Man. Being an adult is so fucking stupid sometimes. Bills. Slowing metabolism. Age-appropriate clothes. Hangovers. Not going to that show you wanted to go to because you got drunk 2 nights ago and now you’re tiiiiiiired. Yard work. All of that shit? SO DUMB. And when you’re a parent? Shit is even WORSE because you are expected to SET AN EXAMPLE. So that means you can’t punch that dude in the face who won’t shut up about his kid’s affinity for learning Japanese and love of organic kale chips. And you can’t call that woman a “fucking twatwaffle” at the top of your lungs just because you hate the way she runs that committee on the PTA (please note that EVERY SINGLE PERSON I’ve met on the PTA at my kid’s school has been VERY NICE and these are just EXAMPLES of what COULD BE.) Continue reading
I’m getting my angry liberal/feminist on. If you think that might offend you, you’ve been warned. I also curse. A lot.
I think I’m fairly even-tempered. I don’t fight, I don’t get in yelling matches, I don’t break random objects in a fit of rage. When someone makes me upset, I try to tell them. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just ignore them. I believe in the anger management philosophy of walking away and settling down.
But that’s not cutting it right now. Today my anger has reached critical mass and is about to take everything out. I want to scream and then hulksmash everything. Once my deep, cold reserve of anger is tapped, get out of my way before I take it out on you.
Why so angry? Why today? Everything has just been building and now here I am. And, you know what? You should be really angry, too. We should all be spitting nails and blowing gaskets and losing our cool.
Random musings on the books in my life
I’ve mentioned I had an…untraditional childhood. We were Jesus people. Hardcore believers. When you’re on the edges of the fundamentalist Christian movement, you don’t allow secular entertainment in your home. Our music was Christian, our movies, our tv shows and our books were carefully monitored to block the path of Satan into our hearts. It wasn’t an issue most of the time, and most of what we were allowed to do was just good, wholesome kid stuff. Little House On The Prairie was big, The Chronicles of Narnia, of course, Louisa May Alcott, Frances Hodgeson Burnett, L.M. Montgomery. These were my love and my escape.
We left the church after my 5th grade year. I started middle school and began to wade into the pool of secularism. I was 11 or 12, and naive as hell. I don’t remember each specific step out of the world of Jesus. It was a gradual thing, coinciding with a new school and puberty. Lots of changes were happening and the details have faded. Except my first horror novel, The Shining by Stephen King.
Dear Moms at the bar,
I want to apologize for all of the times I’ve rolled my eyes and snarked in your direction. For the times I’ve complained not quietly about your exuberance. For the times I’ve muttered for you all to grow the fuck up and act like you’ve left your house before. For the words said and implied, the haikus written, the faces made – I apologize deeply and sincerely.
There were times in my life when I went out drinking frequently. I had favorite bars, drinking buddies, high tolerance and disposable income. I’d go out and there’d be a mom group at the bar and I’d sigh in disgust that they were THE WORST. I’d make sure to sit far away from them, hoping they’d be ignorable.
Here’s another guest post from David! Do yourself a favor and actually click through and watch the videos. Maybe put on some of those fancy new Depends that are advertised on MSNBC all the damn time first.
I’ve been thinking about comedy a lot lately. And yes, as one of the few non-parents posting here, I know exactly what kind of asshole I sound like by saying that. With all my luxurious free time, why don’t I just sit and have a nice think about comedy? Bear with me here.
I’ve had, at times, a combative relationship with comedy. In my formative, ‘I’m a storyteller, damn it!’ years, I think I saw comedy as a relatively simple thing. A trifle. A nice diversion, but certainly not a form of expression. Then I hit my adult years and actually had real adult shit happen – those situations for which no one can tell you what to do and the best support you get is a shrug and a, “That sucks.” If you’re lucky. And I found that comedy was beyond a comfort; it was a way of understanding that we all experience these things. And it was a way to commiserate with others.
There’s a connection that can be found in two people finding the same thing funny. It indicates a shared experience and outlook on the world. I wish there was the equivalent of a comedy mix tape. Remember how you’d make new friends a mix tape of the music you felt best represented you? “Listen to this Smith’s song and you’ll totally get where I am with dating right now.” I wish we had that for comedy. I feel like that would be much better indicator of who we are and what we’ve been through.
