you lying little shit (shithole)

Children are shitty little lie factories. It’s a given that they are going to lie to you. If you haven’t resolved yourself to this fact of life [starts singing Facts of Life theme song] then you are clearly forgetting your own childhood, underestimating the evil in your spawn, and setting yourself up for a lifetime dependency on antacids and laxatives. You will remain in a perpetual state of burning rage or contraction.

In a good week, I am able stop myself from lying to people at least three times. This shit comes at a price. Every time I’m reluctantly honest, a puppy dies somewhere. Kidding; it’s just a hamster and no one really likes them anyway - toothy little fuckers. For real, truth is fucking hard, you guys. No one likes doing real work when the alternate route is a trip to Cancun in comparison. I always have my bottle of Hawaiian Tropic suntan lotion, SPF 4. We’ll gloss over the shit-ton of times when honesty is indeed the road less traveled by yours truly. I’m growing spiritually though. Sometimes these growth spurts come with ease and I feel all Buddha –like and others I feel like someone shoved a white-hot metal rod right up my ass. Growing up for me didn’t stop at adolescence; thanks addiction and destructive coping skills! I am an Afterschool Special!

It should come as no surprise to me, getting an email from my son’s teacher that he’s not completing his homework assignments on time; the very same assignments that he told me that he a) either never had or b) had completed. Lying little shit looked me dead in the eye said “Yep, I finished my homework. I finished my math homework.” As his mother, I knew EXACTLY what that meant. You have to know what to listen for. So, what other homework was there? “Oh, I guess I still have 30 mins of online compass learning.” Oh, you guess? You evasive little shit! Sit the fuck down and stop trying to play me like a chump. Clearly I don’t talk to my child like this [all the time] hence the lack of quotation marks around my responses, for those of you that literary minded. I was calm, but firm. I made sure his homework was done, but I really, really wanted to shake the little turd. Don’t lie to me. You’re not good at it, and you’re essentially telling me that you think I’m a moron. I’m not a fucking moron. I gave birth to you; I know your moves before you make them. I laid down the framework for your DNA. I laid down the framework for your DNA – fuck me.

It’s almost comical to watch him fumble around his lies. Fumblefuck: new term - watch it blow up. The shit he thinks now is so important to hide, is so damn trivial, but I’m not going to waste too much energy trying to convince him of that. I already had the talk where I tell him that I appreciate honesty, that lying makes trust harder in the future, and that these things are minutia in comparison to the car he’ll total or the girl he’ll get pregnant. I told you that I’m in the running for Mother of Year, right? He still thinks he needs to lie about a little hole he put in the wall [because maybe the cat did it] and whip cream that is missing [because again, the cats did it with their brand new opposable thumbs]. It’s wrong that I enjoy watching him tangle himself in his bullshit every so often, isn’t it? So much of me in him… so fucked…

So here we are: all privileges revoked. This is horrible. This is why I wish he wouldn’t lie to me. I’m miserable. We now have to “do stuff”. He’s insufferable, I’m miserable, and we’re doing it “together.” This sucks balls. My 10 yr. old is teaching me a valuable lesson about truth. If I am not honest, there is a good chance that I’ll be forced to interact with people as punishment. I think I’m ready for a some changes. I’m pushing my personal limits. New goal: 6 occurrences of reluctant honesty per week from my current 3. I don’t always “honest” well, but I sure as fuck don’t “people” any better. When the student is ready, the teacher appears. Thanks, kid!

Update

So, I got this email the other day. Please feel free to enjoy it as much as I did. (copied from my email)

Hi,

My name is Iris and I'm reaching out to you on behalf of a team of professional content writers. I came across your site, and I wonder if you accept articles from guest writers at all? If so I’d like to offer to contribute an article to your site.

Benefits to your site:

• High quality and fresh content for your site
• Well written and relevant to your audience
• SEO optimised article

If you’re interested, let me know and I can get some content ideas over to you!

Looking forward to hearing from you.

