Tag Archives: kids

Saying The Things You Shouldn’t Say


I’ve been accused more than once of being unedited. Hell, I’ve even been fired from a job for writing the things I was thinking in my head. Sometimes, I just get really tired of people not saying what they’re thinking, so I will be the one. Sadly, by the end of this post, I may come off as a huge bitch. But sometimes a long bout of holding in what I’m actually thinking results in a bad case of virtual verbal diarrhea.

People be having some UGLY babies- Am I the only one who thinks all these babies people are having on Facebook aren’t as cute as they should be? Let me be clear- the premature ones don’t count, because they just wanted to hop outta the oven before it was time. I’m talking about all the other ones. And when people keep commenting, “Oh, I’m so happy for you, your baby is adorable!” and “What a cutie!”, I just want to comment too (in a Spanish accent, of course), and say, “You keep using those words. I do not think they mean what you think they mean.” I know people don’t have control over what their kid looks like, but GEEZ, I don’t think I want one if the majority of them look like Gollum.

If you’re completely miserable with your spouse, or boyfriend/girlfriend, be done with them- This may seem harsh, and if you have children with this person, it’s a bit harder situation to get out of, but no amount of drinking or bickering or pretending is going to do any good for your kids. Yes, marriage is supposed to be a life-long commitment, but there are just some people who were silly enough to marry someone they didn’t like very much, with the idea, “Hey, it’s ok. I’ll just go out with my friends a lot and drink to drown the fact that my wife/ husband is a complete bitch/ asshole.”  Well, enjoy your perfectly pretended life. As for you all who are not married to your asshole, dump him/her immediately. And no, I am not going to be the person to make your life better with amazing sex, because I am smart enough to be with someone who does NOT annoy the shit outta me.

That chic shouldn’t be wearing that/ or SHOULD be wearing that- sometimes people shouldn’t clothe themselves the way they do. Yes, I’ve preached tirelessly about fat people in stretchy pants, but I am also including here the sermon about skinny girls with love handles who continuously wear low-rise jeans. Just ’cause you ain’t got no cushion for the pushin’ don’t mean that you’re toned. As evidenced by the cellulite once sported by my size 00 ex-sister-in-law. And Miley, put some damn clothes on, already. Yes, we get it. You’re edgy and controversial. Or suffering from multiple drug addictions.

Kids are sometimes not your entire world- I realize that since I have borne no offspring from my loins, I cannot fully understand how a child changes you and makes you devote your entire being to them; however, I have known enough people who have little to no patience for their humanoid cubs, and would rather be out partying with their friends. I know that no parent is suppose to come out and say, “I’d like a day off”, but I urge each and every one of you to realize that it’s ok to admit parenting is at times a trying and monotonous task, and is sometimes best replaced with a stripper pole and a shot of whisky. This doesn’t mean you love your children any less, it just means you have not joined the Stepford community.

Why don’t we let educated people into America?- I realize Lady Liberty is all about giving refuge to the starving and the destitute, but wouldn’t our country benefit a little by letting in someone who is not hungry and can actually support themselves? Instead of giving a bunch of monetary support to people who don’t even bother to learn our language, why don’t we give free visas to people who ALREADY know our language and have their own money? I’m not being prejudiced. The uneducated are welcome too, but they should be given the same opportunity as I- that is, the opportunity of working more than one job just to make sure I don’t have to move to Florida in order to sleep outside and not freeze to death because I am homeless.

 

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Summer of Love


There are times when I can be an absolute bore. Or boar, depending on the day. I know it’s quite impossible for you to believe it, after all I’m so sparkly and witty and all, but all those sparkly witticisms can take a toll on a person, so much so, that all she wants to do is sit and read. (To be honest, that’s really all I want to do on my non-witty days too.)

Anyhoo, I , perhaps unwittingly, made a decision that I would no longer be waiting for the good times to happen, and that I would forcibly cause them to happen. Which is why I made a point to go with my Rockstar to his boring -ass late-model races this summer, and the zoo, with my friend from work (where we witnessed giraffes copulating for the mere seconds that I guess it takes), went to see my favorite band in the ghettos of Spring Lake Park (more on that later) and am working on a fabulously legendary costume for the Renaissance Festival which I shall attend with my Delightful.

This may seem like small and uninteresting turds to some of you, who travel the world and dine with kings and such, but considering that this was the first summer in 3 years when I’ve actually been able to get out of work occasionally, it is huge. I may even get to go to the South Dakota State Fair. (Which I only want to attend to see if their deep-fried goodnesses are a rival for Minnesota’s.)

