The BLoG MuSe

Better than anti-depressants! … Sort of.

Monthly Archives: December 2010

Talk to Your Animals About SEX. You Could Save Lives! Or not.

So I started out first by getting a little drunk. That seems to help. Me, not them, obviously. Then I proceeded to line-up my dog and two cats, firing-line style in order to tell them all about the birds, the bees and other friendly (but diseased goddamnit) forest creatures.

Well, let’s just say that this went about as well as the time I quacked in public (we’ll save that for later) and Craig looked at me like my head might start spinning around or that it might just pop right the fuck off. Anyway, so I line up the feline and canine victims. Errr students and prepare my speech. It goes something like this:

“Girls, let me start out by telling you that it’s very important for you to not whore around. Mostly because if you do, you’ll get that petfection disease and it will cause one of your beloved appendages to FALL OFF and make your human-mommy DIE!!!

Also, two of you rarely leave the house which means that if you end up with the PFD (yeah, that’s right I made up that acronym for my made-up disease. SO WHAT?!?) if either of the two of you end up with the PFD I’ll know one of two things: 1. You are sneaking out and whoring around which I just told you not to do 2. You’re lesbian. Either way, just don’t have the sex because it MAKE CRICKETS TRY TO EAT YOUR EARS OFF AND THEN KILL YOU.”

Basically if my cats get the PFD they are either sneaking out or lesbian. Which might be a little weird because both scenarios make things a little weird since this entire post is going very differently than I planned. As for the dog, well she just better not whore around OR ELSE!!! And if she does become a little labwhore and she gives my cats the PFD I might have to take her fuckin chew toy and bury it in a sea of gigantic fingers trying to touch her paws and clip her nails.

This my friends is why you shouldn’t get drunk and decide to talk to your animals about the sex. Because it’s easier to just get them fixed!

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Hold On To your Pants 2011!

HOLY SHIT Y’ALL! Someone was actually dumb enough to allow me my own corner of the web! I don’t know about you but I am ecstatic about this! I’m sure some of you are currently beefing up the fancy fuckin’ safe-mode features on your internet browsers to protect innocent eyes from my evil forces. Some of you might even be hiding under a rug hoping and praying that a syndication effort will force me into silence. Others of you are probably going “Holy Shit y’all! check this shit out!!” Let me just say that the latter of you are my favorite and why I’m pushing the envelope a little more. YAY ME. Have no fear though, I need the rest of you too in order to support a healthy balance.

Anyway, 2010 sucked a big penis. It did however birth my blogging beginnings which started with the annoying ‘random thought’ text messages I used to send to a few friends and loved ones which admittedly started out to be kind of annoying (shocking I know) but then it turned into something bigger. It blew up into a forum I could no longer maintain via text message because too many people wanted them. Who knew? After all, Craig thinks I might be a little nutty, or a lot nutty and that my random thoughts are just a little out there. I had no idea that anyone would actually want to read or hear my randomness and so  after a suggestion from a friend I started a simple blog making my random thoughts available to anyone and everyone who wanted to read them and no longer forced myself into everyone’s pockets via text even though I really liked being that buzzing fly that just wouldn’t stop with the chaos… even at 1AM. I gave in however and decided to start a blog and stop MOST of the messages. It went well for a while.

Well bitches, I’m here to tell you that I’m expanding! You should know that by now since you probably got here by typing or clicking my awesome link http://theblogmuse.com which I can’t stop typing and staring at because I’m really, really excited!

Navigation: To the right you’ll find the categories column at the very top (yep, put it there for ease of access. You’re welcome) you’ll find:

  • Arbitrary Musings: all the random thoughts that started it all. I will continue to add content here so check back. often.
  • Ramblings: My blog posts that are still probably just as random, just longer
  • Shit I Love: This is where I post and share awesome stuff I can’t take credit for because I didn’t write it or think of it. DAMN.

Stick around Folks, this should be fun! I moved everything over from my other blog, which was laboriously difficult so you OWE ME BIG. But still, it’s all here under one roof so that you have no reason to hang out anywhere else on the web. Even if you do, lie to me to inflate my ego. I like that.

ILL ADVISED: Lesson 7 – Your Birth Plan. Good Luck With That.