Best wishes,

Iris (and the Content team)

Next, please see my response. Maybe Iris deserves a break, but I'm thinking "not so much." (copied from email)

Iris, 

I'm terribly sorry that you stumbled upon my little excuse for a blog page, that's about 40 mins of your life you'll never get back. As to whether or not I accept work from other writers...

It's clear you haven't spent much time on my page. I have appx 14 people who read my shit. Adding your people to my blog would only do them and their work a disservice. My "audience" consists of my two cats, my boyfriend and my 10 yr. old son - wouldn't want to lose your people/product in all that commotion.Thanks though; awfully human of you to reach out. 

If my "site" starts getting more viewers I'll be sure to keep you in mind. For now, I'd just like to make sure that I'm able make the rent and I'm fortunate enough to have a different flavor of ramen each night. 

Best wishes in your search, 

Me (and my cats) 

I may have come off as ungrateful with Iris, but I assure you, I appreciate all 12 of you. Thanks for your continued reading.

Old people don't give a fuck

Does getting older come with its own set of rules and regulations? A handbook, or owners’ manual, if you will. This is a very fucking serious question I’m posing here. I’m pretty clear that at some age [yet undetermined as I clearly haven’t reached it] someone shoulder taps you and asks you to turn over the operation guide you’ve been functioning with and hands you a new one. It’s the only explanation I’ve got for the horsefuckery that I’ve witnessed with old people.

Yesterday I went to the grocery store to rent some videos and retrieve supplies to get me through the near deadly round of the flu that I was gifted. Don’t jump down my damn throat; I was careful not to spread contamination. I only touched what I bought and only licked and carefully placed where I wanted others to find, that which I hoped would make my intended targets ill. It was planned though, so it’s all good. That blonde that chewed her gum too loudly and obnoxiously took selfies had it coming; “maybe” I had to sneeze. “Sometimes” you can’t direct those things – at least that’s how it went down in my fantasy-land. She was horrifying though, that part was real. I stumbled through the store in a daze on a mission to retrieve a few measly items and when I had gotten them into my arm-cart aka basket, I made my way to the check-out.

We’ve established that I have an arm-cart. I’ve just coined this term by the way, so when this shit blows up later, you know where it came from. You’re welcome. Arm-cart, remember that. Let me paint you a picture: sweat pants, wet hair, vacant stare, t-shirt and probably a little drool from the left…no right corner of mouth. Got it visualized yet? Great. I have a fire log and frozen lasagna in my arm-cart so obviously I’m in great shape. I’m now slow motion walking towards the register. From the canned foods aisle comes speedracer with her wheelie cart; we’re both headed for the express lane. There is a brief moment of hesitation when we see what’s about to happen; one of us is about to take our earrings off. 

This hoe has hella shit in her “for real” cart. I am about to die with my two motherfucking items. She doesn’t hesitate and pulls her Cadillac in ahead of me. How is this ok? Is there a supermarket police? You dirty old bitch! Swear to God, if my mother didn’t raise me to respect old haggard ass ladies such as yourself and I wasn’t about to die of consumption, I would club you with this frozen lasagna. But I’m a grown-up, so I keep my mouth shut and just huff loudly. I cannot roll my eyes hard enough; they hurt too badly. I’m not sure this old lady can see me through the 15 layers of makeup she’s wearing anyway. Avon hasn’t made that shade in at least 12 years so I know she’s dedicated to her causes, I don’t know if I really want to get into a fight with her; she goes the distance.

I stand there patiently waiting my turn, when the next person takes their place in line behind me. I turn around to see that this person has but one item. I glance at her to notice that she is wearing the store uniform. Deductive reasoning drops me off at the conclusion that she works for the store and that this is her lunch break. It’s a cup-o-soup. I let her go ahead of me. Hey! Did you see how that worked you old hag? That’s called curtesy and decency. Try it sometime.  As I left the store that employee was filling her soup with hot water at the Starbucks and as we passed she looked me squarely in the eyes and said “thank you so much for letting me go ahead of you, we only have short breaks; I really appreciate it.” Yeah, that owners’ manual you get that allows for douchiness as you age; you can keep it. I’ll keep my scruples. 

Where my girls at??