In order to keep my Rockstar’s daughter from being bored at her mother’s while we slave away at work during the days, she goes to S.D. to visit her grandparents, so she hasn’t been around much since school let out. There was a few days where I got myself out of my selfish reading slump enough to take her to the beach, and then there was today.

I was not exactly thrilled at first when my Rockstar suggested that I watch his Daughter on my half-day off yesterday, but then I thought of all the wonderful things we two could do together. Apparently, the Daughter had been racking her brain too, for she woke me up with a schedule. It was to be like school, complete with bathroom breaks and recess. I acquiesced to her request, and off we went.

I wondered how long it would take her ADD self to realize that a half hour of quiet time (her idea, mind you) was too long, and I was right on target when 15 minutes went by and she was ready to go outside. We went, and she realized her friends were out, so Teacher Daughter  said I was “allowed to read” while she “did important teacher stuff.” I obeyed.

Our “field trip” for the day was a walk to McDonald’s to meet my Rockstar for his lunch break. We realized we had left entirely too early, and decided to take silly pictures of ourselves along the way, which resulted in a fit of giggles. After a healthful lunch of French fries and sugar-filled soda, we walked back, marching in time to each other, and busting out laughing when we weren’t.

I’ve come to realize this having a non-Daughter is not as tough as it sometimes seems.

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Victory of the “Evil” Almost Stepmother


I have mentioned on several occassions the existance of my Rockstar’s Daughter. In the mentionings therein, you may or may not have noticed underlying tones of irritation, aggravation, or exasperation. (These due to the fact that after almost three years, I still on occassion will hear, “He’s MY dad; this is OUR house; why don’t you go live somewhere else.”)

No, it is not all bad, this parenting of a child not of my loins. For example, she had begun to word things as I do, which is in a manner not of this world, and she carries within her the same fondness for princess movies and high heels as I. So, if we sat around all day watching The Princess Bride and Princess Cariboo while alternately sauntering around in stillettos and fancy dresses, the relationship between us would be one that would create awe in those who observed it. However, though I am not a parent myself, I am aware that at times, princesses must be put away and rules must abound; mainly the finishing of one’s homework before bedtime. This has always made me worried that I am seen as the Evil Stepmother that you hear about in those fairy tales in the Daughter’s eyes. (They always have fabulous makeup, but it’s not exactly what I aspire to.)

A week or so ago, I went to purchase groceries and was immediately distracted upon arrival at the store by the giant bins that held massive and slightly deformed pumpkins. It is my belief that in going through life, in order to be happy, one must revert to the acts of their childhood, and not always take things so seriously. While thinking so, I picked out the most round and only barely-marred pumpkin with the intent of making it a date with the Daughter and carving it on my next day off. This may seem like an overtly obvious act one might perform with a child, but being not a parent myself, I do not always think that way. I arrived home with Stan in my arms, (so I had named my round orangy friend) quite proud of myself that I had so unselfishly thought to include the Daughter in Stan’s facial formation.

My Rockstar thought it a grand idea. In fact, so grand an idea he thought it that when he went to pick up his daughter the next day, he stopped and bought each of them another pumpkin, so that I could have Stan all to myself. The carving of pumpkin flesh commenced on the next day, upon the floor of the living room.

At first, I was thinking that perhaps my idea for child/ almost stepmother bonding time was a bad one, when the Daughter immediately began crying and whining because she didn’t know how to carve her pumpkin and was too impatient to let me show her. I diffused the situation by releasing the Tickle Monster on her, and soon her tear-stained face was aglow with delight. My Rockstar soon joined us, and then we were a family stabbing our unassuming jack-o-lanterns on a Sunday afternoon.

My Rockstar’s Dad called at one point, and he left the room so as to give himself privacy. The Daughter and I carried on a conversation, about school, and boys, and then it somehow turned to the subject of her mother.

Now I am selfish and histrionic enough that every fiber in my body wishes to point out the flaws of she who birthed the Daughter any time her name comes up. Luckily, I have just enough common sense to NOT do that exact thing, but instead just nod and listen when the Daughter drones on about her less-than-ideal mother. In the end, this has served me well, because nearing the end of the conversational subject, the Daughter, of her own volition and without any coaching from me, said something I would never have expected to hear from her lips.

“I wish YOU were my mom, and not my mom.”

Upon hearing those words, I immediately had the urge to jump up and issue a warrior’s victory cry, but thought better of it when I realized I was weilding a non-sharp pumpkin-carving instrument. Instead, I chose my responding words carefully.

“Well, you already have a mom, so maybe I can just be your second mom, and then you’ll have twice as many people to love you.”

