make a really cute hood ornament. So I opened up my arms and she grabbed onto me like she knew me. Up I lifted her until we were face to face. And then we just stared at one another. Maybe she was also impressed with my dental work. I do have really nice teeth if I do say so myself. Anyway, I’m getting off topic. On to the Magic Castle!

Once I approached the Magic Castle with the lost child in one arm and Mini Me trailing us, the security guard perked right up.

“I just found this little girl all by herself standing in the middle of the mall,” I told him as I pointed out the place I found her.

“Well I just came on. She didn’t get out on my watch,” he told me all in a huff.

“I’m sure she didn’t (did). I just want to walk through the castle and see if I can find her mom,” I told him in my very best “I can’t believe you let this little girl get out of the gate” voice. At this point you would think maybe he would call his security coworkers and try to get this thing settled. But of course he didn’t. He let me, a total stranger; walk around with this little lost child. At this point I was becoming very protective of my new little friend. As I walked around the castle I held her tight to me like she was mine. Mini was behind me giving dirty looks to the other parents and cracking her knuckles. She wasn’t going to let just anyone take her future little sister away from us.

And that’s when it happened. A woman came running into the castle and right towards me thanking me for finding her child. As the woman went to grab for the child I leaned back away from her. I wasn’t sure if I was okay with this. But the lost child seemed okay with it so I handed her over. Reluctantly. And before I knew it I had just lost a second daughter and Mini had just lost a little sister. It was kind of depressing really.

I would like to say that that was the only lost child I have found at the Memorial City Mall but alas, I had also found another. A little over a year ago I was in Macy’s with my mother in law. Now I must tell you a little something about my mother in law so that you don’t get the wrong idea about her. My mother in law is a very very sweet woman. However, once she gets an idea in her head it has to happen NOW! Like right now! She also has a tendency to over-book herself. My mother in law probably gets done in 2 hours what it takes me all day to accomplish. She’s that fast. I’ve actually considered grinding up Xanax and slipping it into her iced tea just so she’ll slow down a bit. Sometimes she makes me nervous will all her running around.

So there we were at Macy’s during the Christmas season, and I was digging through the overly priced clothing to find something for my daughter to wear while trying to appease my mother in law all at the same time. It’s not easy. My kid is in the 99^th percentile in height for her age, so I tend to not spend a lot of money on her clothes because she’ll just outgrow them in three months. So $50 for a pair of pants is out of the question. I could tell that my mother in law was getting impatient. We had been there for a full 10 minutes and I hadn’t even picked out one thing. She had already told me she needed to be somewhere in a half hour and that I needed to pick out some clothes or perish trying. There I was digging through clothes when I heard a small child crying. I walked out of the racks and into the aisle and there was a little girl crying her eyes out.

“Where is your mommy?” I asked her. She just stared at me. Yes, another mute child. Apparently it’s an epidemic.

“Sweetie, where’s your mommy?” I asked her again in my soft calming voice. The child continued to cry, but reached out and took the hand I had extended to her. That’s when my mother in law took the child and placed her strategically in the middle of the children’s department and told her, “You just stay right there until your mommy finds you,” and proceeded to walk away.

“You can’t just leave her here there!” I protested. But my mother in law was already gone. I told you she’s deceptively quick. So I took the child’s hand again, and started to walk her around Macy’s. Thankfully a sales associate came up to us. Once I told the sales woman I had found the child she immediately asked the child in Spanish where her mommy was. Ah, Spanish. Good thing I took three years of French because it has done me NO good!

Needless to say my mother in law was thrilled to have me back on the agenda of finding ridiculously overpriced clothing. I picked out a few items for Mini, and with the 20% off coupon my mother in law had plus the extra 20% off we got for using her Macy’s card, I still got to spend $98 on clothes I didn’t really like all that much anyway.

“Can I write you a check? I don’t have any cash on me,” I asked her, but she was already out the door to do Lord knows what.

So there it is. I have officially sent in my application to the Vatican requesting that I be named the Patron Saint of Lost Children. I’m just waiting to hear back. My mother in law however has gotten to be a Saint herself. She is now the Patron Saint of I’ve got 5 thousand things to do today and finding your mother isn’t one of them.

In Defense of a Fellow “Mommy Blogger”

Thu, 08 Mar 2012 10:27:29 -0700

First of all, I hate that term. Even though I know otherwise, it conjures of an image of a frumpy, middle-aged mommy sitting around in sweats all day doing little more than typing away on her laptop while the little ones are at school. Well, obviously, part of that is true – “the boy” is at school and I am, in fact, typing, but I can assure you I’m not wearing sweats. Right now anyway. And depending on the math, I could be described as middle-aged, but on a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero, so it all depends on where I eventually end up on the number line.

There are many stereotypes about the “mommy blogger”. Just use the Googles and see what pops up.

Our personal experience with “mommy bloggers” (I promise I WILL find a sexier term for us) is that we are educated, smart, funny, giving, and productive members of society. In other words, we are moms. The only difference is that when one of our kids has a runny nose, we write about it. Yes, we may be snarky, sarcastic and judgmental but we fucking OWN it.

So when somebody out there gangs up on one of our own simply because she used humor to bring awareness to what is, in fact, a very important issue, we will defend her. 99.9999% of all of our readers “get” our sense of humor and style, because we go above and beyond to explain ourselves pretty damn clearly. So it never ceases to amaze me when anybody pretty much ignores our pithy “warning labels” (usually found on our ‘Home Pages’) and uses it as an opportunity to get on a moral high horse while hiding behind the virtual wall of anonymity. Would this person say this directly to our faces? Probably not.

So this is my way of rounding up all of the other “mommy bloggers” and writing one big group post to let you know how much we will support and defend you. Simply put, you . . . are . . . awesome!

Do not go away and cave in to what amounts to little more than a middle-aged, troll-baiting bully.

This is hard work. We put our lives, our thoughts and ourselves out there on an almost daily basis. Any time that is done, you open yourself up to judgment and criticism and that should be expected. Hell, it would be pretty hypocritical of us to judge commenters for judging us on an article in which we were clearly being judgmental. However, it is important to express your displeasure in a well-articulated and educated fashion. Just because our communication tool is “humor” and the subject matter is “serious”, doesn’t mean our views, opinions and the way we express ourselves is any less valid.

We make it patently clear what we are about and how we go about it. And if you don’t like our methods, there is a painfully simple solution . . . . stop following us. Don’t buy a house next to the airport and then start complaining about the noise level. We make no secret about what we do or how we do it.

So please take your bullying and your gang of bullies elsewhere.

I can assure you, you are completely unwelcome here.

Dedicated to “Underachiever’s Guide to Being a Domestic Goddess”.

My Babysitter is Cleaner Than Your Babysitter

Sun, 26 Feb 2012 21:45:37 -0700

One of my “Likes” on Facebook is a fabulous local mommies blog. She is not me. In fact, she is the opposite of me. Her site provides exceedingly helpful, pertinent and timely information for mommies with things to do in our city. On a daily basis. Which means she has to ~~blog~~ work on the weekends. Well . . . Bless her little heart but better her than me.

On her Facebook site she will routinely post questions received from other mommies and then open it up to her followers to comment on and/or provide recommendations. A typical question might include something along the lines of: “Does anybody know a great painter?” or “What is a good restaurant for kids in my neighborhood?” Like I said, real, actual, helpful information.

So her post tonight started off innocently enough, but as I am writing this is now 9:49 PM CST and I am starting to get an inkling of some serious Sanctimommy-ness going on. The post was (and I quote): “A mom is wondering what others are paying for sitters these days. She has 2 kids”.

Pretty innocuous, right?

Wrong.

One of the first posters out of the gate explained (emphasis and redactions will be all mine):

I found my sitter on InsertNameofSitterFinderServiceHere.com. She goes to the University of A Major City and majors in Child Psychology. I ran a background check on her, she is clean. She also has past experience with kids. I tested her with my kids who at the time didn't like strangers...they absolutely loved her. For that....I pay her $10/hour and I am fine with that. I have seen every other sitter out there charges the same price though and they don't have half the qualifications. It seems $10 is the going rate for everyone.

Ruh-roh!!

Let’s break it down.

Let’s start with the “she is clean” issue. I’m working myself up into a sheer giggle fit just trying to imagine how that conversation went between this mommy and InsertNameofSitterFinderServiceHere.com:

Sitter Service: “Hello, this is InsertNameofSitterFinderServiceHere.com. How can we help you?”

Mommy: “Hi! My name is __________. I have two kids and I am looking for a clean sitter.”

Sitter Service: “What do you mean by ‘clean’?”

Mommy: “I’m not really sure, but it’s going to sound like I am the best mommy in the world when I tell all of my friends that my sitter is ‘clean’."

Sitter Service: “Well, I guess I could say that our babysitters regularly bathe, if that’s what you mean.”

Mommy: “No, I don’t think I will be able to get on my sanctimommy high horse as easily if all I’ve got to go on is basic hygiene. What else ya’ got for me?”

Sitter Service: “All of our sitters pass a basic background check and drug test. Does that help?”

Mommy: “Now we are getting somewhere. I’m looking for somebody with both practical and educational experience in catering to the needs of my two incredibly over-indulged brats. I never let them out of my sight, so they think any non-family member has plans on stringing them up and taking them across the boarder. The Canadian border. Knowing this, you can rest assured that I will be handing a list to your selected sitter of any and every possible way I want an issue solved while I am out of the house getting tipsy on Vodka and Xanax with ‘the girls’ along with a list of emergency contacts covering the entire Eastern Seaboard. Oh, and one more thing, I only want to pay just slightly above the minimum wage. But it will be in cash, so it’s like she’s getting more.”

Sitter Service: “Ummmm . . . . how about a college student with only a couple of ‘Minor in Possession’ charges and a few jaywalking tickets. Is that clean enough for you?”

Mommy: “Perfect!! I’ll take her!” she says while basking in the all-knowing glow that she has done real, actual research and found a clean sitter.

Mommy of the fucking year award material here.

Moving forward, we have the “I have seen every other sitter out there charges the same price though and they don’t have half the qualifications.”

Oh dear.

Sanctimommy alert.

Really?? You’ve seen EVERY other sitter out there that charges $10 an hour. Fuck me. That’s a lot of interviewing.