*The first modern bra was patented by the German Christine Hardt in 1889 and developed for mass production by Sigmund Lindauer from Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt, Germany in 1912 and patented in 1913. In 1910, Mary Phelps Jacob (known later in life as Caresse Crosby), saw that this design was uncomfortable and failed miserably where evening dresses were concerned; the whalebone visibly poked out around her plunging neckline and from under the sheer fabric. She worked on a new design and in 1914 the U.S. Patent office issued the first U.S. Patent.* What’s your point Christina? My point is this: we’ve been doing this shit for a long time now and designs have evolved as tastes have changed. We have a veritable smorgasbord of boobie holsters, why the fuck don’t we have one yet where underwire malfunction is a non-issue???

*Thanks Wikipedia for letting me twist shit up a bit

I don’t have gargantuan boobs; far from it. There should be no reason that my bras buckle under the stress of holding up my girls. If I had something warranting the creation of stress fractures in my undergarments over time, I would understand, but that’s so far from the truth it’s comedic. I’m the girl in the supermarket that people are handing tissue and water balloons to. At first it was confusing; it’s winter, so the tissue made sense. Thank you, that’s so kind of you to think of me and my runny nose, but what is this water balloon for? Suddenly it clicked – I’m supposed to stuff my bra, and now I’m 15 years old again back in high school. Asshole, go eat a dick.

Ladies, I know you feel me on this one. Last time I checked, I was not a tailor by profession. ‘Seamstress’ is not on my fucking resume anywhere. Also, the older I get, the harder it is to thread a damn needle. The last time I tried focusing that hard on anything with one eye closed I was at the bar trying to determine if the guy I was chatting up was “real-life” attractive or just “Gin and Tonic” attractive. Am I capable of sewing? You bet your sweet ass I am! Should I have to if I’m paying $25 to hold up some ‘barely there’ flaps of flesh just so that I don’t embarrass myself in public or make it uncomfortable for you by going braless? Fuck no! By the way, it is embarrassing when you go out in public braless, ladies. I don’t give a fuck how pristine you think your tits are. Unless you’re in the movies [being generous here] you should always keep those bitches on lockdown. No one has ever said anything to you before because we don’t know how. What the hell are we supposed to say? “Miss, I’m sorry, but can you please put those sandbags away? I want to eat this week, and I can’t unsee you.” Alternately, if you have an amazing rack, still keep those bitches on lockdown. Thank you – from the rest of us that don’t.

Now that I’ve beaten this piñata to death, I think it’s clear what I need to do to remedy this situation. It’s clear that I need to write both NASA and Tony Stark and plead my case. We ladies need a new tata tarp design. NASA will be sure to create something lightweight, durable, and aerodynamic - you know, for when you need to fly; as we all do. Tony Stark will deliver a prototype with all the bells, whistles, and missile launchers. They’ll cost slightly more, but worth it in my opinion. Pepper Potts is my in with Stark. If I can appeal to her, I know I’ll have his attention, but I haven’t thought this out at all. Not. At. All.

Oh the twisted places my brain takes me…

On that note… I’m thinking I’d be really great at giving advice. If you have a question you’d like me to address please submit your inquiry to rantsandswears@gmail.com 

This will be like a fucked up version of Dear Abby. Dear Tina will offer video blog answers to your real questions. I already regret this. Who am I kidding? This could be epic! This could also be a complete train-wreck. It’s so exciting. Fuck all, let’s just see what happens.

Gifting that'll get you laid - A Valentine's Day guide

So you say you’re stuck on what to get her for Valentine’s Day? I’ve come to bail your hopeless asses out.

My male counter-parts probably feel like you’ve just narrowly wriggled free of Christmas’s nasty little grip only to find that you’re standing before Valentine’s Day, looking it squarely in the face and fresh out of ideas; having blown your wad prematurely. I get it, the tinsel and eggnog were too much. It’s tough keeping up that level of endurance. This is the long game though gentlemen; not for pansies.

Now I don’t really give a rat’s ass about V-Day and that’s why I feel I am in the best possible position to offer advice. Personally, I don’t care what you get her, but I’d prefer not hear all my girlfriends bitch about how they got shitty gifts and how that equates to their men not truly loving them and being invested in the relationship - so all you men need to pay attention right now!

