Valentine’s Day Bull Shit

Ok, so you hate Valentine’s Day…we get it. Someone pissed in your Cheerios and now you’re all kinds of upset. It sucks to be you, truly. All you have done for the past week is bitch and complain about how single you are, how you won’t get any presents, how stupid the cards are, and how you should show someone you love them all the time. I get it.

What you don’t get is that this day actually means something to some people. However, you shit all over their little heart filled day so you can feel better about your current situation. Let’s take a look at why this day of red, white, and chocolates is so important.

  • Chocolate: Women need chocolate to function much like men need steak. Can we live without it? Sure. Is life better if you give it to us? Abso-fucking-lutely!
  • Cards: They’re dumb and we don’t need them to function like normal humans. However, have you ever noticed how horribly most men describe their feelings? Let’s be honest, 80% of them are shit at it. Therefore…cards. Hallmark does fabu job at putting words in their mouths…words that won’t land them on the couch again this week.
  • Lingerie: What says “I Love You” more than a push-up bra, crotchless panties, and a piece of string up her ass? Pretty much nothing. Don’t deny it, men. If your woman walked into the bedroom tonight wearing see through anything with her nipples showing, you would want Valentine’s Day every fucking day of the year. Also, women rarely get headaches when wearing lingerie. You’re welcome.
  • Flowers: They wilt. They die. Dumb, right? Well, kind of. I’ve said this about flowers before, it’s not the actual flowers that mean something, it’s the act of getting them that means something. It means that someone took a moment out of their busy day, thought of you, and then acted on that thought. That’s pretty fucking cool because how often do people actually ACT on their thoughts? Other than serial killers, not very many people. She doesn’t like flowers? Fine. Whatever. Remember what I said about chocolates?
  • A night out: Sure, you can go out any night and, chances are, you will probably have a better chance getting a reservation at that place she likes any other night as well. Unless, of course, Metallica is in town. But answer me this, how many places are set up to be all romantical shit every other night? That’s right, none. They probably won’t have that Prosecco she likes either. Suck it up, dude, and take her out. You can complain to your fellow penis people about it on the 15th.
  • Oral sex: Steak and a blow job day is on the 15th. I think you can take the plunge into her nether regions for a few minutes on the 14th. She will thank you tomorrow.
  • Sex: I don’t think I have to explain this one, but as a warning, if you don’t do at least one of the things above…you’re probably not getting the sex tonight and you can kiss your steak and a blow job tomorrow goodbye as well. Whispers: Lingerie doesn’t cause headaches.

Basically, all roads lead to sex and sex is important to couples and booty calls and one night stands. Our world revolves around sex. THIS is why Valentine’s Day is so important to some people. Some of us want to get our rocks off tonight. Some of us NEED to get our rocks off tonight! So, while you’re all over there getting pissed off at people for being in love on a Hallmark holiday, remember we’re all just trying to get laid over here. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go shave my everything because I’m planning on a little V-day lovin’ tonight.

OES: Old Egg Syndrome

I need to explain something to all of you. It’s something I feel goes unnoticed on a daily basis by the majority of people, but it’s plaguing more than most people realize. I’ve only just come to terms with the fact that I myself am struggling with it on a daily basis. Because it is my struggle, it is also my family’s struggle because they have to live with me. This struggle is called “Old Eggs Syndrome.” I am now in my 6th month of being 37 and Old Egg Syndrome has taken hold of me and my life. It makes me confused, anxious, and weak.