$10 per hour for one kid is the going rate in my city for your more than perfectly capable, high-energy college student, who I need to watch my kid for a few hours while I go out and ~~get laid~~ help blind lepers.

However, I also know a perfectly good back-handed dig when I see one.

What Sanctimommy is really saying is: YOU BITCHES MAY BE OK WITH SOME CRACK ADDICT/METH HEAD/KARDASHIAN WATCHING YOUR CHILDREN, BUT I'M NOT. SHAME ON ALL Y’ALL.

The icing on the cake was a follow-up post from the site’s creator in response to a reader question about finding a good babysitter:

Site Creator: “People don’t seem to keen on sharing their babysitter . . . . Sorta screws them over as then she might not be available!”

Translation: I’ll be sure to give you an opinion on the fact that your babysitter isn’t clean enough by MY standards, but I’m DAMN sure I’m not going to give you the name of one who is!!

Facebook Guilt

Sat, 25 Feb 2012 14:40:12 -0700

Wikipedia has a term for this and that term is “Slacktivism”:

The word is usually considered a pejorative term that describes "feel-good" measures, in support of an issue or social cause, that have little or no practical effect other than to make the person doing it feel satisfaction. The acts tend to require minimal personal effort from the slacktivist. The underlying assumption being promoted by the term is that these low cost efforts substitute for more substantive actions rather than supplementing them.

I call it “Facebook Guilt” (and have already submitted it to UrbanDictionary – that’s how strongly I feel about this topic) and when it comes to Facebook Guilt – all of a sudden, EVERYBODY is a Jewish Mother!

We’ve all seen ‘Facebook Guilt’ in one form or another. Some loosely quoted examples might be:

‘I’m putting this status up for one hour today to stand up for _______________ rights. If you feel the same way YOU MUST POST IT TOO – IF YOU DON’T I’LL KNOW YOU DON’T CARE!’
‘I care about America’s soldiers – IF YOU CARE TOO YOU MUST REPOST THIS.’
‘I just gave $__________ to __________ because I love __________ – if you love __________ you’ll do the same RIGHT NOW!! If you DON’T you’re a cold, mean, heartless wanker!!’

Don’t try to get me to feel guilty about not
re-posting your “cause of the day” when you damn well know it won’t help anyone. I don’t need to
re-post your post to “prove” that I (pick one): support the military, love my family, hate taxes, want a cure for cancer/AIDS/stupidity, and your attempt to make people feel guilty about it just makes me want to be LESS supportive of those causes.

Facebook is supposed to be for social networking, not chain mail circa 1998. Saying “97% of people won't repost this because they're ashamed of Jesus” is really annoying. Faith shouldn't be measured in posts on Facebook and I’m pretty sure (although not entirely positive) that ‘Jesus’ isn’t paying any attention to status updates on your social networking wall. Just a guess. WTF does posting the color of your bra or the contents of your purse have to do with
Breast Cancer Awareness?? Wouldn’t a simple “GET A FUCKING MAMMOGRAM ALREADY” be far more effective as a status update??

Seriously, if you want to support a cause, go donate money and/or time or spread awareness to people who are going to actually do something besides repost two feeble sentences about it just so they won’t feel guilty. Posting a Facebook status about it won’t do anything but annoy everyone whose live feed it shows up on, seeing as it is an inefficient way to actually fight cancer, prevent AIDS or end social networking stupidity.

Even Facebook is guilty of Facebook guilt. See what happens when you select “Deactivate my account”. To say that leaving Facebook means your friends “will no longer be able to keep in touch with you” is just wrong. Facebook often says little things like this that read like it thinks it has a monopoly on human connections:

Look . . . you will have no means of communicating with any of these people ever again (according to us).

How about this as a re-post:

FYI: Tomorrow Facebook will change its privacy settings to allow Mark Zuckerberg to come into your house while you sleep and eat your brains with a tiny little spoon. To stop this from happening go to:
Account > Home Invasion Settings > Cannibalism > Brains, and uncheck the ‘Delicious’ box. Save a friend - copy and repost.

Copy and paste this into your status if you are sick of people telling you to copy and paste things into your status.

Stuff Memphians Say

Tue, 21 Feb 2012 15:57:46 -0700

I have lived all over the country - Washington D.C., San Francisco, Houston, Nashville, Hot Springs (Arkansas), Wooster (Ohio), Colorado Springs (duh), London (found in almost every state, but I actually mean England) . . . but none of those places has quite the “I-don’t-know-how-to-explain-it-ness” of Memphis.

This post will have a very, very limited audience. I know that each town comes with their own quirkiness, colloquialisms, and kitsch, but this is my blog (partly) and I will do what I want.

I can’t do this post without giving full, complete and massive props to the original creator behind the idea. I only know him/her as “GoBigFishGo” on YouTube.com, so please check out the original “Stuff Memphians Say.”

Things People Say in Memphis
by: SmartassMommies

Props to the original creator behind the idea-GoBigFishGo on YouTube

Top 7 Things the Pregnancy Books Don’t Tell You

Sat, 18 Feb 2012 16:59:41 -0700

Friends tell me I should write a book. Not going to happen. However, I have had enough people tell me that what I sent below was one of the funniest things they've ever read. I disagree completely; however, after hearing about how many people it's been forwarded to, I decided to post it here to make sure I receive absolute and total credit. It's mine . . . all mine.

As background, I had my child - a little boy nicknamed "Peanut" - on 07/07/07. Yes, that's his actual birthday and no, I wasn't induced. During the course of my pregnancy, like every literate, pregnant woman, I read everything about being pregnant I could get my hands on. There were two problems with that. First, although I became an expert on pregnancy, I failed to purchase even one book on how to raise a child. At the very least I needed something called "How to Feed and Water your Infant." Secondly, what I did read — while excellent in providing necessary medical and Trivial Pursuit facts - left out what I thought were some pretty major points. These are the points I tried to warn my girlfriends about. Here goes.

Top 7 (ish) things the pregnancy books don’t tell you:

1. Contractions are painful. I mean like really, really painful. Most books described early labor as feeling like the worst case of menstrual cramps you’ve ever had. Bullshit. This is true only if the worst case of menstrual cramps you’ve ever had feels like a truck driving over your abdomen. If that’s the case, then labor will be like cakewalk.

2. You will be appreciative of the nurse counting to 10 for you while pushing. While watching those pregnancy shows (a.k.a. “crack” for pregnant women), I thought that I would be really annoyed as I am perfectly capable of counting to 10 on my own. Forget it. You won’t remember your name while pushing, much less what comes after “7”, so having this information provided to you by a third-party is infinitely helpful.

3. Not a single pregnancy book described what happens after. After the birth, the delivery of the placenta, and family photo taking, you actually have to STAND UP, get out of the delivery bed, and go to the bathroom. Mentally prepare yourself for the horror fest of blood and goo that will continue to come out. I had no idea and wished I had. You will think you are hemorrhaging. Keep this in mind — everything that comes out is one less thing that will show up on the scale when you get home.

4. Bring something to drink to the hospital. I brought apple juice in those little boxes and they became a life saver. The nurses at the hospital where I delivered are wonderful, and I was lucky enough to go into labor over the weekend, so I had the place to myself, but they are not flight attendants nor cocktail waitresses. Murphy’s Law will dictate that at the one second you are dying of thirst, not a nurse will be found.

4a. Corollary to this rule — put your husband/partner/friend/sperm donor to work! You’ve just been through the worst physical trauma of your life and all he’ll have to complain about is having to sleep on those couches in the hospital room. Boo freakin’ hoo. Have that man get you Starbucks if you want it. At 3 a.m.

4b. Also much appreciated in the hospital — fuzzy socks, lip balm and lotion. You simply cannot drink enough to make of for the gallons of fluid loss you are experiencing and as a result, will have the driest skin of your life.

4c. A mistake I made — overpacking. I don’t know where or when I thought I was going to where all of the clothes that I brought. During my three days in the hospital, I wore my maternity pjs (easy for whipping out the boobs) and that was it. The only clothes I wore were coming into the hospital and going out.

4d. Another mistake I made — saving up all of my magazines. I must have anticipated that labor and delivery would be like sitting on a beach – hours of waiting around without really much to do. Granted, I only had a seven hour labor, but during that time, I wouldn’t have had enough concentration even for a Cosmo sex quiz, and that would have been like closing the barn door after the horse had already gotten out.

5. The first shower after delivery will be the best shower of your life. Enjoy it! I brought travel size shampoos and the like. Instead, I wished I’d gone out and bought the most luxurious and expensive smelly-goods I could get my hands on.

5a. Corollary to this rule – you will go days without having the chance to take a shower in these first few weeks. There were times I only realized it had been too long between showers with the leftover breastmilk on my tank top I was wearing started to sour. Seriously.

6. Speaking of breastmilk – when your milk starts to come in (another incredibly painful experience), pump and save for those times where whipping out a boob just doesn’t work. Guaranteed, "Peanut" would want to nurse for an hour at the exact moment a friend I hadn’t seen in months stopped by the see the baby. During these moments, I wished I had some on reserve to feed him in public.

6a. Corollary to this rule — “they” say to avoid bottles and pacifiers the first few weeks if you are breastfeeding to avoid “nipple confusion”. This was never a problem for us – "Peanut" would sometimes have a boob and a bottle in the same feeding and practically salivated whenever he was held by anybody bigger than a “C” cup.

7. And finally (for now), make sure your husband/partner/friend/sperm donor has heard of a “mother’s gift” or a “push present.” The (Jewish) rule of thumb is one carat for every hour you were in labor. Now, if there were true, I’d still be pushing and we’d have been broke. However, if you’ve ever wanted to hit up your husband/partner/friend/sperm donor for some nicer diamonds – NOW IS THE TIME!! You are a goddess who has just delivered his first born child and therefore your husband/partner/friend/sperm donor is at his most malleable. You can pretty much talk him into getting you anything you want. My only mistake was not having something picked out prior to the birth. However, the sparklers on my earlobes were definitely worth the wait!!!

So that's it. The list that I've sent my girlfriends. Enjoy and good luck!

Valentine’s Day - Part Deux

Wed, 15 Feb 2012 18:05:21 -0700

Just a little follow up funny. The note from school is true (with identifying information redacted). My response was only in my head.