Forget about the fucking flowers. Flowers are pretty for two days then they die, end of story. Don’t even think about buying your lady chocolate. Why? Oh, here…let me run this down for you.

Her: Wanna piece?

You: No thanks

Her: Have a piece, please – I’m getting fat over here.

You: Ok, I’ll have one. Thanks.

Her: …

She’s pissed. Wanna know why? You didn’t tell her she’s beautiful and doesn’t have anything to worry about. You didn’t tell her that she isn’t fat and that she’s being silly. Silly, not stupid – very important distinction. Don’t EVER tell her she’s being stupid. You might as well call her a cunt. This is a no-win situation for you. You might as well go into the bathroom, scrawl out a suicide note on the mirror in her lipstick, and slit your wrists in the tub. No chocolate. Are we clear? I’m not saying this to hurt you, I’m saying this to save your miserable ass.

What else is on the banned list? Teddy bears. Swear to God, we all react the same when we receive a teddy bear. It goes like this: “Oh, look how cute!” we’ll exclaim, as we put on the adorable face that mimics the ‘I just saw a puppy’ look. What really happens: our vaginas have dried up, we can’t believe you’re so inept that this is the best thing you came up with, and we’ve already committed ourselves to giving you the cold shoulder in bed for at least 4 days. Truth.

I’ve killed all of your go-to Valentine’s Day gifts, haven’t I? Good. They were terrible and you should be ashamed of yourself. “Well…but…um…what do I do instead?” Pay some fucking attention to your woman, that’s what you do. Listen to what she says every once in a while. Do you remember that one time she mentioned that she needed a new coat or that she really wanted to get her hair done? That’s your cue. If you really want bonus points you can take her to the hair appointment and sit there while she gets her hair done. You are guaranteed to “get some” later. I promise.  Is there a musical group that she really enjoys? Take her to see them. You’ll be bumping uglies later. If it’s a singer/songwriter I can almost guarantee that you’re getting a blowie too.

This strategy has potential to backfire if you’re an idiot, so please use caution. For instance: when she mentioned needing a vacuum - I am, under NO circumstances suggesting you get her a vacuum. Don’t be stupid. The penalty for that kind of incompetence is unprecedented, but should you find yourself there, please document your experience and report back. I’ll begin keeping records for other poor bastards so they don’t make the same mistakes.

I had planned on offering some gifting advice for my lady friends, but let’s face it – we own this shit. Gift giving is our jam. We’ve probably been thinking about this for a few months now. If you’re truly stuck on what to get your man, just get him that thing that he keeps paying more attention to than you when the commercial for it comes on the tv. One and done. That thing about lingerie being the gift to get him always cracks me up. I could be wearing a shower curtain and it wouldn’t matter. I’ve been sick with tissue jammed up each nostril, wearing three day old sweatpants with stains on them, and it was never a deterrent. You’ll forgive me if I’m hesitant to spend to $80 on an 8-inch piece of fabric that’s going to end up on the floor anyhow and say “here, I got this for you!”

Solid Valentine’s Day gifts come from paying attention to your partner. Good gifting is about getting them what they would appreciate, not necessarily what you want. Look, I don’t do gifts and couldn’t possibly care any less about this Hallmark holiday, but I’m sick of hearing people squawk about hurt feelings and being directionless. For heaven’s sake, use common sense. If that doesn’t work, remember my advice: no chocolate, no bears, no flowers - and then think with your dick. Use protection – that’s my PSA for the year. 

2018: Go Pound Sand

Christmas is over and people are already gearing up for New Years and all the failed resolutions that go along with it. I have Christmas pajamas I have yet to don and people on social media are asking about New Year’s toasts and what kind of resolutions I intend to make. You’re kidding right? I don’t commit to shit. I can’t even commit to a shopping list without amending it halfway through; either intentionally or accidentally because I’m forgetful as fuck and left the list at home. I’ve been going prematurely senile for the last 8 years now. I’m excited to see what the next couple of years has in store for me – or not as the case may be. You should be excited though. If my current lifestyle and habits are any indicator; I will be a delight to observe in my deterioration.

