Did You Know You Have A Hole In Your Butt?

“Pheobe, did you know you have a hole in your butt?”

“Yeah, duh. Everyone has a hole in their butt, even cats.”

“But did you know that’s where your butt penis is?”

“Um…I don’t have a butt penis.”

“I’m totally joking, it’s where your poop comes out.”

I have nothing else I can add to this except: raising boys.

My Vagina’s Pronoun is She

When I talk about my vagina I refer to it as “she” and “her”. I understand this is not “normal” behavior, but it’s my behavior, and I’m ok with that. I can’t tell you how many times people have asked me why I refer to my vagina as her own person. Don’t judge me. My answer is, simply put, because SHE is. Let me explain my rational to you.

Think about it, a vagina is…well…have you ever tried to talk to a vagina? The amount of coaxing and urging she needs to do…well…anything! Despite what your brain wants her to do, she is basically going to do whatever she damn well pleases. Pretty sure that’s a woman thing in general. You’re on a date with an amazingly beautiful person. Sparks are flying. A connection is made. You lean in for the kiss and suddenly there is a flood Noah’s arc couldn’t even handle. A few months later, you’re on another date. Sparks are flying. A connection is made. You lean in for the kiss and…nothing. You’re suddenly so dry tumble weeds just blew across your vagina.

She bleeds…pretty much whenever she feels it fits her schedule. So what if she’s three days early?!?! The 27th obviously wasn’t going to work for her. Besides, she’s 35 fucking years old! Who’s got time for punctuality at 35 after pushing out two kids? Not her, that’s for sure.

Then you have special cases, like mine. I mean special in the nicest way possible. She’s been through a lot. Sex, rape, kids, sex, fingers, sex, abuse, timeouts, sex, dry spells, sex. Let’s just say she’s “sensitive”. Not a huge fan of strangers, understandably. They tend to be either too rough or too gentle or too small. Any time there is a new person, she basically stands up, turns around, and runs away screaming “STRANGER DANGER!!!” I all but have to grab her by the scruff, haul her back, and shove her back in place. Toddlers are more agreeable than my vagina. It’s exhausting, but we have been working through it. Then there’s her appetite…for condoms. I’m not sure if it’s her cavernous nature, lack of attention, or if she thinks of condoms like Skittles; but all condom wearers in her vicinity should be warned. You think you’ve got control of the situation. You think you’re doing all the right things. Then she chews it up and swallows it in one gulp. Gone! Condom? What condom? I didn’t see a condom? In the same fashion as someone shoving their hand down a dog’s throat to retrieve the diamond ring they just swallowed, I’m doing the same with my vagina…cursing the entire time.

So, as you can see, my vagina is her own person. Making evil plots against me while I sleep. Sneering at my date from across the table. Waiting for the unsuspecting condom to cross her path. She’s wicked and wonderful all at the same time. She is her own person, and I shall continue to treat her as such because my vagina’s pronoun is SHE.

Driving Into The New England Stereotype

I did it. I hate to admit it, but I did it.

I’ve joined the club of soccer moms, obsessed with their kid’s athletic abilities.

The moms who delay the drop off/pick up process every day at school.

I’ve become a Birkenstock wearing, earth loving, hippie.

Someone who covers every last inch of their bumper with social injustice bumper stickers. Free Tibet! Equality! Legalize medical marijuana! Boring women rarely make history! NPR! Warning, I stop for Goodwill stores!

Move over cautious drivers! This momma is now on the road!

I will no longer be able to park properly in parking lots.

I can now sneer at Honda Pilot drivers.

Finding my car in when coming out of a baseball game will now be impossible without activating the panic button.

Coupled with my short hair, I will now solidify my place in the lesbian community. Thus resulting in never being asked out on a heterosexual date again.

In short, I bought a Subaru. I now fall into all the aforementioned stereotypes, and then some. Despite my need for speed, previous Pilot ownership, and brightly covered tattoos; I am now one of “those” moms. This new purchase has given me the urge to go to the nearest Newbury Comics location and buy up all the Slayer and Anthrax bumper stickers they have in stock. I will have to blast Portishead and Primus albums as I roll through the drop off line in the morning. The struggle is real my friends, and I have thrown myself into the thick of it.