From “the boy’s” school:

Dear Families,
Just a reminder that at the Jewish Community Early Childhood Center we do not celebrate Valentine's Day. We celebrate Jewish and National holidays.
Have a great evening and drive carefully,
“School Director”

My response:

Translation: We will look for any and every Jewish holiday we can find to keep your kids out of school. Leave it to us and we will find holidays that Hassidic Jews have never even heard about. However, by G-d we will not, I repeat NOT, have anything to do with any of that Catholic, beheading, cupid crap. Because that's just horseshit.
Sincerely,
Your Precious Child's Loving School

Valentine’s Day

Mon, 13 Feb 2012 21:29:23 -0700

Valentine’s Day. Probably the most stressful holiday ever for the entire male species. As February 14th gets closer, I’m finding myself being battered in the head by pinks and reds. Everywhere I look, I can’t escape it! I even had to go out and find Valentine’s Day cards and gifts for all 14 of my daughter’s classmates. Later on today I will be stuffing red, heart-covered plastic cups with the following:

Heart-shaped erasers
Pencils covered in (you guessed it) hearts, and
A card with Scooby Doo proclaiming his undying love for you. And you. And you. Scooby loves all of my daughter’s classmates very much.

With all of my bitching you might assume that I am some cranky spinster with no Valentine to call my own. Assume all you want, bitches! I am actually married to a wonderful man who, every Friday, brings fresh flowers to me and to our daughter. I bet you think I’m bragging. Well . . . I am. BUT! I am going somewhere with this.

First, a little history. The Valentines honored on February 14 have nothing to do with a naked flying baby sporting a bow and arrow. These Valentines were actually saints: Saint Valentine of Rome and Saint Valentine of Terni, both of whom were killed because of their religion. The end. There was a third Saint Valentine but he was killed in Africa with a bunch of his buddies. So… I guess he KINDA counts. I bet his buddies are kind of mad though because no one named any holidays after them. One of the three Saints’ heads was preserved in the abbey of New Minster, Winchester. And in my opinion, nothing says love like the gift of a human head. Seriously, if you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up for this Valentine’s Day. It is a gift she will forever remember. TRUST ME!

But why do we make such a huge deal about this holiday? Is it because we are mourning for our lost Saints? Probably not. The first recorded association of Valentine's Day with romantic love is in “Parlement of Foules” by Geoffrey Chaucer, who wrote:

For this was on seynt Volantynys day  Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make.

If you don’t speak “What the Fuck,” I can translate for you. I am fluent in the language. What he was really trying to say was, “For this was Saint Valentine's Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate.”

That’s some beautiful shit right there. Even if it is a lie (birds in England don’t normally migrate in February). Anyhow, Chaucer wrote this little poem to honor the first anniversary of the engagement of King Richard II of England to Anne of Bohemia. Now, I’m not trashing Chaucer. I love Chaucer. I even recently bought myself a brand new copy of “The Canterbury Tales” because I wore my old one out. But because of Chaucer and his stupid birds, men are currently sweating bullets to come up with the “perfect” Valentine’s Day gift for the ladies in their life.

Thanks, Chaucer. Thanks for the legions of guys who panic in the last minute and give us (all true stories) fur-covered handcuffs, the perfume that his ex-girlfriend used to wear, a gym membership, used fishing tackle, and ridiculously large overstuffed white teddy bears that you buy on the freeway off-ramp. Thanks, Chaucer, because we women have to accept these gifts with a smile and act like it is the . . . Greatest . . . Gift . . . Ever!!!

Ladies, let me give you a little hint. If you build up this whole Valentine’s Day thing in your head, you’re bound to be disappointed. This is coming from a woman with the mind of a man. Stop! Just stop yourselves before your brain explodes because he can’t live up to your expectations. What do you expect? He’s a man, not a mind reader. If there is something you want for Valentine’s Day, TELL HIM! Don’t sit back and wait for him to show up with overpriced flowers and a stuffed bear when what you really wanted was a heart shaped pizza and a new PlayStation game. Oh, no – wait - that’s what I want. See, it’s all about me, isn’t it?

The point I’m trying to get across is that Valentine’s Day makes people a little crazy. For some of my girlfriends with men (or women) in their lives, Valentine’s Day is like a test. A test to see if he can live up to your fluffy chocolate-filled expectations. And for my single friends, it’s a reminder that they are alone on Valentine Day. It’s almost as if the whole world is walking around flaunting their love for the sake of the lonely. A sort of “In your face, loser with no boyfriend!” For example, I have two really amazing friends. Both woman are strong, beautiful, and currently on a one-way road down depression highway because they don’t have someone special in their lives for this overhyped holiday. This is something that my wonderfully awesome, devastatingly beautiful friend Cherokee wrote on her Facebook wall. “Valentine’s Day is for suckers . . . Now excuse me while I cry into this tub of ice cream.” First off, this woman is so hot she’s the reason the polar ice caps are melting. Most men would gladly lose a limb just to be near her. But because it’s Valentine’s Day she’s too busy thinking about what’s she’s missing out on, instead of what she’s got going on.

But Stacy, Valentine’s Day is my favorite holiday. My boyfriend is just so sweet and he always brings me flowers. *Squeal*

Yes, it is a nice day, but you should be doing nice things for each other EVERY DAY! Like taking out the trash. I love it when my husband does that for me. If he would just clean out the cat box I would have multiple orgasms right there on the spot. What I’m trying to say is, enjoy the little things in life. Enjoy your loved one’s smile, how they look at you when they’re talking to you, even the times they blatantly ignore you. Think about it, mostly likely you talk too much anyway, and it’s just his way of keeping his sanity so that he’s not driven insane with guilty thoughts of suffocating you with a pillow at night. Life is not perfect. Men (or women) are not perfect. But if we find that one person who makes our heart happy we should be overjoyed with that, because let’s be honest: it is so so rare. And for all my single friends out there who are looking for Cupid’s arrow, I would like to quote my five-year-old daughter who said:

I don’t want that flying orphan shooting me in the butt!

Amen little sister! If that stupid flying orphan isn’t visiting you this year who cares? Go get yourself a nice bottle of champagne, some chocolate covered strawberries and rent the movie Con Air. If Nicolas Cage can’t make you feel better about life . . . nobody can.

So to all of my friends out there I wish you a very happy “Dead-guys-with-missing-heads type of day.” Kiss your loved ones and be grateful for what you already have. Because even if you’re alone on Valentine’s Day, please remember that no matter what, there is someone out there who loves you. Even if you haven’t met them yet.

What Sleeping in My Own Bed is Like

Fri, 10 Feb 2012 10:53:37 -0700

My homage to "Crappy Pictures” . . .

Every night, I put “the boy” to sleep in his own bed. During each and every night, sometime between the hours of 2 a.m. and 4 a.m., he comes into my room like some kind of stealth ninja boy to finish sleeping the night with me. Even though I have King-sized bed, despite the laws of physics, geometry and common sense, I am pushed to the side by two 15-pound Westies and a 45-pound 4-year old. Usually I wake up with my leg hanging off the bed and a crick in my neck because, GOD FORBID, my dogs sleep anywhere except on my pillows with 750-thread count sheets. This is what the end result looks like.

Image is not to scale.

Jealousy Photo

Fri, 10 Feb 2012 10:05:19 -0700

Our Thoughts on (some of) the 2012 Presidential Election Candidates

Wed, 08 Feb 2012 11:59:43 -0700

So, it’s time to stick our necks out and let you know what we think about the current roster of Presidential candidates.

As mommies, of course our first priority is our kids, so in that vein, our selection is tainted with the rosy haze of examining the candidates through snot-covered glasses.

Knowing this, we thought it would be helpful to provide a “Presidential Candidate Guide” which ranks the current prospects against our list of “must haves” to find out who comes out on top.

This is obviously not an original idea. News organizations are constantly stack ranking candidates based on their stance on “vital” issues like: the economy, taxes, abortion, immigration and looks (well, maybe not that last one, but it doesn’t seem like there have ever been truly “ugly” Presidents in recent memory, so somebody thinks it’s “important.”)

Below, please find the list of our criteria, why we think it’s important and who comes out on top.

Issue: Truth in politics

Why ask? Our kids lie. All . . . . the . . . . time. And so do we. Examples:

“If you don’t cut it out, I’m telling Santa Claus!”
“My sister did it!” or,
“Leave that alone, that’s mommy’s grape juice.”

We figure if a politician can’t do this better than our 4 and 5-year olds, they don’t deserve to be (re)elected.

Yes, we realize that there are other Presidential candidates (file this under “What the fuck!” – Roseanne Barr is running??) but this post is already too long and this is the most I’ve talked about politics since my freshman year “International Politics and Economic Relations” class in college, and I’m already bored.

Our vote? George Clooney. He can put together a coherent sentence, he’s not a “beltway insider” (on my to do list: come up with a debate drinking game every time certain terms, such as this one, are used), he’s old enough (Constitutionally speaking) and, most importantly, he’s hot. These are qualifications that our toddlers do not possess. So who’s to say that our list of standards is any better or worse than those “talking heads” at “respectable news organizations” (the use of quotes is sarcastic) can come up with??

At the end of the day, if you can’t do this job better than our Kindergartners, then just sit down, have a glass of wine, shut the hell up and watch The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. That’s what we do, and it seems to work out just fine.

No Artificial Colors

Thu, 02 Feb 2012 15:58:37 -0700

We have absolutely no problems with mommies who have specific dietary restrictions for their kids. After all, we are the mommies and we are in charge!! Kids can have medical issues, religious constraints, personal preferences . . . etc. HOWEVER, don’t get all Sanctimommy on our asses about your kid’s food limitations and then turn right around and prove otherwise. Similar to those Sanctimommies who tell you, “I never let my children watch TV” and then you go over to their house and those little bastards are plastered right in front of “SpongeBob SquarePants”. Whatever.

The following reenactment actually took place this past weekend. There was simply no other way I could explain it, or appropriately portray my reaction, other than in visual form. The only artistic license I took is that the role of “me” is played by somebody much cuter and without a southern accent. Rated-G for awesome.

No Artificial Colors
by: SmartassMommies

A reenactment of an actual conversation that took place with a mommy who apparently doesn't know what birthday cakes are decorated with.