Link: ILL ADVISED: Lesson 7 – Your Birth Plan. Good Luck With That.

( a re-post from my favorite blogger and advice columner)

When I was pregnant with Hailey, I had no idea what I was doing and when people would ask me what “my birth plan” was, I would say, “Um … I plan to have a baby,” and then I’d walk away because those people were clearly idiots, but then later I was reading the pregnancy books and apparently you’re supposed to have a detailed plan for the kind of birth you want your child to have. You’re supposed to decide how you want to deal with the pain, where to have your baby, what part of your body you want your baby to come out of, and a host of other things that all basically sound like various degrees of unpleasantness and horror.  

If you’re anything like me, the baby books and your pregnant friends will scare the shit out of you so I’m going to give you the lowdown here. 

You will have a million choices in your birth plan but only three things are certain.

One: You’re doing it wrong. If you have your baby at home, it will scar your other children for life and your baby may be trampled by wild horses. If you have your baby at a hospital, it will get switched with another baby who leaves the door open all the time and sells your VCR for drug money. If you have an epidural, your baby will come out addicted to crack. If anyone speaks to the baby for the first seven days, they will have psychic scars that will allow aliens to latch onto their brains. These are all things that were actually told to me by seemingly normal women who had been driven mad by the pressure of having to choose a birth plan. 

Two: IT IS THE MOST IMPORTANT DECISION YOU WILL EVER MAKE. Choosing a birth plan is less like choosing a new couch and more like choosing whether to be in the Crips or the Bloods. Battle lines are drawn and someone’s going to get blood on them. Example:

Me: Once the baby’s born I’m going to become a cannibal.

Pregnant friend: Oh, like the Atkins diet. Good for you!

Me: Also, I’ll be dyeing my clothes with the blood of my enemies.

Pregnant friend: Well, you do look good in red.

Me: And I think I’ve decided to have a c-section.

Pregnant friend: SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH AND LEAVE NOW BEFORE YOUR SELFISH WHORE BREATH INFECTS MY UNBORN BABY.

Three: The person making your actual birth plan decisions is your baby. Related: babies don’t give a shit about your plans. Making a plan for the birth of a child is like making a plan for decorating your Christmas tree in the middle of a house fire. Until you’re actually in the heat of battle, you have no idea whether you’re going to want drugs or whether you’ll have to have a c-section or whether you’ll be stuck in traffic and the baby will be delivered by a cab driver who will burn off the umbilical cord with his cigar. And that’s fine. Hell, the Virgin Mary had her baby in a damn barn and he turned out okay. 

In the end, none of that matters. Whether you welcome your baby in a hut or in a hospital or in the orphanage where you adopt her, the same basic rule applies: If you’re lucky enough to end up with a baby, you win.  

The end.

PS: I was just singing that song about Jesus being born in a barn and it was all “… A child, a child shivers in the cold. We must bring him silver and gold.” And I’m all “How about a sweater?” Because metal’s not that warm. And my husband just pointed out that Jesus could buy a sweater with silver and gold but where exactly is he going to buy one? They couldn’t even find a damn hotel, much less an Old Navy. Plus, they’re going to have to carry a bunch of heavy silver and gold and myrrh with them on a fucking donkey. 

Worst. baby gifts. ever.

ILL ADVISED – Lesson 6: Drugs, Addiction, and Brutally Murdered Fairies

Link: ILL ADVISED – Lesson 6: Drugs, Addiction, and Brutally Murdered Fairies

( a re-post from my favorite blogger and advice columner)

Last week my daughter came home from kindergarten wearing a large sticker proclaiming “Hugs! Not drugs.”  I asked her what the sticker meant and she explained that she’s now a member of D.A.R.E and that if people try to sell you drugs you should say, “No, thank you” and hug them.   And while I appreciate the sentiment, I can’t help but thinking that snuggling with rejected drug dealers might not be the safest move for a kindergartner.  I asked my daughter if she even knew what drugs were and she admitted that she wasn’t really paying attention but she thought they were “like bears, only smaller.”  I think the point here is that the D.A.R.E. system is fundamentally flawed and that my child might need Ritalin. 