I try not to set resolutions for myself. I do this mostly because I hate letting myself down. I don’t mind letting you down so much, but when I fail at shit that I set to do for myself, it really pisses me off. It’s like a game of dueling banjos in my head; the dominant parts of my personality attack and chastise the softer and more nurturing parts. The forgiving character traits that I have are then rounded up and forced into a corner where they’re force-fed dog food, hosed down, then made to wear polyester floral print in neon shades.  

I will not be working out more for 2018. I will not be giving up red meat; you can kiss my ass. If you think I’m cutting candy out of my diet, you’d be sorely fucking mistaken there too. In fact, there is nothing at all that I plan to do differently with what I put into my body or how I treat this sad bag of skin. I just turned 38 and my “give-a-fuck” ran out a long ass time ago. The way I see it, the warranty is finally up on this carcass and I’m in a relationship – so effectively, it’s cool to give up. Sweatpants forever, ya’ll!

 As stated earlier, I don’t do resolutions. I don’t do shit that I think I have potential to fail at, with the exception of arranging words here and there. All of this being said, I’m breaking with tradition and my resolution this year will be to free myself of toxic people and relationships without fear.  

The question was posed to me the other day as to why we stay in relationships long after they serve us or stop being healthy. How the fuck am I supposed to know? Am I a pillar of mental strength? No. Last time I checked I was not a PhD. I have to spellcheck psychiatry (except just then) when I write it. I have some theories of course on why we stay in relational situations that do us damage, but I can’t say for certain they’re worth a crap. Hell, on most days I wouldn’t even trust my responses to a game of Trivial Pursuit. I can’t even remember the last time I played that game; that would involve human interaction and I really try to keep that shit to a minimal. Family and people I’m screwing is the circle I keep; any larger than that and it opens things up for large holiday gatherings, uncomfortable exchanges, and the potential they’ll ask you to house sit for them. Or worse yet: the dinner party.

Why do we stay in relationships that no longer serve us? I can’t speak for anyone but myself [you wouldn’t want me to anyhow, trust me] when I say that it boils down to fear. Fear of hurting the other person’s feelings. Fear of what they may think of me. Fear of the actual confrontation. Fear of not having that relationship anymore, as dysfunctional as it may have been, it became pattern and routine and comfortable – like worn in pajamas [I’m going to beat this pajama thing to death.] Fear of having to start over with someone else. The thousand forms of fear that would always keep me in shitty ass places with fucked up people. The truth is that ultimately I just didn’t have enough faith in myself or love for myself to accept that I could do better and that this twat was an abusive motherfucker; whether they knew it or not. News flash: if you have to tell someone more than once [twice if you’re generous] that they are being abusive, that shit is on them – grab your shit and don’t feel guilty if you never look back. Don’t learn the hard way.

I’m not a “balanced” woman; far from it. I don’t have the answers. What I do know today is that I would rather spend eternity with just my cats and Netflix than a host of false friends. I would rather spend all of my social security money on D batteries for my vibrator than spend time with a warm body that doesn’t appreciate me or treat me right. Eating cereal for dinner by myself sounds delightful when you hold it up next to potentially cooking for an ungrateful son-of-a-bitch, in sickness and in health, till death do us part. That is not the business. Toxicity breeds contempt; that’s the adage, right? Let’s be real. My ass is contemptuous enough as it is; I don’t need a toxic relationship to help me along. 2018 is my year to start giving even fewer fucks.

I will focus on making my relationships authentic and squash the ones that aren’t. I can’t waste energy worrying about how I will be received. “Create authentic relationships,” I can’t figure out if I want to throw up on myself for even uttering the phrase or if I want to sign up for a book club. It’s vomit, definitely vomit…

I don’t know why people stay in dead-end, harmful or one-sided relationships any more than I know why food always tastes better when someone else cooks it for you. That’s fact and you know it. I know if you don’t reclaim your self-worth, people will continue to take it and you for granted. That doesn’t mean you get to be a jackass, it means you get to be strong and independent. It means you get to love yourself. Don’t confuse loving and standing up for yourself with being an arrogant asshat, I’ve seen it happen and it’s terribly unflattering.