Why We Really Read Books to Our Kids

Tue, 31 Jan 2012 13:44:41 -0700

If you’re a good parent you most likely read your kids bedtime stories. If you don’t, it’s because you probably suck. I’m just kidding. Maybe. In my house this is the time the hubby and I cuddle up with our daughter and enjoy our “family time”. Considering my husband and I both have an insatiable appetite for books, it’s important to us that our daughter understands the importance of reading. I know, I probably deserve the parent of the year award. But I think we all know that’s never going to happen. Why? Because I don’t feed my kid organic food, and I’m currently letting my daughter watch TV while I write this. I am a bad, bad mommy.

Our bedtime ritual goes as follows. We get into our comfy pajamas, feed the dog and cat, and then daddy helps my five-year old brush her teeth. I am proud to say she is still cavity free. Then all three of us climb into her bed and read exactly three books. This is where the problem usually occurs.

“Mini Me, go pick out the three books you want to read,” I tell my daughter.

“I want you to do it,” She’ll say. So I do. I usually try and pick out books I like and don’t mind reading. For instance one of my favorites is "Go the Fuck to Sleep”.

If you have never read this book, or had Samuel L. Jackson read this book for you, you are doing yourself a great disservice:

Now of course I would never read this book to my child, and I seriously doubt any sane parent would either. However critics lost their minds because of this book.

CNN guest columnist Karen Spears Zacharias has blasted the wonderfully funny book written by the amazingly talented Adam Mansbach. She suggests that the book could pose a threat to the welfare of the children. Well yeah, if you're beating them with the book I would have to agree with this humorless bitch. Doesn’t she understand this this book isn’t for the children? It’s for frustrated and tired parents everywhere who have spent endless hours trying to put their children to sleep. And if you’re a parent who actually reads this book to your child, I think you need to put yourself in a time out and think about what you’ve done. She goes on to write, “The violent language of Go the F_ _ _ to Sleep is not the least bit funny when one considers how many neglected children fall asleep each night praying for a parent who’d care enough to hold them, nurture them, and read to them.” Please remind me to never, ever invite this woman to my house. She is the ultimate funsucker. The woman can’t even bring herself to say the word fuck. Instead she writes “F_ _ _ _”. Come on Karen you can say it. It’ll make you feel better. Try it with me, fuuuuuucccccckkk. *Sigh* I feel better how about you?

But, we are not reading “Go the Fuck to Sleep” to Mini Me. Every single night Mini Me tells her dad or myself to pick out her three books for her. If I had my druthers I would pick out “Click, Clack Moo”. I love that book. Makes me laugh every time. Also a good one is “Shark vs. Train”. A children’s classic. And also one of my very favorites, “Diary of a Spider”. You have to love any book that has a main character that is afraid of vacuums. So I do as she asks and pick out the three books I want to read to her. Once I bring them back to the bed she takes one look at my picks, grabs them, and puts them back into the bookshelf so she can take out the worst book in the Universe. “Once Upon a Potty”. By Alona Frankel.

I hate this book. I really really hate this book. I have tried to hide this book only to have my husband find it for Mini because he thinks it is funny to cause me pain. I have thrown this book into the trash only to find it right back in the bookshelf like some possessed Ouija board. I can’t escape the damn thing. Now I didn’t pick this book out for Mini. A family member who shall remain nameless bought this book for her. So lets do a quick read of the book shall we.

The book starts out with Prudence and her mother. “This is Prudence. Prudence is a little girl. Hello I am Prudence’s mother. I’d like to tell you about Prudence and her potty.” Now I had no idea that the author was Jewish. But the first time I read this book my inner Jewish mother came right out. I should probably mention that I was a Theater Major and a pro at accents and dialects. So once my inner Jewish mother came out, I couldn’t stop her no matter how much I tried.

The author goes on to describe Prudence’s body parts. “A head for thinking. Eyes for seeing. Ears for hearing. A mouth to talk and eat with. Hands for playing. A pee pee for making Wee-Wee. Legs for running. A bottom for sitting and in it a little hole for making Poo-Poo.” And there is Prudence. Naked from head to toe bending over so we call all see her hole. But do people complain about this book? Is Karen Spears Zacharias up in arms about the fact that this book that is bordering on child pornography? No. One woman named Debbie said, “My adult daughter was in the hospital and we had great fun together as I read this book to her as though she were still a little girl. And sat and sat and sat and sat.” If I were in the hospital, the last think I would want to see would be Prudence’s little cartoon butthole. But if that wasn’t enough, the book goes on and shows Prudence as a baby. Then her proud mother tells us that she has been changing little Prudence’s diaper since she was only one day old. It would actually be kind of a sweet story if they didn’t actually show Prudence’s poo. What is it with this author? Moving on to page 7-8. More poo. But on pages 9-10 Prudence’s grandmother brings Prudence a little present. What could it be?? Turning the page. It’s a potty! Even though it looks a lot like a water jug. The messed up thing about all of this is, if someone gave me that as present, you can rest assure it would be on my dining room table and I would either be pouring you a nice glass of Houston’s finest, or it would be filled with a bouquet of flowers.

Let’s move on to another review written by Sarah Lynn Lester. She raves about the book. But the book wasn’t sufficient; Sarah Lynn Lester also got the DVD. Because seeing Prudence’s private parts in a book weren’t enough. There is nothing as exciting as seeing Prudence drop a deuce in live motion. She goes on to write, “The whole time I've been writing this – (the review) and for entire months of the last few years - I've had the fabulous little jingle from the DVD stuck in my head”. It even has a jingle! How twisted is that???

Moving on to page 19. There is Prudence sitting on her potty. Such pretty Prudence. Page 20. There is Prudence staring at her poo. REALLY?! And if it wasn’t bad enough I’m starting at Prudence’s poo as well. Does it ever end?!?!! I think to myself as I’m reading this to my potty-trained five-year old. And it does end. Temporarily. That is until page 25. I don’t think I need to tell you what we see in little Prudence’s potty. Why should I tell you when the author has a closeup shot of it? My eyes!! My eyes!! “Bye Bye, Wee-Wee. Bye bye, Poo-Poo,” says little Prudence, as she and her mother dump the contents of Prudence’s bowel functions in the toilet. And of course the very last picture is Prudence’s bare ass sitting on her potty. AND BYE BYE PRUDENCE! I say.

I will try again to dispose of dear sweet Prudence and her potty. But I swear it, I think my kid has LoJack on this particular piece of “art”. Even while writing this blog my kid came in my office and took off with the book. I had to beg her to give it back to me so I could finish. Prudence has her naked little hand on the pulse of this family. But let’s be honest, I will continue to read this book. Why? Because all I really want is for my kid to go the fuck to sleep.

How Many G**damn Awards Shows Are There??

Sun, 29 Jan 2012 19:40:26 -0700

I came across this article online a few minutes ago and I just couldn’t make it past the first sentence: (From The Hollywood Reporter) “The 15th annual Hollywood Awards took place on Monday night at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, kicking off a months-long season of self-congratulations and chicken dinners shared by the same core group of people.”

This got me to thinking. How many fucking awards shows are there?? So I just did what I always do and used “the Googles”.

According to an outdated list on Wikipedia, in the UNITED STATES alone! there are almost FIFTY awards shows, including (but not limited to and certainly in no particular order, with a couple of famous foreign ones thrown in for good measure so you don’t think I’m ignorant):

The Academy Awards (a.k.a. “The Oscars”)
The Golden Globe Awards
The S.A.G. Awards
The Emmy Awards
The People’s Choice Awards
Hollywood Film Awards
MTV Movie Awards
Academy of Cinema and Television Arts Awards
Critics' Choice Movie Awards (a.k.a. the Broadcast Film Critics Association Awards)
Teen Choice Awards
Kid’s Choice Awards
People’s Choice Awards (because Teens and Kids don’t count apparently)
Independent Spirit Awards
American Film Institute Awards
BAFTA Film Awards (British, so it doesn’t really count either)
Various Critics’ Association Film Awards (19 separate U.S. cities or states listed)
Film Festival Awards (five in the U.S. counting Sundance, plus don’t forget Cannes)
More than THIRTY additional Industry awards in the U.S. alone excluding the ones listed above

(I would normally provide a nice little hyperlink to everything listed above but frankly, I just couldn’t be bothered).

Is there any other profession or line of work that is as self-congratulatory as the movie and television industry?? Don’t get me wrong, I’m as giddy as the next girl at seeing pretty dresses and jewelry and I practically have a giggle fit at the Schadenfreude that comes when some prissy, skinny little thing looks like she got dressed in the dark. In addition, I proudly went to college and was friends with both the author of The Descendants and the director of the new Spiderman movie coming out this summer (note to awards picker people: Kaui and Marc’s movies deserve to win everything) so of course I’m going to watch anything that they are nominated for, but come ON already!!

I will admit that one of the great benefits of awards season is highlighting those shows that you might have otherwise missed. (I just realized the ridiculousness of what I just typed. Really?? They have their own season?? As in: spring, summer, fall, winter, LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!) However, since there are so many of them, chances are everything will be highlighted at some point. It’s kind of like giving a participation award to every kid on the team or that great scene in Meet the Fockers when Robert DeNiro’s character notices Ben Stiller’s character’s “10^th place” ribbon at his parents' house. Really?? A 10^th place ribbon. How “special”.

Note to award recipients – it’s not clever, amusing, creative and/or funny (and y’all are supposed to, you know, be kind of good at that stuff) if you do one of the following during the ceremony. These have all been done before, and with great or frequent regularity:

“Forget” your speech and/or your glasses.
Lay down some serious F-bombs in an amount directly proportional to your talent.
Make out with a member of the same sex on stage (unless you are actually a couple, then by all means, go right on ahead).
Quote somebody else’s famous acceptance speech (#creativityfail).
Feign shock/surprise/glee when you win because you “weren’t expecting this” and “it was just an honor to be nominated”. Horseshit. None of you are that good of an actor. We are ALL onto you.
Give your award to someone else. (It’s called “re-gifting” and even little kids know it’s wrong).
Invite all of the other nominees on the stage. (I know I just WON, but look up here at everybody else who LOST).
Thanking Jesus and God. Guess what guys? Those two don’t give a shit about crap like this. I think Darfur has probably got them all tied up at the moment (although the big man and his kid do have a bit of a break now that Tebow’s season is over).