Guess I F&#@ed That One Up

I’m really good a fucking things up. I completely admit it. Good things fall into my lap all the time; all tied up in pretty packages and everything. However, almost as quickly as they land, I push them out and away from me. I wish I could say my reason for doing this is a fear of commitment or a lack of motivation to find happiness. I wish it were that easy. To tell you the truth, I have absolutely no idea why I do this.

Hello, good thing. Into the trash you go. Thanks for stopping by.

As most of you already know, I found this really great guy, Craft, in Canada. Thus proving some good things actually come from Canada. We were planning on meeting up and spending a week together when I brought my kids out to Seattle. I was looking forward to really getting to know him, and spending some “me” time away from my kids. Perfect little package, right in my lap. Vacation. Great guy. Vancouver. Please, and thank you.

Time for some backstory:

My kids go on vacation immediately upon returning from three weeks in Seattle…with my entire family…excluding me.

Craft is still “technically” married. Legally separated, but still “married”. Shut up, I don’t want to hear from you people.

Add those two factors together, and you suddenly have mom guilt with a side of moral fiber. I tried to fight off these feelings. I kept telling myself it was ok to spend time away from the kids AND have fun. I reminded myself that he was “legally separated”. In the long run, my feelings got the better of me, and I changed my return flight home and vacation dates. I did this without telling him first, instead I told him the next day when we could actually Skype instead of via text. I told him my number one reason was that I wanted to be able to take vacation with my kids when they returned from Seattle. It didn’t make sense to me to pick them up on a Saturday, drive them five hours to my parent’s house, drop them off, and drive all the way home again. I wanted to be able to pick them up, drive them five hours to my parent’s house, and stay there with them. Yes, I also told him about the moral fiber part. Saying I couldn’t, in all good consciousness, spend a week with a man who is still “technically” married. Especially if I have to keep that entire vacation a secret so his soon-to-be ex wife doesn’t find out.

Judging by his reaction, you would have thought I had reached down his throat and ripped out his heart. Almost immediately, he said he had to go and hung up. I knew he would be upset, but I didn’t know he would be THAT upset. I didn’t hear from him for the rest of the night. The next day the texts came pouring in. Saying he was heartbroken and disappointed that I didn’t want to see him. I explained to him that it wasn’t that I didn’t want to see him, it was that I wanted to spend the time with my kids, and I couldn’t spend an entire vacation “keeping it on the down low”. Alas, that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He insisted it was because I didn’t want to see him, and I didn’t even want to spend an entire day with him.

So there it stands, no more week long date, and it would appear I have lost someone I thought was my best friend in the process. I think for future “dating” purposes I am going to stick with one of my favorite terms, “keep it simple, stupid.” No long distance. No “in the process of” getting divorced. Probably one I should have stuck to a LONG time ago. No more men with “complicated” lives. Simple. Maybe that means I am going to be single for a long time, but I’m ok with that. Because right now, my children are my main focus. I may be doing a shitty job trying to find someone to grow with us, but I’m not doing a shitty job as a mother.

Drop Off Line Twats

I long for the day when the drop off line at school is nothing but a distant memory. When I can sit back and reminisce about all the times I almost got out of my car and stabbed people for treating the drop off line like the entryway to their house. When I can rejoice in never having to watch mother’s clothe their children in the car, shove poptarts down their throats because of piss poor time management at home, or just sit and have a casual conversation with the 10 kids sitting in the backseat ever again.

Until then I will have to continue sitting through the daily agony of the drop off line. Teaching my own children the beautiful art of cursing someone out when they can’t even hear me and daydreaming about following certain people home and slashing their tires for being drop off line twats. Every day the same people mess it up for the rest of us. They sit, blissfully numb, in their minivans and Subaru Foresters as they pull up in front of the school, turn their engines off don’t tell me they are trying to save the environment, get out of the driver’s seat, pull school projects out of the trunk, jam lunch boxes in backpacks, brush wayward hairs from faces, and pull fairy dust out of their ass before they finally get back in the driver’s seat and drive off in a puff of glitter and purple clouds.

To them, the drop off line is a time for gathering thoughts and belongings before sending their young on their merry way. For the rest of us, the drop off line is for dropping kids off and getting the hell out of dodge! The majority of parents rolling through the drop off line have their kids fully dressed, armed with lunches, school projects piled high on their laps, and ready for departure. Most kids are lucky parents even come to a full and complete stop when letting them out. I am sure I am not the only one tempted to slow down to a crawl, and let my kid tuck and roll into the schoolyard.