So that’s what I got; my first resolution in at least a decade. 2018: the year I said “Go pound sand!” If I stop talking to you and you can’t understand why…now you know, and knowing is half the battle. Yo, Joe!

The ungrinchiest Grinch

It’s Christmas Eve and I’m so incredibly contrary that I’m battling against writing anything festive. It’s so obvious a topic. I asked a friend to help brainstorm and he said “you could write something upbeat for the holidays.”  It’s seriously like dude doesn’t know me at all. Some others had helped to steer me in a direction more in line with what I’m comfortable writing about, but here I sit staring at my damn Christmas tree and planning my stupid Christmas dinner in my new Christmas condo. I’m disgusted with my lack of grinchiness. Let’s not get carried away and start promoting the idea that I’ll sign up for the next caroling squad that forms, because fuck that. I don’t drink anymore and there’s nothing in my past (anymore) so tawdry that you can use it as blackmail to get me to do so. Go fish. 

I’m not a super emotional person. Let me clarify: I will cry on 4 separate occasions during a movie about dogs but couldn’t really give a shit about Valentine’s Day or any other Hallmark holiday for that matter. I don’t care about my anniversary and hardly make mention of it really except when I acknowledge the miracle it is that he made it past my two year mark. Relationships typically have a 2 year shelf-life with me. Somehow, he’s managed to avert the guillotine. I think he’s inhuman. There’s no way any normal functioning adult male would survive me. I’d dump me if I could. The best I’ve ever managed is to give myself the silent treatment for a day, but then I hurt my own feelings. The struggle is real. Pillar of mental stability, said no one ever, when speaking of me.

I say I’m not super emotional, but here I sit in awe of all of my accomplishments and achievements - chief among them being the 10 yr. old sitting in the other room. When I sit down to tea with my ghosts of Christmas past, those bitches are tore-back and angry as fuck. At least 3 are drunk and incoherent and 1 of them is looking for her shoe underneath my couch. The adolescent ghosts are ignoring me or have locked themselves in one of the other rooms in the house and have begun blaring Rage Against The Machine. Fucking teenagers! I think one just set something on fire. I smell fire. I’ve come so far from the wreckage and sadness that those young ladies carried for me. I suppose a thank you is in order. Some Halldark cards may be over due. 

                                                                                                                    

As I’ve grown, I’ve evolved. I’ve shed old skin and behaviors for new ones that were less likely to find me in jail cells and police line-ups. I’ve adopted traditions conducive to personal growth and recovery of spirit – because let’s face it, my mind is shot. I wanted to be an asshole and sit back like I didn’t give a shit about this crappy holiday, but I can’t sit here and look at all that I have and not be humbled and grateful. If you knew the places I had been, the things I’d done, and the obstacles I’d overcome; you’d see that I’m nothing special. I’m no better or worse than the person next door to me necessarily. My eyes are open though; therein lies the difference, I suppose. I don’t take this shit for granted. That’s the thing about growing and evolving – once you stretch your limits spiritually, it’s virtually impossible to go back to what you used to know or how you used to behave. That’s been my experience.

 

On that note, I’m going to go enjoy all the stuff I’m so fortunate to have: my health, my home, and my family. Merry Christmas to you and yours! Yo, which one of you bitches has my other shoe?!

Christmas Day is for Chumps

Mother of the Year

When I accept [graciously] my award for Mother of the Year, I want to make sure some special people are recognized for their supporting roles. It’s not easy working full-time under the harsh conditions I am subjected to: flexible schedules, permitted casual attire, tolerated internet browsing, and my flagrant usage of curse words overlooked; then to have to come home and do this whole “parent” thing? Bollocks! I can’t be expected to this alone – and I don’t. I must give credit where it is due.

I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself. I have an idea for the dress that I’ll wear and the preliminary draft of my acceptance speech is done, but I’m not sharing. No spoilers - assholes! There is an art to keeping people in the dark about certain things; surprises and your true intentions or hidden agendas are among them. I excel at this. Ask my parents or therapist.