Usually awards shows are remembered because of the hosts (I heart Ricky Gervais) or some ridiculous stunt that was pulled (Sasha Baron Cohen’s ass in Eminem’s face). Even some actors are over it. I found a great quote from one about awards season. The Social Network star Jesse Eisenberg compared the process to being 13 and going to bar mitzvahs all the time. In an interview in Us Magazine he said, “I put on a suit every weekend and go and meet with a lot of Jews.” I can’t ever imagine watching one of these without the use of a DVR. At the end of the day, the total time it takes to read the list of nominees and announce the winner probably sums to less than 60 seconds. Everything else is just filer. Lots and lots and lots of filler.

(On a side note: is it just me, or does anybody else out there wonder why they need accountants to tally the votes?? I can’t imagine anything more complicated going on behind those scenes other than, you know, addition.)

Do people in this industry have such delicately sensitive egos that they have to be flattered and praised almost all year round for their Earth-shattering “contributions” to society?? These people will even clap for THEMSELVES when THEIR OWN NAME IS ANNOUNCED!! Award shows are just marketing events; simply another form of advertising. The way the media cover these events and all of the pomp and circumstance surrounding them never ceases to amaze me. With very few exceptions, the winners are already extremely well paid for a job they love, so they shouldn’t need prizes, applause and have to lap up how great and wonderful they are. Who really gives a toss?? It’s just a bunch of self-indulgent ego wanking when you get down to it. How about, just for once, the same amount of commercialism, financing and attention being given to a “Nurse of the Year” or the “Teacher of the Year” award ceremony?!?

Spoiler Alert: If George Clooney is nominated, he will win. If Brad and Angelina show up, she will look beautiful but will wear a facial expression like some hot poker is shoved up her backside because she really couldn’t be bothered to be there in the first place, and yet . . . there she is. Brad, on the other hand, will sadly look like shit. Some random red-carpet host will ask a very personal question of some actor that will inexplicably cause embarrassment because the question asked was about something we are all supposed to pretend like we don’t know anything about but everybody does.

I have no problem at all with talented artists being given awards for their creativity and endeavors, but it would be far more tolerable if they did it privately and discreetly. So yes, the dresses and jewels are pretty, but it’s not like any of us are going to be buying any of them.

Shoving Broccoli Down Their Little Throats

Fri, 27 Jan 2012 10:18:44 -0700

I am a healthy eater. I mean healthy, healthy. My favorite foods are salads and vegetables, primarily because they are the perfect conduits for ranch dressing. I do eat meat, but usually only when somebody else has prepared it for me (God bless you Ruth’s Chris Steak House). My only vice would have to be my wicked caffeine addition but fuck it! We are mommies and caffeine is not so much a vice as it is a necessity. Like oxygen. Or wine. Or tannin-infused O₂. But I digress.

After I gave birth to “the boy”, I was convinced that I was going to breastfeed up until the time that he was capable of walking up to my boobs and asking for it (an actual event that took place in the one Le Leche League meeting I attended, but I might have to save that experience for a later post). Well, as my Jewish mother says, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions”. I was never really sure what that meant, but as a southern, Jewish female, I think that there is a law that requires us to say stuff like that. And to have weird superstitions. I’ll also save that discussion for later.

So the whole breastfeeding thing lasted a whopping six months. As I previously mentioned, I only had one milk-producing boob and I gave birth to an 8 pound, 2 ounce boy who nursed every two hours for a whole bloody hour! He and I basically looked at each other one day and said, “Enough of this shit, just give me a damn bottle!” So I did. But by God it was going to be ORGANIC! So from that day forward, during his formula-drinking months, the boy got Similac Organic. And he and I were both happier. Sadly, my boobs were not. They shrunk back down to a size smaller than their pre-milk-producing days, but for those blessed few months, I looked like an extra in a Russ Meyer film. It . . . was . . . awesome!

When he moved onto baby food, he would go through jars and jars and JARS a day of that delicious, smashed goodness. All organic because that’s what I ate (excepting the ranch dressing of course). The boy could eat eight jars a day! Usually “Sweet Potatoes”. There was a period that he was actually tinted slightly orange. Plus he has red hair. Yep, it wasn’t a good look.

So when it came time for solid food, I kept going down the hippity-dippity path of organic sustenance. And guess what? “The boy” wasn’t having any of that shit! No siree bob. It’s like his 9 month-old little ass took one look at me and said, “You’ve been feeding me this crap for almost a whole year and frankly, I’ve had enough of it. Bring me the fucking Goldfish crackers and Teddy Grahams please.” (He absolutely would have said “please” because to his credit, “the boy” has incredible manners. Most of the time).

As you all know, when you are desperate for your child to ingest calories, you’ll give them anything because those little fuckers will trick you into thinking they are going to starve to death if you don’t give them SOMETHING THEY WILL EAT RIGHT NOW! Well, if I only knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have played into his little, conniving game. Whether or not I would have won is a purely hypothetical conjecture and therefore cannot accurately be answered. I think I would have. “The boy” probably thinks otherwise.

So what are his favorite foods now? Goldfish and Teddy Grahams. Go figure.

At the end of the day, do I wish I could just shove broccoli down his little throat?? Abso-fucking-lutely. Do I do that?? Of course not. Do I try my absolute best to find a happy medium?? Definitely. Do I lose any sleep over it?? HELL no. Because we can only do what we can only do. So again I say, “Suck it, Gisele! My kid is bigger than your kid.” If I have to, I’ll even get one of those annoying bumper stickers.

Magical Superpowers and the Amazing Toilet Paper Quest

Tue, 24 Jan 2012 10:31:26 -0700

I am absolutely convinced that I have magical superpowers. I’m sure your asking yourself, is this woman delusional? The answer would be no. If I were delusional I would be booking Kimberly and myself tickets to Hawaii and staying at the plushest hotels. And forget about the price because I’m stinking rich! I don’t have to worry about the kid either, because I’m sure daddy could totally take off the next month from work to look after her so Kimberly and I could take some time off and recharge our batteries. Oh screw it; we’ll have the hubby take care of Kimberly’s kid too. I’m sure he would be more than happy to do it. Now THAT is delusional!

When I first realized I had these powers was when I was sitting on the toilet seat. There I was, reading my latest edition of US magazine. Which I’m almost positive had Kim Kardashian on the cover of it. Because let’s be honest, US Magazine couldn’t possibly put out a Kardashian-free magazine. The world would stop rotating on its axis, and we would all die in fiery deaths due to earthquakes and global climate change. But don’t worry because the tsunamis that will come after the earthquakes will most likely extinguish the fire engulfing our bodies. But now I’m just rambling. Making a good point, but rambling all the same. So there I was, having some very rare “me” time, when I looked over and sure enough, staring back at me, was an empty roll of toilet paper mocking me and my private parts. “I know, you thought I actually had toilet paper on me. But you were WRONG!! Suuuuuuuccccccckkkkkkeeeeerr!” the empty roll said to me.

Of course I can’t call for help, because no one is home except for the dog. And considering my dog doesn’t have opposable thumbs, and even if he did, I don’t think he would bring me toilet paper. Even if I begged him. And even if the kid and the hubby were home, the kid would most likely be in the bathroom with me talking in endless sentences and watching me pee. And the hubby would be watching football and unable to hear my screams over the sound of his own awesomeness.

So now that I know I am the only one in the house with the ability to change the rolls of toilet paper, I decided to test my theory. Instead of changing the rolls for the rest of the family, I decided to put brand new rolls of toilet paper on the back of the toilets to see what would happen. And then I began stalking all six of the bathrooms in our house. And that my friends, is a shit load of toilet paper. No pun intended. We have more bathrooms than we do bedrooms. But the quirkiness of it all is one of the reasons we bought the house. So there I was lurking in the shadows. Holding my breath outside the bathroom doors so I wouldn’t tip anyone off to my presence. I was like a Ninja. A slightly overweight, vodka drinking Ninja. But a Ninja all the same. I waited patiently in the darkness for my prey to exit the bathrooms and go on about their business ignoring my plea’s to take out the trash and pick up their own fucking toys for once. After they were safely away I clung to the walls. Back pressed against the surface of the hallway blending in to the creamy paint that the previous tenants thought was so spectacular they painted every inch of the house in it. Sliding. Sliding. Getting closer to the toilet paper rolls. Ducking! Shifting. Shimmying? And there it was…. fresh toilet paper. On the bathroom floor. You have got to be kidding me.They can’t even pick it up and put it on the roll? And that’s when it hit me. I have magical superpowers.I am the only one in this house that can successfully put the fresh toilet paper rolls back in their rightful place.I . . . am . . . AMAZING! I should probably alert the news stations.They’re going to want to hear about this!

Come to find out from the various news stations in the area and CNN, I’m not the only one with this ability. I just happen to be the only one in my house with this ability. I have been informed, rather harshly I might add, that other women all over the world excluding some third world countries, have been successfully changing toilet paper rolls for decades now. Really Wolf Blitzer, decades? I had even gone out and got myself a super suit with a faux-fur-lined collar embroidered with a fresh roll of toilet paper and made with the silk of a over two dozen silkworm-spider hybrid spiderworms. From silk. Spiderworms. Whatever, look it up. That shit is real! ANYWAY, I was heartbroken. I got the suit and everything. Of course my husband made fun of me and told me I could wear it on Halloween. Sometimes I’m not sure I really like him all that much. But I digress.

So instead of flying from building to building in my Spiderworm Silk Suit, I have decided to give up the spotlight and ask the women of the world to join me in in the worlds first ever TP club. Okay, let’s go ahead and call it a gang. We can all get matching jackets and snap our fingers à la Westside story when we walk down the street. So if you’re the only member of your family who has the ability to change toilet paper in your house join me. And send me $19.95 + shipping and handling for your jacket. You can make the check out directly to the Four Seasons Resort Maui at Wailea. If you could, just include mine and Kimberly’s name on the memo line. We would REALLY appreciate it.

Sanctimommies and the Mompetition Wars (Part II): Shut the Hell Up Gisele

Tue, 24 Jan 2012 09:44:03 -0700

Much ado was made about the supermodel Gisele Bundchen and her “I’m better than you” approach to childbirth and breastfeeding.