Symptoms of OES include:

  • Weeping when seeing pregnant women
  • The urge to adopt all the cats
  • The urge to adopt all the dogs
  • The urge to adopt all the rabbits, guinea pigs, hamsters, mice, and chinchillas
  • The urge to hatch chicken eggs in your kitchen
  • Rubbing your belly when someone talks about babies
  • Feeling your ovaries try to lash out when you ovulate
  • Excessive hugging of small children who aren’t yours
  • Excessive morning kisses for your own children
  • Holding your 10-year-old like a baby
  • Failing at reminding your 7-year-old what it was like when she was a baby
  • Fighting the urge to suddenly let all your kids sleep in bed with you because pretty soon they won’t even try to come into your room unless they are looking for your hidden whiskey stash
  • Asking your kids if you can  hang out with their friends while they all still think you’re a “cool mom”
  • Insisting your kids listen to your 90’s grunge playlist because Kurt Cobain was the shit
  • Staring at your old maternity photos in bed while sobbing into your wine glass after the kids go to sleep
  • Talking to all dogs like they are toddlers
  • Cradling your bottle of wine before opening it
  • Warning your significant other when you are ovulating
  • Wondering if this will be the last time you ever ovulate
  • Thinking you’re having a hot flash every time you break a sweat
  • Wondering if your IUD is destroying your ovaries

I see pictures of babies, and I want all the babies. I see pictures of goats, and I want all the goats. I go to a friend’s house where I am approached by their dog…I now want all the dogs. I sit on my couch at night thinking back to the cat I saw at the animal shelter last month and can picture myself covered in all the cats. This morning my left ovary whispered to me, “Time’s almost up,” and then kicked me.

My kids already tore my stomach muscles and gave me arthritis in my hip, but my ovaries don’t seem to give a shit. They just keep pumping out little old eggs like it’s nobody’s business. Other people drink because of life’s stresses and struggles. I drink to shut my ovaries up. The struggle is real. So, if you know someone suffering from OES, do at least one of the following:

  • Buy them the world’s biggest box of condoms
  • Buy them a vibrator that will put all penises to shame
  • Call them every time your baby wakes up in the night to remind them what no sleep feels like.
  •  Offer to pay for their hysterectomy
  • Bring them all your poopy diapers
  • Keep them drunk until they are done with menopause

Frick and Frack

When I was younger, a lot younger, we used to have two ducks. Their names were Frick and Frack. Although my memory is most likely skewed, seeing as how I couldn’t have been more than 3 or 4 years old, I do have a memory of these two ducks. My mother used to talk about them constantly, she still mentions them from time to time.

In my head I picture them as two feathery ducks following my mother about the yard, quacking joyfully. Frick and Frack, her two loyal ducks. Now, years later, I can’t help but think of the waddling pair when I look at my two children.

My two children, as they joyfully quacking at each other as they waddle their way to the bus stop each morning with their bulging backpacks. My two children, as they follow me through countless grocery and department stores. My two children, my little ducks.

It’s because of all their human waddling and quacking that I’ve started referring to them as Frick and Frack. Each time I do I magically jump into my head and envision my mother with her two joyful ducks following her around.

Granted, my ducks are not always joyful. In fact, when they are together they are often quite miserable. Squabbling, yelling, making each other cry…an all out verbal cage match during most waking hours. The only peace I get is when one is engrossed in the Xbox  and the other is envisioning themselves as a Teen Titans Go character. Even then my little ducks can’t let go of the previous argument and come to me looking for resolve and validation.

It is then that I magically jump back into my head and envision a lovely candle lit two duck dinner that I get to enjoy all by myself.

Snapped back into reality, mainly because I’m out of wine, my two little ducks are suddenly quacking joyfully again. Waddling around the house with their imaginations running wild like only Frick and Frack can.

This is parenting, folks. It’s all about the rollercoaster of emotions and duck dinners. The moral of the story: Children are like ducks. Unfortunately, you can only eat one of them when they piss you off.

 

Tomorrow my work, in conjunction with the pediatric unit at the local hospital, is hosting a garden memorial service for families who have lost children. I currently work at an organization that hosts families with children going through medical treatment. This covers children who are born prematurely, children who have been diagnosed with cancer and undergoing treatment, to children who are the victims of accidents. Every family is going through their own struggles. So many have happy endings, and it warms me. However, on the rare occasion, a happy ending isn’t in the cards for these families. Tomorrow is for these families. 

I love the fact that my work honors families who have gone through great loss. I love the fact that we are able to give them a little ray of sunshine in their moment of sorrow.