So, if you’re a drop off line twat, quit it. Get your kids ready before you leave the house like the rest of us, and stop doing whatever it is you’re doing in the car. Learn some time management skills, stop treating your kids like little morons who can’t do anything for themselves, and kick those little shits out of the car already!!! Because the truth is, the rest of us know who the repeat offenders are, and have come to the conclusion that you make every morning feel like a Monday morning.

Meandering Mommy Madness

Er mer gerd you guys! I can’t even begin to tell you just how crazy things have been! So much has been going on, I don’t even know where to begin. I hate doing bullet points, maily because I do them every day at work and lists freak me out, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you the cliff notes version of things until I actually get my rear in gear and jestfully fill you in on all my meandering mommy madness. Get ready. Get set. Here come the bullet points! Chill out, there are only four.

  • I had the honor and privilege to sit down and talk with an absolutely amazing man from Curacao who is making a difference, not only environmentally, but in the lives of the people around him. Other than this man being pretty fantastic, ladies, he’s pretty darn cute too. Just saying.
  • The kids and I bought a pig. Her name is Bacon Seed. She should be in our freezer by Thanksgiving. In the meantime, be prepared for photos of the growing swine, llamas licking my son’s head, and my daughter being terrified of free range chickens. I may even throw in a few mentions of me being covered in pig shit and how difficult it is to teach children that pork scraps CANNOT go into the pig slop. We are now pig farmers after all.
  • I promised you all updates about my dating adventures, and i have given you one. Which was a complete bust. Well, it’s not so much of an adventure so to say right now, but it will be in a few short weeks as I take my travels across international borders, and see just how well a certain man can deal with my farting and impromptu naps after a few beers. He has been warned, but you never know because he has never smelled one of my farts.
  • My quest to shrink my ass from a size 14 back down to a size 12, as well as actually braving a bikini in public. Add a hint of trampoline fun, where I learn my ass cheeks can hit the back of my head if I jump hard enough. Worst case scenario, my ass doesn’t shrink, I’m stuck wearing a bikini to the beach, and my kids use me for shade from the hot summer sun. At least someone wins.

So there you have it. I PROMISE to get my act together this week and pump this stuff out for you. You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You may even stop reading all together. Then I will hunt you down, steal your first born, and strategically place glitter bombs around you house and inside your car. Your choice, really.

I Should Love My Body, But I Don’t

Reasons I should love my body:

  • I gave birth to two amazing human beings.
  • My curves tell a story.
  • At 35 years old, I still turn heads.
  • Every stretch mark and every sag is there for a reason.
  • My body is mine.
  • It’s the one thing I have complete control over.

Reasons I don’t love my body:

  • As soon as I started to develop, the older boys on the bus started inviting me to sit with them in the back. There they would grope and fondle me as they laughed among themselves, all the while telling me to stay quiet.
  • In 1994 a much older teen-aged boy thought it would be fun to get me drunk, have sex with me as I cried, and leave me in a pool of my own vomit, I was 14.
  • In 2001 a man in a bar slipped something into my drink, brought me to a hotel, took advantage of me while I was passed out, and then forced himself on me when I woke up in the morning.

Sexual assault comes in all forms, and beats a person down mentally and physically. It leaves scars that won’t heal. It brings us a lifetime of pain, and makes it difficult to carry on meaningful relationships. Many of us end up lashing out sexually, thinking it will somehow ease the pain. Sex becomes a series of motions instead of e-motions. We are angry. We feel alone. We are scared to open ourselves up. We end up in bad relationships where we don’t matter. You only have to be the victim one time to feel completely lost. One time to think you’re ugly. One time to hate yourself. As a victim I have spent time drowning my fears in drugs and alcohol. There was a long period of time where I used men for sex, and didn’t care who got hurt. I’ve been through years of counseling and therapy, but the scars sexual assault have left me with will never go away. Every time I look in the mirror all I see is ugliness and hate. Every day is a struggle, learning to love my body because of all the wonderful things it has done. I hope that one day I won’t have the constant pain I carry inside, that one day I will love myself again.

April is sexual assault awareness month. This month, take a moment to educate yourself on the facts of sexual assault and the affects it has on victims and their families. If you or someone you know has been sexually assaulted, contact the authorities, and get help. No one should have to live a life of pain and self doubt because they were taken advantage of.