You may ask yourself why I’m being bestowed this distinguished award. Don’t be a dickhead! It’s clear I’m rearing the most awesome 10 yr. old man-child to walk the face of the planet. Disagree with me and I will punch you squarely in the nose then proceed to kick you in the shins; and assuming you are of the male persuasion – I’ll tweak your nipples really hard before poking you in the eyes. If you’re a woman, I figure you’ve already suffered enough; we can agree to disagree.

So, in wrapping this bitch up in a nice Christmas package, I’d like to thank the following:

-         Kraft Mac n’ Cheese: Lunch and dinner from toddler to adult. So versatile. “Look honey, I added ketchup and ground beef, now it’s fancy.”  [alright, it’s the store brand, but I think Kraft may be more generous down the line for their honorable mention]

-         Children’s Benadryl: Judge me like you haven’t done it. Jerk

-         Harry Potter: I really don’t think I need to say much else here.

-         The Beastie Boys: I’ve had a great time educating him in the ways of Paul Revere and putting his “root down” but also know that the time will come when he’ll want to “fight for his right to party” and be all about “girls.” He’ll think he’s rebelling when he slams the door and blares the music. He won’t see me dancing in the kitchen. It was my diabolical plan all along.

-         Walmart: Thanks for providing ample examples of why it’s important to stay focused in school.

-         Kevin: Thank you for helping me raise a boy. Thanks for showing him how to do “guy” things without electrocuting himself, cutting off his fingers, or throwing like a girl. Battery acid is not an exfoliant and cable ties are not just for bondage; thank you for being a part of his learning process.

-         The public school system: From the bottom of my dark and cold heart, thank you for taking this little beast off my hands for at least 6 hours a day. Thank you. Bless you. You are all in my prayers each day. Each and every one of you.

-         Sriracha: For that one time that Curran thought that you were ketchup and dipped his McNugget in you as a child. Sounds horrifying, and I’m sure it was, but that shit was fucking priceless too. That alone was worth all the tantrums in public that I have ever had to deal with. [admittedly my child is rad and I’ve really only ever had like 3 public meltdowns – but still]

I know that some you will be upset that you didn’t make the cut. I don’t care. This is my award ceremony and I will acknowledge collaborators to my success as I see fit. So there! *makes ridiculous “so there” face* Yep…mother of the stinking year.  

I have an amazing child. I know this without a shadow of a doubt. I have a small part to play in this. He is, all on his own, a good-natured boy with a good heart and a gigantic brain. He can do anything that he firmly sets his sights on. That kinda shit scares the holy bejesus out of me. I’m a stubborn woman but not terribly bright. I’m raising an intellectual with ferocity and drive that exceeds my own. Lord, let this child continue to walk in the light. If he turns to the dark side, I’m gonna have a hell of a time tracking down a Wookie and Jedi to handle my business. I’m inherently lazy by nature. I prefer the comfort of my couch and chosen blanket adornments; if I have traverse the universe looking for a savior, I’m going to be pissed!

Yeah, so Mother of the Year award goes to me. I’ll be looking for a personal trainer to help me get this bat-wing under-arm fat under control and maybe help get my ass looking a little sweeter; it’s already pretty choice. I’m not looking for any elective surgery, but maybe a weave??? Is fake hair still a “look?” Do celebrities still do that? Do they steal hair from people that really need it, or is it just animal hair? On second thought – neither of those options sounds particularly appealing. Fuck it, I’ll just go as-is on the hair front. Believe the rest of me is going to be flawless for my ceremony though – but I haven’t over-thought this at all. Nope…not at all. 

PTA moms ruin everything (rant)

This morning is perfect. I’m sitting next to the fire with an empty cup of coffee beckoning me to get off my ass and refill it. I’m writing while listening to music and I’m completely alone - this is when I’m at my best.

It’s an understatement to say that I lack finesse in dealing with delicate situations; a gross understatement. I have yet another example for you. Welcome to the torment of parenting imparted with a brain functioning as mine does. You’re welcome.