I have hugged these families. I have listened to their stories. I have cried my silent tears for them.

Through all of this, I find myself struggling. Struggling as I sit at home, holding my children. Holding my healthy children.

Today I found myself looking at my children trying to imagine what it would be like if they suddenly weren’t here anymore. Trying to imagine, comprehend, what all these families have gone through. I suddenly felt guilty because I am blessed to be able to hold my children and kiss them before bed each night.

What do I say to these parents who are missing a piece of their hearts? How do I hold them in my arms and tell them it will be ok, when I can’t even begin to comprehend what they are going through? 

I love my job, and I love being able to help sustain a place of comfort and refuge for families. So, tomorrow I will do what I am good at. Tomorrow I will open my arms and remind those families what my work is all about…them.

Blessings to all those who have lost a child. May you find peace. I will always be here with open arms to embrace you as you heal.

You’re Fucking Wrong

For those poor, suffering parents of unruly bedtime toddlers who think “Go The Fuck to Sleep” was written for you, guess what? You’re fucking wrong.

Look, we’ve all been through the toddler years, and everyone knows they are the worst years in the history of ever. They don’t want to get in the bath. They don’t want to get out of the bath. Fuck, they don’t even want to put on the fuzzy jammies you bought them after they practically threw down at Target because you weren’t going to get them. All you want to do is yell at them and say, “Look, you little shit. I’ve had enough. Go the fuck to bed!” And then there are times when you are 100% willing to just let them climb on the counters, eat ice cream, and shit themselves while you hide in the closet with a bottle of wine, because the fight just isn’t worth it. I get it, your life as a parent between the hours of 7 and 9 pm sucks some serious ass. Boo hoo, we will all be over here singing a sad song for you…right after your kid hits 9 years old. Why? Because a 9-year-old at bed time is 10 times worse than a toddler.

Did you know that a 9-year-old only has to shower once a week? Once every two weeks if they don’t smell “that” bad. At least that’s what they will have you believe. You, “Take a shower.” Them, “Why?” You, “Because you stink.” Them, “But I took one yesterday.” You, “I don’t care. You stink. Take a shower.” Them, “Why?” You, “Because you smell like my ass, your feet are black, your hair is grey from who the hell knows what, and because I fucking said so.” Guess who’s going to bed without a shower? It’s not going to be you. You might as well use all that hot water you just saved by them not taking a shower, and draw yourself a nice hot bubble bath…to drown yourself in.

Tell me honestly, have you even had a conversation with a 9-year-old? I’m talking a real, honest to God conversation? Unless you’ve had one, I’m going to go ahead and guess you haven’t. First of all, they’re fucking smart. They will talk you out of anything if you’re not actually paying attention. You know that half-ass listening thing you toddler parents do? Yeah, stop doing that. If you don’t learn to be an active listener now, you’ll find yourself at 9pm with a 9-year-old sitting next to you playing Minecraft on the couch because you thought it would be cute to lie and say didn’t know what 12 times 12 is, losing a bedtime bet. 12 x 12 is 144, in case you didn’t know. By the time you realize you’ve been had by someone who isn’t even 5 feet tall yet, it will be too late to renege on your bedtime bet.

Even if you do decide to renege on your bedtime bet, what are you going to do? Carry them upstairs like when they were 3? Yeah…no. Aside from being fucking smart, they’re fucking squirrely little bastards. A three year old in the middle of a tantrum has nothing on a wiry 9 year old who just ate their weight in macaroni and cheese, yet could slip through the smallest of holes. They’re like Gumby, come to life. They will bend and twist their way out of the strongest of choke holds. All the while taking full advantage of their low center of gravity, and taking you out at the knees as they duck and run. Unless you sit on them, as they are playing Minecraft, you will not be able to overpower them.