As far as I can tell, here is the link to the original, original article that quoted from the Harper’s Bazaar magazine interview:

There should be a worldwide law, in my opinion, that mothers should breastfeed their babies for six months.

Full disclosure: I actually liked Gisele as a model. I thought she brought curves back (relatively speaking) to an industry that brought us the concept of “Heroin chic”. Now I just think that she is an insufferable bitch.

Of COURSE she had a “natural, at home” childbirth, of COURSE she breastfed her kid (more on that later), of COURSE she was back modeling only six weeks after giving birth, but did that skinny twit just tell us that there should be a “WORLDWIDE LAW”??? (emphasis and disbelief mine) that requires all mothers to breastfeed for six months??? I could work myself up into a real giggle fit trying to think what the sentencing guidelines might be for breaking such a legislative requirement. Three months of hard labor (ba da bum . . . .really bad pun intended)??

According to the article, Gisele also said:

I think breastfeeding really helped (getting her figure back). Some people here think they don't have to breastfeed, and I think, ‘Are you going to give chemical food to your child, when they are so little?’

Ummmm, sweetie, first of all, ALL food is “chemical” food. WATER is a chemical, comprised of the elements hydrogen and oxygen. Now I am smart enough to realize that what she probably meant was either “processed” or “inorganic” food, but I am also smart enough to have said it and made that distinction. Did motherhood turn her brain to mush?? (Thank GOD she told me about CHEMICAL food. I guess now I’ll take the Roundup mix out of the Dr. Brown’s bottle and give “the boy” something from Whole Foods instead). I just adore parenting tips from multi-millionaires who live in houses with square footage measuring in the tens of thousands. Please put a microphone in front of the damn nanny, thank you very much. I’d sure as hell much rather hear what she thinks. God only knows how we managed to raise our own children without the help of celebrity mommies.

And the ultimate hypocrisy?? The bitch apparently only breastfed for three weeks.

I think there should now be a worldwide law that bubble-headed models keep their ignorant opinions to themselves. Or how about this? An international mandate that prevents douche canoes (thank you People I Want to Punch in the Throat) like Tom Brady from ditching their pregnant girlfriends to shack up with a supermodel.

We have a saying in the South: “Bless her heart”. It can mean something as innocent and sincere as “oh, you poor thing” to the more sardonic “what a fucking idiot”. So . . . bless her little heart, but she should just stick to print ads so we don’t have to listen to her speak.

Sanctimommies and the Mompetition Wars

Tue, 24 Jan 2012 08:59:23 -0700

Sanctimommy (sanc·ti·mom·my, noun \ˌsaŋ(k)-tə-ˈ mə-mē\):

A parent who is overly devoted, micromanaging the lives of their children, from the food they ingest to the activities they participate in. Sanctimommies look down their noses at those who are more liberal in their parenting approach.

Mompetition (mom·pe·ti·tion, noun \ mäm-pə-ˈti-shən\):

The one-up rivalry that moms play making their child seem better, smarter, and/or more advanced than yours. May involve two or more moms and any number of children, even full-grown.

Recently, I stumbled across an article entitled “Do We Need a Declaration for the Rights of a Baby”, but should be retitled: “The Sanctimommy’s Manifest Destiny”. With no disrespect to Dr. Narvaez, PhD, some of the highlights of her article include such helpful suggestions that babies NEED:

A natural birth, free of drugs and fetal monitors
Breastmilk “on demand for several years”
Access to a “swaddle-free” environment
“To be embedded with the activities of the family 24 hours a day”

However, similar to the “Communist Manifesto” there are the Bourgeois (“them”) and Proletarians (“us”). What is it about those Sanctimommies who believe that there is a “one-size fits all” approach to child rearing, what they think is best and therefore they are at the top of the Mompetition pecking order?? I’ve come to believe that these women have a rule for a child’s every behavior in every situation. Sanctimommies needs constant validation and they will, by God, get it from us. Our parenting choices serve as the perfect fodder for Sanctimommies since she can then criticize them and us. Dr. Amy Tuteur summarized it best when she noticed that:

My personal observation on the behavior of Sanctimommies in their natural habitat is that they tend to suffer from overwhelmingly from ostentatious ‘sadness’. They are so ‘sad’ for you that you don't do everything their way. They are so ‘sad’ for your children that you are not parenting the way they prescribe. They are just so ‘sad’ that everyone in the world does not recognize their incredible superiority and their expert status on every aspect of parenting at every age.

I recently found myself in a virtual bitchslap on Facebook as I stumbled upon a thread of women who were in a heated Mompetition battle. The topic of conversation was the “expiration” of car seats. One mom had experienced a verbal lashing while taking her newborn home from the hospital because her car seat had “expired”, and the other women where informing her that: Oh God Yes! Car Seats Expire!! You Didn’t KNOW this?? Do you KNOW what the heat of the sun will DO to a car seat?? The heat can cause microscopic fractures in the plastic that compromise the integrity of the seat in an accident. IMMEDIATELY call your Pediatrician/nearest police station/fire department/hospital/Legal Aid to get yours checked out!! (Note: those were all actual quotes, ideas and suggestions taken from the thread). As if we don’t have enough to worry about. I still have the boy’s Britax Marathon which I seemed to remember he used from about the age of 7 months until just before his 4th birthday. So I looked all over that damn thing for anything remotely resembling an “expiration date” and guess what, I couldn’t find it. So I felt the need to butt into the conversation in defense of this mother:

I am not a lawyer, a police officer nor a journalist. However, I am a single mommy to a four-year old. To the best of my recollection, I can't recall a single incident where a parent was in any way, shape or form ‘punished’ for having an ‘expired’ car seat. What does that even mean?? Using your best judgment, does your car seat in particular raise your child to a physical height at which the seatbelt would be even somewhat effective?? Did you, in good conscience, purchase that car seat from a reputable retailer with the intent of protecting your child?? Do you drive, on a daily basis, while abiding by the rules and regulations of the road, with common and decent courtesy, respect, and due attention while your child is in the car?? If you answered ‘yes’ to the above questions, then, my dear mommies, PLEASE sleep well tonight. For at the end of the day, not a single one of us straps our child into the car thinking ‘I'm just going to take a chance on this old car seat that I picked up from the dump wedged between the front and back seats of that sandwiched Pinto’. Our children will be OK!! We all grew up in a time when we rode around in the bed of our granddaddy’s pickup truck (even on the edge!), drank water directly from the garden hose, didn't return home ‘until the street lights came on’, were put to sleep on our tummies and some of our mommies probably smoked while they were pregnant with us because their DOCTOR’S told them that is wasn’t healthy to gain more than 20 pounds. WE ARE FUCKING FINE!! Do knowledge, wisdom, and technology change? Of course they do. But common sense remains the same. We are strong, educated women and, most importantly, we have happy and healthy children. What is NOT healthy, amongst us mommies, is the constant worrying and judging that takes place. At the end of the day, we should be concerned with: childhood cancer, stranger abductions, the overall economy and other things we just can't control. But right now, know in all of your hearts, that we are great mommies, and just because some random lawyer in some unknown state working for some unremarkable Federal agency set some arbitrary date which ‘determined’ that your child's car seat was ‘expired’ doesn't mean AT ALL that we should spend one more precious second of energy, money and/or time worrying about this. Instead, go play with your kids; make mud pies with worms knowing that when we ate them, the worms did not live in us forever.

Well, . . . that post went over like a ton of lead bricks in what appeared to be a Sanctimommies online brain trust advisory group. The only direct response I got was from one Sanctimommy who helpfully pointed out that “Actually child abductions have not risen. They have remained flat for the last 100 years that they've been tracked. Your kids are not any more likely to be kidnapped than you were or your parents were, etc.” Ummmm, thanks for the tip?? I’ll be sure to keep that in mind while I now let my child run completely unsupervised through the nearest Target, since “stranger danger” is apparently no longer a concern. But thanks for making a post that has absolutely nothing to do with the topic at hand.

So if we really want to discuss the “Mompetition Wars”, guess what? I’m declaring myself the winner. I don’t spend my days verbally lashing, judging and berating other women for their “bad” choices that make me feel “sad”. I feed my kid Goldfish. A lot. I did breastfeed, but only made it six months. Why? Because I gave birth to a > 8 pound baby who ate ALL THE FUCKING TIME and, on top of that, I only had one milk-producing boob. Seriously. So hand those little buggers a bottle, stick a paci in their little mouths and plop them in front of the TV so you can take a GODAMN SHOWER! Good for you! And when the little suckers have finally gone the fuck to sleep, invite Stacy and me over for a bottle of wine.

The Need for a “Sarcasm Font"

Fri, 20 Jan 2012 11:37:24 -0700

Nothing is more discouraging than unappreciated sarcasm.

~Anonymous

Ok, ok. We’ll finally just go ahead and admit it. We’re sarcastic. We’re very sarcastic. We obviously have no problem writing with a sarcastic tone, probably because it is the dominant gene in our DNA. So technically, any font we use is written in “Sartalics”. However, it has often left us, and many others, to wonder if somebody should develop a “Sarcastic Font” for use in online communication.

Well, somebody has and it’s a left-leaning Arial font, slanting in the opposite direction of an Italic type.

We’ve never really been sure whether to be amused or annoyed by having a sarcastic comment made in writing only to be taken seriously. We’ve always thought that part of the charm of a sarcastic remark was never quite knowing if someone was being serious or not. That ambiguity makes reading those comments a real adventure. In addition, we’re thinking that if people who already can’t use their own knowledge of the source’s propensity for sarcasm and come up with the answer that the author(s) is BEING sarcastic, then we are pretty sure they don’t possess the capacity to process backwards italics.

Then we realized that all of the fun would be taken out of writing if the sarcasm were so obvious, in the same way that humor isn’t really funny if you have to explain the joke. Sarcasm becomes less effective IF YOU HAVE TO POINT IT OUT LIKE THIS. Hell, it might even be insulting to the intelligence of your readers, if you have to announce in advance that you are being sarcastic.