A few days ago I received a text message from one of the other mothers in my son’s class. I need first to disclose that she is the stereotypical PTA junkie. She has attended one too many pep rallies, had one too many glasses of the mother fucking Kool-Aid, and never left 1987, as she still wears spandex bike shorts and I’m certain she owns a fanny pack somewhere. Text message…right…not dismantling her persona.  This text message I get goes on and on about the shitty substitute teacher the kids had that day [insert overly expressive yawn.]

It’s not that I don’t give two shits about my child’s educational experience, but I don’t give two shits about my child’s educational experience. Obviously [or maybe not] I’m full of shit; of course I care. What apparently happened though has me with my chonies in a twist and taking a stance I feel a little uncomfortable with.

I got the impression from this mother that the substitute said some derogatory shit to the kids – called them stupid and made them feel bad about themselves. Normally I’d laugh and pull out my pom-poms, but getting the news from this woman ruined the whole experience. It’s like being handed the best fitting pair of jeans you’ve ever had in your entire life – life changing jeans, by the little ethnic child that hand stitched them. You just can’t celebrate that shit, so I had to do some investigative work; and now I’m really pissed because I’m doing work too.

I talked to my 10 year cry-factory about what went down in that classroom and I was surprised at his response. I’ll be the first to admit that my child is quick to look for an excuse to get out of doing something…anything. Instead, he told me that the substitute said that the students needed to be doing “better” in the subject they were working on. No mention of being “stupid” or “dumb” was made which tells me that some child/ren interpreted it in this manner, ran back to their parents, and made the substitute sound like a Nazi. I won’t use the word “snowflake” here, but some parents have sweet, sweet snowflake children that need protecting from the harsh and real world and will throw anyone under the bus in the process.

I’m not exaggerating when I say that I was getting text messages up until 9:30 pm the night of the event from this woman. She better be a wine-mom, at least this way I know that there are brief periods of time she may be remotely tolerable. All of this bullshit carried over into the morning hours when I received an email from the teacher stating that there would now be involvement from the Principal. Ah shit ya’ll – it’s gotten real. I can’t sit on my fucking thumb knowing what I know. I hate what I’m about to have to do, but I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna have to stick up for the sub. Below is a short excerpt from my correspondence to my son’s teacher. You can see why I lack finesse and am NOT a PTA member, fuck all that noise.

~ * Just a gentle note: In talking to Curran, he made it sound like the substitute may have told the guys that they needed to be doing "better" in their math and maybe not so much that they were "stupid" or "dumb" I try to remember that what children hear is often very "interpreted." We all want to protect our kids, but there are also several different stories and the truth is probably somewhere in the middle. Curran said "she sucked and didn't explain anything and didn't do anything like Mrs. (Teacher)." 

I tried to remind him that it's hard for a substitute to step into that role (even with instructions) and just take over; especially with cultural differences at work. I'm not AT ALL discrediting what stories are out there, but I think we may also be dealing with alarmist parents who are taking what their children say as the Holy Scripture. I hope that this substitute is given fair assessment, that my thoughts are kept private from other parents that clearly don't feel the same and that perhaps my words are given some thought as well. 

Curran is usually the first to complain about how he was mistreated and in this case, he said that the substitute said verbatim: "you boys need to be doing better." Admittedly, he faked an accent when he did it though... I’m picking my battles.

I really hate being on the establishment side; it goes against what feels normal to me, but I’ll be damned if what some 10 yr. old kid tells their hyper-sensitive parent gets one of our educators in hot water without balancing the scales as best I can. Fuck you, PTA princess, and the gluten-free wafer you rode in on! Kids are lie factories. That’s fact. If you take everything you’re pre-teen says at face value, you are going to be a miserable parent and you’re going to make the rest of us miserable too. I will personally make it my mission in life to embarrass and discredit you. You should be very afraid to find yourself on that list. I don’t take no for an answer, I am extremely competitive, I have come back in life from shit that most folks would slit their own wrists over, and I generally get-off on making you look like a fool. Oh, and I have pom-poms and will celebrate my victory while drinking your glass of Kool-Aid that I rip from your hand. Take that, Bitch! Finesse!