Let’s say you actually get them showered, up the stairs, to their room, and in bed. Remember how I said they were fucking smart? Now they’re going to remind you just how smart they are. “But mom…can’t I read just one more chapter in my book?” You know, the book that has been sitting on their desk for over a month with a half inch of dust on it? Yeah, that one. Regardless, you puff up your chest, stroke your ego for raising such a scholastic child, and them, “Of course you can!” Thirty minutes later, you go to check on them. That fucking little shit is playing Minecraft! You burn all the books, and send the tablet to some third world country for kids without internet to play with.

Once you’ve gotten used to them smell of the stank child you gave birth to 9 years ago, talked your way out of a bet, drop kicked said 9-year-old, and burned everything in their room, you finally get them tucked in and quiet. You try to hug them; they duck out of the way. You try to kiss them on the forehead; they magically slip under the bed. Holy shit! Get the fuck back into your bed, you unruly child before I make you breathe deeply with this pillow shoved in your face. And for fucks sake, give your mother a fucking hug and a kiss!

So, parents of toddlers, heed my words. Start paying attention to what is actually coming out of that little shit’s mouth, go to the gym to get swoll, and start carrying around a portable camping shower because your gonna fucking need it in 6 to 8 years. Enjoy your time, and your excuse to drink, now because once they hit 9…you won’t have enough brain left to figure out how to even pour that wine into a glass.

He Took One Thing, My Confidence

22 years ago next month, a man came into my house and changed my life forever. He wasn’t a friend. He wasn’t a family member. To me, he was a complete stranger. He was my best friend’s drug dealer. His name was Scott. He was 22. I was 14.

At 14 you’re pretty sure that you rule the world, and that nothing will ever hurt you. So, when my best friend suggested we drink the bottle of Jack Daniels in my parent’s liquor cabinet, I didn’t argue. It was horrible, and burned on the way down. I hated every minute of it, but my best friend assured me it was going to be fun. After a few sips the burning subsided, and the fun began. We started stumbling around the house, laughing hysterically, and calling everyone we knew. “I know,” she said “Let’s call my drug dealer, he thinks you’re really pretty.” At 14 the thought of a grown-up thinking you’re pretty is a pretty awesome thing. I puffed up my chest, shook my shoulders, and agreed to the phone call.

30 minutes later there was Scott, on my doorstep. He was tall and handsome. He touched my face and said hello. I was in heaven. After he and my best friend  made a little transaction off to the side, he came up to me and put his hand on my waist. “Is there some place we can go to talk in private?” Being naive, and young, I walked him down to the basement. He followed behind me, with the bottle of Jack in his hand. Once we were down there he started urging me to take sips from the bottle. After each sip he would kiss me. A peck on the cheek, then the other. A lingering kiss on the neck. His hands fondled the outside of my shirt, and then under it. He told me how beautiful I was, and what an amazing body I had. In my mind, I was a queen. This is what it meant to be a teenager, to be wanted by a man. A real man. He then asked me where my bedroom was.

I stumbled up the stairs ahead of him. Up two floors to my bedroom. The door shut. The lights went off. I suddenly felt like I had left my body. I kept getting glimpses of a naked me on the bed, with him on top. It hurt, but I let it happen because he had told me I was beautiful. That had to mean something. Right? At one point I saw the door fly open, followed by a flash of light. “Oh my god!!!! They’re actually doing it!!!” It was my best friend yelling into the phone in excitement.

The next morning I woke up, not with a handsome 22 year old next to me, but in a rumpled heap in a pool of my own vomit next to an empty Jack Daniels bottle. Everything hurt. My head. My body. I felt confused. I felt scared. I felt violated. My best friend was sitting in the living room when I got downstairs. “So?” she asked, “How was it?” I didn’t know what to say, instead I shrugged my shoulders and walked outside. She followed me outside cheerfully. She explained to me that Scott had left when I started to throw up, and that she had traded me for drugs. My best friend traded my dignity for drugs.

Since then I have had difficulties forming personal relationships, and trusting those close to me. I have no emotional attachment to sex, and I a difficult time saying “no” when a man pushes himself against me. Instead of enjoying foreplay, I fill with anxiety and go numb. I become an emotional void from the first grope to the last insertion. I have a history of choosing the wrong men because I don’t know how to say “no”. I end up taking them into my life because they told me I was beautiful. Even after they stop saying it, after they start treating me like an object, after they become complete strangers in our home, after I try to cut them out of my life; I can’t say no.