Prior to the “invention” of these backward italics, the use of a “Comic Sans” font was proposed to denote a sarcastic comment, tone and/or remark. However, I think Comic Sans should only be used to denote sarcasm if the intended audience is not bright enough to realize that they are reading something written in Comic Sans. Consequently, we believe a sarcasm font defeats the purpose of sarcasm in the first place. Other suggestions have included using mock HTML tags. Yeah, that’s a <sarcasm> GREAT </sarcasm> idea; or, using the “Snark”, also called a “Percontation Point” or the “Irony Mark” to indicate that there is another level of meaning in the sentence, usually sarcasm or irony. However, I think the “Snark” is more of a tool for smart people to use to make stupid people feel even stupider. Which makes it the best punctuation mark of all.

In one of the finest examples regarding online usage of sarcasm, we came across this brilliantly written post:

When dealing with a particularly difficult editor or situation, you will never be tempted to resort to sarcasm. But if you somehow are, that's a really great idea. Sarcasm works well in online media, because it's easy to pick up on without all of those pesky nonverbal cues. It's hard to see how the employment of sarcasm could possibly be counterproductive.
Sarcasm is especially useful in controversial debates, where a sarcastic comment often has the effect of calming the situation. Don't worry about offending people; simply appending a smiley emoticon or humorous XML tag (</sarcasm>) to your comment will assuage any hurt feelings, and doing so exempts you from the strictures of civility and good faith.
Despite the use of the above measures and your inherent, undeniable cleverness, your sarcastic remarks may still be unrecognized or unappreciated by their target audience. This should be interpreted as immediate confirmation of your superior intellect and wit, as well as a corresponding deficiency of those qualities in your audience; you should not hesitate to emphasize this, as it will enable further discussion to proceed productively. It also allows the discussion to stray away from well-known contentious issues towards the beautiful landscapes of hermeneutical disputes on the possible or indisputable subjective and objective meanings of the semantical structures used in the various contributions to the debate.
In rare cases, users have been singled out for special recognition of such demonstrated superiority.
While one could, of course, employ sarcasm from one's registered Wikipedia account, sarcasm is more effective and better appreciated if you have the fortitude to post it from an IP address.

~ Source: Wikipedia

If one isn’t clever enough to convey their snarky and sarcastic comments without some kind of special indicator, we’d really rather them just not even try in the first place. Sarcasm doesn’t need the font equivalent of a flashing neon sign. If it did, the writer is probably doing it wrong. In most cases (always ours, of course) the use of sarcasm in writing is communicated perfectly fine. It’s the dimwitted reader who poses the problem by not being able to catch on it. As Anonymous said, “Everyone is entitled to be stupid, but some abuse the privilege.”

Besides, when we were looking at examples of the proposed left-leaving text, it was almost a little bit painful to read. It looks like those words were physically trying to escape that sentence. The visual reminded us of the scene that appears in every almost every cartoon where the characters are trying so hard to escape, that they run in place for a few seconds. The best example of this that we could remember is Scooby Doo and Shaggy and their exit is always accompanied by that funny noise.

(On a site note: locating that audio file online reminded me why we love the Internet so much. You can find anything! And when you either find it, or stumble across it, the result is a radiating awesomeness so violent that the impact literally causes us to LOL, cry and/or spit out our ~~coffee~~ wine.)

Using Profanity on Fucking Facebook

Wed, 18 Jan 2012 08:33:03 -0700

What’s the big deal? It doesn’t hurt anybody. Fuck, fuckity, fuck-fuck-fuck!

~ Eric Cartman in South Park: Bigger, Longer and Uncut

A fabulously funny, intelligent and potty-mouthed Jewish mommy friend of mine recently posted the following comment on Facebook - “I have a filthy mouth and sometimes choose to express myself on FB with "dirty" words. If that bothers you then feel free to hide my feed or unfriend me. Peace out bitches.” In a follow-up response she stated, “No need for the bullshit stars, straight up fuck will do. Someone, not naming any names, yelled at me for my potty mouth. That person can suck it.”

This, of course, got me thinking what it is about swearing on Facebook that really gets some people’s panties in a wad. If you are really that person’s “Friend” and not just connected to them to up your own “Friend Count” (which to me is a self-fulfilling, demoralizing prophecy), chances are you know this about the swearer and should accept them as a “Friend” for who they are without the need to virtually tar and feather your friend for their language, which apparently offends your delicate little sensibilities.

Facebook, at the end of the day, is a social networking site for which users must subscribe, provide their information and, at a bare minimum, promise while crossing their heart that they are at least 13-years old. On top of that, these egregious Facebook cursers are making their posts visible only to their network of friends, as opposed to making them “Public”. So at the end of the day, you have a group of interconnected adults (theoretically speaking) with at least something in common as your audience. For fuck’s sake, this isn’t a PBSKids.org chat room and you (hopefully) aren’t telling a group of five-year olds to go and eat shit. And if those five-year olds happen to read what you just said, first of all, congratulations are in order for their excellent phonics and literacy skills, but secondly, a five-year old would go and do what five-years olds do – take it literally and go and find a piece of shit to actually consume.

Some might say that profanity isn’t “necessary”. Well, my thought is that it’s not really necessary to be wearing thong panties from La Perla, so maybe if you pull that string that’s worked itself so firmly up your ass, you might just realize that much in this world isn’t “necessary”. I also suspect that even more people would retort that swearing is a sign of uneducated speaker with poor language skills. Horseshit! The people I know who swear the most tend to have the most erudite vocabularies. Given everything that has gone on, and is going on, in this world, I haven’t really met anyone who is honestly shocked at profanity, so your act of feigning shock isn’t very fucking convincing.

Obviously, for some people, they will look for any opportunity to perch proudly upon their moral high horse and soapbox. But that is not my point. Swearing on Facebook is NOT offensive. We’re not doing it around our kids nor in public areas of strangers where others could be offended. These acts are taking place in a closed community filled with consenting adults. Swear words fill an extremely import niche in the language that couldn’t be conveyed without them. For example:

One could say, “Oh golly, my house is burning down! What a terrible tragedy!"

OR, one might more befittingly utter: “OH MY FUCKING GOD THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE! SHIT!”

The first example is so inappropriately mild that it borders on being grammatically incorrect with the potential implication that its speaker is a fucking moron. The second example clearly expresses action, meaning and intensity in a suitable and necessary fashion. If one were to call ‘911’ and articulate the first example, I wouldn’t be expecting emergency responders anytime soon.

Profanity is used for any number of reasons, but mainly as an intensifier to show that one has strong feelings about a particular subject: to shock, to offend, for humorous effect, or for added color and vividness. “Bad words” are simply words – we use them like any other word depending on the subject matter and the audience, so the same reason that we use profanity is the same reason that we would use any other word – because it’s the right word at the right time.

Simply put: if you find it so distasteful, do what you do when you are browsing through the television channels late at night looking for something to watch, and you “accidentally” come across a certain subscription-based network that you “forgot” to cancel . . . click and change the channel, dumbass. Or just fucking unfriend me.

Peace out, bitches.

Retailers Making it Easier for SWI: Shopping While Intoxicated

Sat, 14 Jan 2012 22:08:09 -0700

But every mommy does it! So it’s ok if I do it too!! And by “it” I mean “Shopping Under the Influence”. Maybe some of us do it so much or so often, that it’s not even considered as something “bad”, “abnormal “ or “unusual”. And in fact, even The New York Times has recently “discovered” this “latest trend” and reported on this little nugget of joy in an oft-cited article (although, with all due respect, reverence and submission to The New York Times, The Onion actually beat y’all to the punch by about 13 years).

Apparently, in the “Grass is Green and Water is Wet” school of thought, retailers have learned that their sites’ traffic patterns increase after work and are even starting to target their promotional sales offerings later in the evening. Retailers are attributing this phenomenon to “drinking while clicking”. Ignore (please) that other and less anecdotal reasons for increased sales in the evening hours might just consist of: being at home, not working, and/or the kids have finally shut the fuck up and have gone to sleep. Other than that, it MUST be because of the alcohol. So let’s pretend that inebriation is the root cause.

Why does this feel so good? This is easy. There are several reasons:

1. The feeling of being productive. You came home, you drank and then you did something! Otherwise, drinking while just sitting around doing the house and doing nothing already has its own phrase (since Shopping Under the Influence is now taken). That phrase is “Alcoholism”. And by God, that is NOT YOU!! “Can an alcoholic do this??” (Soft clicking sound made by your delicate little mouse or the swipe of your trackpad is heard in the background). “Hell no. So there! That’s not me!”

2. The wonderful little surprise you get in the mail either the next day or the next week (anecdotally speaking, I would suspect that the speed of your selected shipping method is directly proportional to the amount of alcohol consumed. I’m guessing a Correlation Coefficient of 1.0. Call it the “Drinker's Correlation of Shipping Speed Law”. Consider it a gift from to your sober self from your drunken self.

3. The feeling of making a GOOD choice – “Look! You judgmental little bastards! I drank, I didn’t get behind the wheel of a car AND I just contributed to this great country’s economic recovery and growth!” Additionally, this is a much better alternative than doing something really crazy and stupid like drinking and dialing/texting your ex. Alternatively, think about the typical ways woman can get into trouble while they are out on the town and tying one on: unprotected sex, STDs, pregnancy, assault . . . etc. On a risk-equivalency scale, this approaches watching Fantasia at home with your kids during one of their many sick days.

However, where there are pros, there must be cons, and I do see the downside (for which I will shoo away with the appropriate rebuttal):

1. The potential negative financial impact – buying things you can’t afford. Phooey. With the exception of eBay (and even then you can always e-mail the seller the next day with a mea culpa), almost every PHYSICAL item (obviously not porn) you buy online can be returned (except for maybe whatever one guy bought while SWI who later Tweeted, “I drunk a bit last night, stayed up too late watching election, went online shopping and may have accidentally bought Greece.”) If this “trend” continues, maybe we can expect to see new “Reasons for Return” options on our shipping labels including, but not limited to:

¨ Size

¨ Color

¨ Fit

¨ Damaged

¨ Just Didn’t Like It

¨ The Wine Made Me Do It

2. The painful blow to the ego that results when your “purchase” consists of a Match.com membership and all of your messages and “winks” to perfect strangers have, days later, gone unreturned and/or unreciprocated.

3. That’s all I could think of.

In some blog post somewhere at some time, I read that Gmail has a feature you can enable that helps you from sending an e-mail when you've had too much to drink by presenting you with five basic math problems to solve within 60 seconds before it will allow to you actually “Send”. This SEEMS like a simple solution towards preventing drinkers from accidentally making purchases. However, I also read that it's easier to disable this “security” feature rather than to solve the math problems. Oh well. “A” for effort.