Regardless, it is disconcerting that the information our children get about drugs is often wrong or lacking and it leaves them ill-equipped to make rational decisions about whether or not to do drugs and so I’ve created a small outline of the most popular drugs and their effects that you can share with your children.  You’re welcome.

Remember, knowledge is power. 

  1. Cocaine.  Cocaine will get you really high but can be quite expensive.  It’s a white powdery substance made from the bones of crushed, tortured baby kittens.  Snorting cocaine is like eating tuna made of murdered dolphins except worse because dolphins can’t hide in your shoes and end up on funny Internet videos.  Cocaine is snorted through the nose, exactly like that weird kid in your class who snorts his milk through his nose and who no one likes to sit next to at lunch.  So yeah.  It’s that sexy.
  2. Crack.  Crack is just like cocaine except cheaper because it’s made out of kittens who died from contagious diseases.  Unfortunately all the money you save buying crack will end up going toward medication though because crack causes herpes. Crack herpes.  Some people will try to tell you that crack herpes isn’t as bad as regular herpes and they’re right.  Because it’s worse.
  3. Heroin.  Heroin is one of the worst drugs around because it’s impossible to spell.  It makes you really skinny and vaguely hot but sometime between the 1st and the 28th time you use it your genitals will fall right off.  True story.
  4. Marijuana.   Marijuana is considered one of the least harmful drugs but it’s still something that should be avoided because it’s a gateway drug.  It’s called a “gateway drug” because every time you smoke it the gateway to fairyland opens and a fairy is decapitated.  Your fairy.  And I know right now you’re probably thinking, “But I don’t even have a fairy” and that’s because when a fairy is murdered, all of the memories of that fairy are erased from the world and are replaced with unnecessary, mandatory algebra classes.  If you have no memory of ever having a fairy and you’ve never done drugs, then it’s probably the result of second-hand smoke.  This is why it’s important to stop your friends from doing marijuana.  When you see a classmate lighting up, you should immediately stop them and explain that they are murdering fairies and inventing math classes and most likely they will stop immediately or at least stop hassling you to join in since you’re obviously on much better drugs than they are.  Everyone wins.  Except for all the fairies that you murdered.
  5. PCP.  PCP is more commonly called “fairy dust” because it’s made of the remains of decapitated fairies, you sick, sick bastard.

In conclusion, drugs are bad and if you use them your genitals will fall off and then we all end up having to take more math classes because of all the fairies you murdered.  Also you should really never hug drug dealers because it’s a bad idea to lean against people who carry dirty needles and also because crack herpes is highly contagious. 

This is all just basic common sense, people.  

ILL ADVISED: Lesson 5 – Taming Temper Tantrums Through Arson

Link: ILL ADVISED: Lesson 5 – Taming Temper Tantrums Through Arson

(a re-post from my favorite blogger and advice columner)

Note: I wrote this article while on massive amounts of cold medication and I’m pretty sure I have some sort of deadly cholera so I can’t really be held responsible for anything I write here. Which, now that I think about it, is pretty much the same as usual, except more drugs are involved. You know what? Never mind. Let’s just get started.

This week we’re talking about how to control temper tantrums with the subtle art of arson.

Lots of children deal with anger-management issues, and most of their parents will pass this off as a normal phase that kids go through as they learn how to deal with emotions. In most cases the parents are right, but in some cases those children will turn into dangerous sociopaths who are now waiting in the park to stab you. It is for this reason (public safety) that children should be taught to deal with anger and temper problems as soon as possible.

I should note here that there are different levels of aggression in children and you will have to use your best judgment to decide whether your child is normal or a dangerous menace who should be stopped at all costs. For example, if your child is two and is occasionally biting others, that might be a perfectly normal response. If your child is twenty and is occasionally biting others, then it’s slightly less normal.  

If my child stabs a teacher with a fork, then I would probably have to question what the teacher did to provoke my child. If your child pushes mine down, then they obviously have serious anger management issues and I will track them down, show up in their bedroom at night, and threaten to have fairies eat their legs off. Some people might claim that this is an example of my personal anger management issues, but I would assure those people that I am actually a very calm and reasonable person and that if they don’t stop questioning me, I will cut their arms off with a hacksaw. I would just use the same “fairies will eat your legs off” threat, but sadly, most grown-ups refuse to acknowledge the existence of leg-eating fairies. Sad, really.