I have been raped one more time since then. That one sent me into a very dark period in my life where I hurt a lot of men. I used them the same way I though they wanted to use me. For the past 22 years I have made myself believe all I am good for is sex. I have struggled with eating disorders, alcohol addiction, and self doubt. Now, for the first time since that fateful night, I am finally ready to put my feet back under me. I am ready to take my life back, and I am sacred shitless. For those of you who know me in real life, please be gentle with me. Please help me through the rollercoaster ahead of me because I have a long way to go.

Today I Am Worth It

In the past two and a half years I have put on almost 20 pounds. I now find myself jiggling in places I haven’t felt jiggle since my daughter was born. When I walk, my ass looks like it’s bumpin’ at the club, and my sides wiggle  like they’re being tickled. Don’t even get me started on my boobs. The two things that are growing at such an obscene pace, I’ve maxed out my JC Penny’s credit card. I have wrinkles in places I didn’t even know could wrinkle, and hair growing in places no hair should ever go.

This past year, I let the weight gain, wrinkles, and hair get the better of me. To top it all off, I was letting the stresses of life get to me. I would look in the mirror, and not even recognize the person looking back at me. All I saw was a sad woman, carrying the weight on the world on her shoulders. She constantly looked exhausted. She never liked to smile. Her eyes were sad. Her skin was pale. I had let all these things define me. My struggles at work, a failing relationship, and overall struggle of raising two young kids had taken over what I thought I was. Boy, was I wrong! Letting all that define me made me into…well…a miserable bitch.

Life isn’t always fun, I know that. Life isn’t always awful either, I need to remember that. As I looked at myself in the mirror the other night, tears streaming down my face, flat out ugly crying I started to look at my life up to that point. Where had I been? What had I done? What had brought me to this point of self hate? I want to say this is the point where I had this amazing, snot induced epiphany…but it wasn’t. This is where I went downstairs, ignored the homework that was due in two hours, drank too much a beer. I was a failure. I was useless. I couldn’t believe I was allowed to raise children. My personal pity party carried on into the next day, at work and into the night.

I sent out a few “pay attention to me” text messages to friends, posted some adult emo content on social media, and cried…a lot. I was convinced I would never finish my degree, get a better paying job, buy a house, or find someone who thought I was worthy of a daily weekly foot rub. My kids deserved better, and I was the worst mother alive. I looked at myself in the mirror again, confirming all the horrible things. I then climbed into a hole, covered myself with dirt, and gave in. I let the all the negative in. I let it take over all my emotions. I could feel myself breaking apart, full of hopelessness. There was no way I was going to be able to climb out of this. Then I woke up.

The alarm was going off. The cat was starring at me. Same day, different date. But something was different. Something had changed. As I climbed out of bed, I caught a glimpse on my naked body in the mirror behind the door. Who was that? She had soft curves, smooth skin. She was younger and free. Then it hit me, I was looking at myself. My wrinkles were still there, but they were less harsh. My ass was still bumpin’ at the club yes, I checked, and my boobs were still monsters. Everything was still THERE, it was just different. Confused, I walked into the bathroom to look in a different mirror. There I saw strength and beauty. I saw a woman who had control of her life, and was going to do something about it.

I had let all the negative consume me completely. I let it fester and manifest. I let it have it’s way with me. Then it burned itself out, leaving me in a pile of ashes. This morning, from those ashes, I awoke and arose a phoenix. Today I can take on the world. Today I can give my children everything needed for a full, and happy life. Today I am beautiful. Today I am worth it. Today is the beginning of the rest of my life.

Yes, I’ll still have to shave my toes and work on losing weight, and that’s ok. I’ll still have days where life will push me down, but I’m ready. Today I have a confidence I have never had before. Today I love myswlf. Today and every day going forward.
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