Should we consider “Shopping While Intoxicated” an example of, or a commentary on, the overall level of the degradation of our materialistic, consumerist and capitalistic society?? Are we so far gone that we are now combining our addictions – drinking and shopping?? If so, what is the solution?? Instead of handing over your car keys, do you hand over your credit card?? What about people (like me) who have their credit card number (and expiration date and security code) memorized? Should they only Shop while Intoxicated with a friend who has good taste (pun intended)? Should we be attaching a Breathalyzer to our computer’s USB port so that all e-mail, social networking and retailers’ online sites can’t be accessed unless you blow less than a 0.08?? Or, should we just form a “support” group (possibly something called “Chicks, Clicks and Hics”) in which we secretly enable each other by sharing links??

Charities figured this out years ago – combine alcohol and a sense of friendly (bitchy) competition and you get higher bids and greater profits on auction items. Just go to an opening at an art gallery. Wine and Champaign? Yes! Diet Coke and Potato Chips?? Not so much. Casinos . . . .well, that’s a no brainer. Steve Wynn is a billionaire.

Anthropomorphic Turkeys: Eating Your Pets for Thanksgiving

Sat, 14 Jan 2012 21:01:06 -0700

Actual note from my daughter’s teacher:

Hello Everyone,
Tomorrow is our Thanksgiving Feast. We will join the other preschool classes in the Fellowship Hall for lunch. The menu is turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, cranberry sauce and rolls. After that, we will continue our study of the Pilgrims, the Native American Indians and turkeys. I want to wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving!
~Mrs. Sherry

My response:

Dear Mrs. Sherry,
I'm sure “the girl” will be looking forward to the upcoming Thanksgiving feast. Good luck trying to get her to eat the turkey though. Ever since you sent her home with the assignment to dress up a paper turkey in disguise so the farmer wouldn't find it, she has been traumatized. Once we told her the farmer planned to eat the turkey, we have been forced to change the name of all turkey-related products. Now everything is known as “chicken.” Apparently she doesn't give a crap about chickens. As far as the Pilgrims and Indians go, I know you normally dress the older kids up as Pilgrims and the younger ones get to be the Indians. That's not going to happen this year. The girl’s great grandfather was a pure blood Navajo so she will be dressed as an Indian. Also we would like you to go ahead and give the Pilgrims fair warning, payback is going to be a bitch!
Have a happy holiday. I will be there at 2 pm to pick my little “savage” up. Nizhónígo Nee Ado’ááł.
~Stacy

Why the "Jersey Shore" is Better for your Kids than "Dora the Explorer"

Fri, 06 Jan 2012 17:07:40 -0700

You know who pisses me off? Dora the Explorer. Now I understand a need for a map on occasion, but this kid can’t get anywhere without it. Her sense of direction seems as sharply honed as Silly Putty and she doesn’t appear to be able to find her way out of a paper bag. Thanks for the sweeping gender stereotype, you tiny little bitch. I’m not sure she should be teaching my kid anything. First of all, she has only one friend, and it’s “Boots the Monkey”. Minus one point for lack of originality as the “Man with the Yellow Hat” beat you to the punch in the “monkey as BFFs” contest. Minus one million as this particular monkey (whose natural habitat appears to be clothing optional) seems to be most comfortable walking around naked yet sporting a pair of red Uggs. WTF? No clothing with hot shoes is a great look for a stripper, not so much for a children’s cartoon character.

Secondly, it chills me to even begin to mention “Swiper the Fox.” Usually, the appearance of a character like this is followed by a shitstorm of outrage regarding the “obvious” racial profiling that has just taken place. Let me get this straight – the antagonist on a Spanish-based children’s program steals things. Yep, I’ll leave that one to the morality police to straighten out and discuss.

Finally, I’m also beginning to think Dora may be a little slow. Have you looked at her face when she asks you what your favorite part of the show was? She just stares at you like YOU'RE the idiot. I’M not stupid Dora! I can find my way to the Troll Bridge without a map you condescending little twat! And don’t tell me you liked the same part of the show that I did. I’ve had friends like you in the past. They only like something after you told them you liked it. I hate that.

From here on out I think I’ll only let my 5-year old watch the “Jersey Shore”. That way I can teach her at a young age, “Look! You see what happens when you’re a drunk whore? You get to be on TV and make TONS of money! Now here’s a beer, get to it! Mommy just spent your college money on shoes and false eyelashes.”

Necessary Facebook Buttons

Wed, 04 Jan 2012 10:33:43 -0700

As you are all very much aware, Facebook gives us a limited number of options when responding to a friend's post, link, video or picture: "Like", "Comment" and "Share". I get why they do this, I really do. Having these "positive" options keeps the conversation light, happy and in fa-fa-la land (for the most part). If you want to be snarky, you have to actually up and write something yourself. This, of course, is my preferred method of communication and few things make me more giddy than what a friend told me was known as "troll baiting" (apparently, the correct internet-geek term is "flaming", but I like the other version better). And of course the problem with being snarky in written communication form is that it opens the responder up for induced or perceived criticism, insults and/or corrections.

However, if a friend of mine on Facebook posts something along the lines of "I have a massive migraine!", what the hell is he or she is expecting from their readers?? If I click "Like" does that mean, "I completely understand and sympathize with what you are going through?" or could it mean, "Hey! I'm so HAPPY you have a headache!". The migraine sufferer can't possibly be expecting us to reply with a written post because everybody knows that when you have a migraine, the last thing you want to do is open your eyes, so responding in a written context is really quite rude and could be medically problematic (not really, but being melodramatic is a strong suit). Similarly, if a friend checks-in at her dentist's office, for example, just before un-friending somebody so dreary (check in at a Jay-Z concert? Yes!; check in at your medical practitioner's office? Hell no.), by clicking "Like" are you saying, "Great! I hope you have a wonderful appointment" or are you communicating instead, "Fabulous!! I'm so happy you're finally getting those filthy teeth power washed." So you can see why additional options are completely necessary.

Consequently, I am proposing the following list of new Facebook buttons so we can respond appropriately - whether to express sympathy, outrage and/or, more importantly, troll bait:

I'm not the first one to suggest this, but the necessity of this button seems pretty obvious.

For posts that are boring as shit, as in "I'm at the grocery store!" or "I hate Mondays." Really people? At least try to entertain me. I think this is slightly nicer than a "Who the Fuck Cares?" button; plus, I could make the font size bigger.

And finally, friends can "Shove!", with varying degrees of intensity (maybe the fist gets larger the more times you press it), other friends who are really starting to annoy them.

E-Holiday Cards

Sat, 24 Dec 2011 14:47:00 -0700

Believe it or not, even this single, working mommy managed to get out a holiday card this year. As in, professional photographer, order the cards on Etsy.com, order the return address labels on Vistaprint.com, try to use up all of the ugly 42 cent and 2 cent stamps I've had lying around my office for like ever AND EVEN HANDWRITING the delivery addresses. All 75 of them. This number is actually quite a bit smaller than in years past because of the divorce. Go figure.

Anywho . . . . we've all gotten used to invitations received from Evite.com. Not a big deal at all. Super simple and (theoretically anyway) speeds up the whole RSVP process. Although having sent some of these myself in the past, there are STILL people in this world who can't be bothered to RSVP to an electronic invitation. Literally all you have to do is "Click" a box > I'm coming/I'm not coming. That's it. WHY IS THIS SO FUCKING HARD? But anyway, I digress.

The last couple of years I have experienced a handful of E-holiday cards and I have been trying to wrap my little blond head around whether or not I am annoyed by this.

PROS: Cheaper, environmentally friendly, time saver.

Granted, it is always nice to hear from friends and family regardless of the means of communication. However, because electronic communication is now the norm, the people technologically capable of sending out an e-Holiday Card are the ones I am already connected with on Facebook, so I know what their kids look like, what they dressed up as for Halloween and even what they ate for breakfast this morning. Consequently, the e-Holiday Card just feels like a fancier Facebook status update from a different e-mail address.

So, at the end of the day, I've decided that the main CON of an e-Holiday card outweighs the PROS, namely:

CONS: If I, and almost everybody else you know, go through the time, effort and expense of sending you an actual holiday card, well then by God, you should too.

Iron Supplements and Magnet Schools

Sat, 24 Dec 2011 12:43:54 -0700

I'll just let the following Facebook conversation speak for itself. Even though I am also a blond, I decided to just walk away from this conversation after "Patricia" made that haircolor reference. The problem with trying to argue with a fool is that they will bring you down to their level and then beat you with experience. I decided it was better to just walk away. Quickly away.

You're Offended By Clucking in the Muppets Movie??

Sat, 24 Dec 2011 12:08:23 -0700

I seriously wish I could make this stuff up. I just can't. I was recently privy to a Facebook conversation that stared off innocently, and potentially funnily, enough. A friend posed the following question on her wall and the first two responses start off like they were supposed to and played along:

Then, THIS guy comes along and RUINS EVERYTHING!!

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? You just got your daddy panties in a wad because of CLUCKING?!?!?

(In case you don’t know what I am referring to:)

If I am following his logic correctly . . . in the Muppet's movie, the chickens obviously don't say the original words of Ce-Lo's song, nor do they even sing the Glee version. Instead . . . they cluck it. And he is offended.

What I'm thinking here is that if said kids even know the lyrics to that song, especially the lyrics as God and Ce-Lo originally intended them, that is the fault of the parent and not the Muppet movie. Just a guess.

So . . . what do I do?? Egg him on of course!

Then, the inevitable happens. You can almost see it coming. "Lee" gets his panties in a wad. I don't know where he lives, I don't know what he's doing, but I can just feel those tighty-whites working their way up his ass crack.

Then, inexplicably, Mommy #1 went from (Potentially Funny) Mommy #1 to (Serious-Panties-In-A-Wad) Mommy #1.

Huh?? This conversation just had so much potential.

I did take the boy to see "Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chipwrecked" and in one scene Alvin was flying on a kite aboard the cruise ship. While up in the air, Alvin says, "I can see Russia from here!" Oh my God!! He made a Sarah Palin reference!! In a KID'S MOVIE! The horror.