Wait. Where was I? My God, this is strong cold medicine.

Oh. Right. Temper tantrums. There are a lot of different techniques you can use to help your children control their anger. Communication, teaching them to use their words, distraction, and helping them understand the repercussions of a temper tantrum are all good techniques, but none of them are as deeply effective as convincing your child that they are a Firestarter. You might remember the book (and movie of the same name), but in case you missed it, Firestarter is a story by Stephen King about a girl who is able to start fires with her mind when she gets mad. It’s bad-ass and I highly recommend it. You should rent a copy of the movie and convince your child that it’s a documentary. Then, the next time your kid throws a fit because they don’t want to share their Barbies with their sister, just distract them both and quickly set fire to the Barbies. This will not only distract them from the temper tantrum, but it will also make them terrified of dealing with anger and they will learn to suppress all negative emotions until they are safely out of your home. 

Be aware, however, that this plan requires both stealth and follow-through. The first time your child notices your poorly concealed flamethrower, you’re kind of fucked because then they’re going to suspect you and get mad at you and then the only way to keep up the ruse is to pretend to be insulted, walk into the bathroom, and surreptitiously set fire to yourself.  

Yes, it will be dangerous and painful but no one ever said raising a child was easy. Of course, no one ever said that setting yourself on fire as a learning technique was a good idea either. Except for me, that is. I just said that.

I should maybe go lie down now. I blame this whole article on the cholera.

ILL ADVISED: Lesson 4 – Responsibility. Frankly, If We Were Better At It We Probably Wouldn’t Even *Have Kids*

Link: ILL ADVISED: Lesson 4 – Responsibility. Frankly, If We Were Better At It We Probably Wouldn’t Even *Have Kids*

(a repost from my favorite blogger and advice columner)

This week we’re talking about “teaching responsibility to our children.”

So who exactly is responsible for that?  That’s right.  Their teachers.  Unless you’ve forgotten to enroll your children in school, that is.  Then it’s the cats.  If you don’t have house cats, then the mantle of teaching responsibility to the children who are our future falls to you.  So basically we’re all fucked.

I know.  This is when you’re going to get all defensive and insist that you’re teaching your children responsibility but honestly, the first step in being responsible is admitting that you aren’t, so let’s all just take a deep breath and start there.*   I understand first-hand how difficult it is to be responsible and, in fact, I was going to write about this last month but I got totally distracted when I knocked over one of my moving boxes from when I moved five years ago and found the complete series of Absolutely Fabulous, which I thought I’d lost in a fire, which was caused, ironically enough, by my own child’s irresponsibility.  My point?  I’m not here to judge you.  I’m here to help you.  Unless you actually are less responsible than me. Then I’m totally judging you.

Experts suggest that the best way to teach children responsibility is by your own positive example as a parent but honestly, that sounds like a fucking ton of work and so instead I suggest setting up a series of lessons intended to traumatize your child into being the responsible one in the family.

1.  Buy your child a pet hamster.  Also buy a matching dead hamster and put it in the freezer.  Whenever your child neglects to clean up his room or leaves her bike on the front lawn, simply remove the live hamster and replace it with the frozen dead one.  Explain that the hamster must have died from disappointment after hearing about your child’s lack of responsibility.  After a few hours of mourning, replace the freezer hamster with the live hamster and explain that the child’s tears of regret must have brought him back to life but that the hamster was in rodent hell for those hours and that if he keeps getting murdered by their blatant irresponsibility, then he’ll probably eventually turn into an angry zombie and then kill the whole family during the night.  This teaches responsibility both for a pet and for the well-being of others, plus it begins their education on the danger of zombies.  It’s practically like you’re homeschooling them.

2.  Set small fires on the kitchen table and see how long it takes your children to notice them and put them out.  If it’s more than 10 minutes, you’ll need to punish them and also to buy a new table.  I suggest one made out of asbestos because asbestos is really hard to burn.  Not that great to eat off of though, but these are the sacrifices you make as a parent.  Also, make sure you don’t have your DVD collection lying around nearby because they will totally melt into a solid cube of melted plastic on your carpet and you’ll have to cut out that whole section of carpet with scissors because nothing is getting that shit out.  For real.  Not even baking soda.  Note: It’s not necessary to have an excuse for the fire but it helps to have one that deflects blame from you.  Personally, I chose to tell my child that the fire was started by a poltergeist who was angry because she kept leaving her shoes in the middle of the damn living room.