Today’s guest post comes from David, who many of us have known for half of our lives. He used to go by Dave, went to my senior prom with me, and is the reason I saw The Phantom Menace in a movie theater. I’ll let you decide which is unforgivable. (Hint: Jar Jar Binks)
I’m done with trying to convince you. Done. I don’t need you to validate what I choose to eat, to listen to, to pass my time with. I get it. You don’t agree. You don’t like the taste of that thing I’m eating, that music I’m listening to, that movie I’m watching, that game I’m playing. It’s fine. Your lack of like doesn’t lessen mine.
No, I don’t want to tell you why I didn’t like Man of Steel. No, I don’t really want to hear how disappointed you were with that salmon. I really don’t need to watch that online video of that parody of that TV show I don’t watch anyway to confirm why I wasn’t watching to begin with. I don’t need to hear your reasons why you like the thing I don’t. I don’t need to tell you the reasons I like the thing you don’t. Why is this the basis of all of our conversations? Do we really need to debate the things that give us some pleasure? Isn’t life dumb enough that we don’t need to make it dumber by defending or validating the dumb things we experience?
My job has kinda sucked for the past six months. I spend a good portion of the day stressed to the edge of losing my shit and burning down everything in the world. Don’t get me wrong, I like my job, I’m good at my job, I just live under a giant pile of work and it’s crushing me to death. (That may be a slight exaggeration.) Sometimes (all of the times), to give my brain a little break I’ll play the “if I win the lottery” game.
First, I’d never set foot in my office again. The lottery winners who go back to work are messed up. They should have the winnings taken away from them and given to me. Then there are all the obvious and boring parts of winning millions of dollars – hiring a money manager, setting up trusts for family and friends, paying mortgages, investments, charitable contributions (Planned Parenthood, NPR, PBS, other good liberal causes). Now, all the boring stuff is done and I’m ready to really have fun.
We’re gonna go on a giant, crazy vacation. Bring family and friends along to a villa in Europe. We’ll spend days eating cheese and drinking wine and doing whatever the hell we want – probably a whole lot of nothing. Do some sightseeing. Meet the locals. Invite three men who may be a friend’s father to come and spend time with her. Sing Abba songs. Uncover vast conspiracies with our knowledge of arcane symbols. Wear magic pants that fit all of us even though we’re different sizes. The usual.
I am fat. I am aware of this. I’m not a “person of size.” I’m not pleasantly plump. I’m not a Big Beautiful Woman and I don’t want the weirdness that goes with the BBW label. I don’t need to be told I’m just big boned, or I have a pretty face, or good hair, or whatever. I’m fat. It’s okay to say it. It’s not a bad word. It’s a fact. I wear plus size clothes and I have rolls and bulges and a double chin. My thighs rub together, my arms are flappity and my feet are wide. I’ve got a lot of body and I don’t hate myself. I’m fat and I’m happy.
I’ve always been big – I was 5’ 8” by the time I was 13, wore a size 8 shoe, and a 10 or 12 in clothes. I’ve always had that lower belly pouch and wide hips and big breasts and a bunch of junk in the trunk. My awkward teenage years were more traumatic because of my height in a family of women who don’t even hit 5 feet than my expanding pant size. And the giant glasses. And almost parallel to the floor buck teeth and subsequent orthodontics. And trying to figure out how to hide my boobs from creepy old dudes. (Still an issue.) Did I wish I was thin? Some, yeah, but I also wished I could marry Scott Bakula.
The inaugural LYDPO post is from Denise, who, due to recently moving, isn’t able to post herself. This story just about made Diet Coke come out of my nose and is the inspiration for this new, sporadic feature.
While walking behind a fairly short gentleman (maybe 5’3″) on the beach today Bryce screams “LOOK! A MIDGET! CHASE HIM!” The guy whirled around and I’m pretty sure my jaw dropped and Bryce took off running…after a pigeon! Thank you Lord. The gentleman and I were happily able to pretend like that didn’t just happen and hopefully next time Bryce will remember to call that bird a pigeon instead of a midget.
– Wu Tang Clan, Enter the Wu Tang (too much N-word and 6-year-olds don’t grasp the concept of why it’s not okay if WE say it)
– L7, Smell the Magic (Fast & Frightening is one of my favorite songs, but the line “Got so much clit, she don’t need no balls” is a line I don’t have the patience to explain)
– Jay-Z, The Black Album (Again, with the n-word, but also kids are bad at understanding the drug trade) Continue reading