This solution seemed satisfactory to the Daughter, and we continued to create pumpkin art in an amiable silence. But I will tell you the victorious warrior in my head was making a pretty big racket.

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A Life Choice: Redux


Just to be clear, I don’t want to get to the end of my life with 5 boys and no man and realize I left the one I was supposed to be with to live out his life playing guitar without me to listen to him.

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A Life Choice


I’m sorry, my Lovelys. There will be no witty or completely entertaining post from me today, because the ugly Depression Monster crawled out from under my bed and is holding on to me for dear life. (Or for dear death. That seems to make more sense for some reason.)

The joys of going through life without treating bi-polar disorder include having completely shitty days where the sun doesn’t shine, even if it’s blazing a hole through the ozone layer outside. (For the record, it’s not sunny out today here in Minnesota anyway.) The stupid nagging that has reared it’s ugly head in the back of my mind for months has finally gotten to the point where something needs to be done about it. And unless someone is will to adminster a labotomy, it looks like I’m stuck with actually making a life decision. (My record isn’t exactly great when it comes to those.)

I want children. (Even though there are days when I hate the little bastards) I want to hold my baby and sing him songs, and I want to teach my 3 year old to read all the amazing children’s books that exist. Ideally, it would be best if I could ship my kids off to a home from the ages of 13-17, but I realize that’s not really an option, so I would be willing to deal with the bullshit of puberty and raging hormones in order to end up with a person with a little bit of me in them.

That being said, my Rockstar has made it abundantly clear that he does not long for more children than the one he already has. (In fact, he didn’t long for her to begin with, either, but that’s a story for another time.) I know that men do not change their minds, and anyway, I am not one of those women who WANT to change men’s minds. (Unless it has to do with changing a penis from a softy to a boner.) Given his mindset, I know that if we were to have a child together, he would end up resenting me, and I am not to be resented. And no matter what people say and how hard I try to make it so, having his Daughter around is NOT the same as having my own kid. So there.

In the past, I was with a man fully willing to assist me in the parentage of said 5 boys. However, either his swimmers were slow, or I lack proper plumbing- either way, we tried for over two years without results. (The way things turned out, I suppose that was a good thing.)

So the question is- Do I give up the possible life of almost-childless bliss with my Rockstar to pursue probably ending up alone without even a step-child? When these are my choices, do you people see why I detest making life choices?

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A Conversation Between Cool People


So I met up with my Rockstar and his Daughter at the mall yesterday after a bizarrely weird day at work. As my Rockstar checked out the quality of the latest athletic shoes, the Daughter and I were sitting patiently in the try-on chairs provided, when I noticed a delightfully polka-dotted skirt she was wearing that I had never seen before. This was how the following conversation went…

Me: What a super-cute skirt you have on there!

Her: Yeah, I love it. My Mom says I’m starting to dress like you.

(Pause)

Me: Is that a good thing?

Her: She doesn’t think so.

(Another pause as I make a face in my head and think, “Well, la dee da.”)

Me: Oh? Why not?

Her: Well, before you were around, I used to wear jeans and normal stuff. She thinks I should wear that kind of stuff all the time and not cute fancy stuff like I want to wear. But I think I should be able to wear whatever I want, don’t you?

Me: Absolutely. After all, who wants to wear normal boring stuff?

Her: Not you and me, because we are so much cooler than normal people.

And here I thought I was having no influence on the kid….

 

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When I Was A Kid


When I was a kid, my friend and I loved to play Barbies. She had at least 50 Barbies, the Barbie Corvette, Dreamhouse, and a buttload of Ken Dolls for Barbie to choose from. I, on the other hand, had one Barbie with a perm,(which turned into a rat’s nest after I took her in the bathtub) a Theresa doll, (Barbie’s brunette friend), and a mini Care Bear that I had to use as Barbie’s boyfriend. (Didn’t know Barbie was in to bestiality, did ya?) My friend and I would spend hours upon hours trying to figure out the mechanics of a boy/girl relationship with our Barbies (fortuneately, neither Barbie nor Ken were anatomically correct, so our innocence stayed intact) and dancing our Barbies away on the roof of her Barbie Dream House. How things have changed.

This morning, my Rockstar’s Daughter begged me to play Barbies with her. Sadly, despite my amazing imagination, my attempts at Pretending are not what they used to be. Instead, I rely on the Daughter to provide the story line. Imagine my surprise when my two Barbie sisters were invited to a dance, where they were then beat down and humiliated by the Barbie host. Barbies are so volitile nowdays…

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