3.  Forcibly emancipate your children.  Anything you do for your children after age 5 just serves to make them soft and dependent, so you should do your children a favor and make them leave home as soon as possible.  Many people get confused on this step and give their child up for adoption, but that’s just passing the buck and you’re certainly not going to teach your child responsibility by shirking your own.  Instead you should have your child live in a nearby town or (if they can’t afford the rent) the shed where you keep the lawnmower.  If your child is under age 3, you should probably remove the lawnmower because sharp blades are dangerous around young children and also because it’s probably not very good for the lawnmower.  I feel like I should point out that most toddlers are not even remotely responsible enough to live in a garden shed by themselves, so if yours is living there, then congratulations because they must be really advanced for their age.  You must be very proud indeed.

Thus ends our three-point lesson in being responsible.  I actually had four points but a poltergeist deleted the fourth one because someone left the cereal box open and now all the corn pops are stale.  Way to go, asshole.

Updated:  Fuck.  I owe you an apology.  My husband just pointed out that “admitting it” is the first step in fighting alcoholism, not in accepting your own personal irresponsibility.  So basically I think this means that this whole lesson was built on a lie and probably won’t help you at all.  Unless you’re an alcoholic.  Then I think I may have cured you.  You’re welcome, alcoholics.

ILL ADVISED – Lesson 3 – Your Kids’ Names Are Stupid. Stop Doing That

Link: ILL ADVISED – Lesson 3 – Your Kids’ Names Are Stupid. Stop Doing That

(a re-post from my favorite blogger and advice columner)

This week we’re exploring the many ways you can completely devastate your children by giving them terrible names.  I know.  Seven years ago you thought that naming your kid something unique would make them stand out, so you called her “Madison,” and then everyone else named their kid Madison, and so now you’re looking for a name so unique that no one else would ever choose it, except that the reason they’ll never choose it is because it’s stupid.  You’re not doing anyone any favors here.

I understand the quandary.  My sister just had her fourth kid last week and she’d used up all the names she liked on the first three kids so this last one ended up with the middle name of Elora, which is a beautiful name but it’s also deliberately lifted from the movie Willow.  I suggested to my sister that when you’re at the point when you’re naming your children after characters from Val Kilmer movies, maybe it’s time to stop.  Then she assured me that number four was her last one because she didn’t want to end up with a kid named “Goose,” but that “Iceman did have a nice ring to it” and I was all “Dude.  ‘Iceman’ is the name of that serial killer who brutally murdered hundreds of people.  You know what?  You aren’t allowed to name children anymore.”  She didn’t protest.  Probably because she was too busy taking care of her second youngest who I’m reasonably sure was named after the main character in Twilight Then she pointed out that I’d unintentionally given my daughter the initials “HEL” and that my own name (Jenny) is the formal definition of “a female jack-ass,” so maybe I’m not really in a good position to be so damn judgmental.  She has a point.

I’ve met a lot of people with terrible names (Jennerfer, Quntilla, and Mister are my personal favorites) but I thought I’d poll Twitter to find out which names really stuck out as being truly unfortunate to them.  I want to be very clear that if you have any of these names, I am not making fun of you.  I’m making fun of your parents, who might be high right now.  And who you should probably be forcibly emancipated from.  I asked my readers on Twitter to share the most horrific names of people they know and they did not disappoint me.  Prepare yourself:  


“My dad named my sisters Xena and Trinity, after fictional characters. If Trinity was a boy, he totally planned to name him Neo. He thinks The Matrix is a documentary. I share this man’s DNA.”


“There was a person in the San Antonio phone book in the early ‘80s named Weldon Rumproast.”


“There was a man named Lord where I worked. It was really hard to send him emails.”

 

“I used to work with twins called Girleen and Pearleen. GIRLEEN. AND PEARLEEN.”

 

“Went to school with a boy whose sister’s name was ‘Babygirl’ — Mom said hospital named her.”

 

“I had a student named Nimrod. Is that horrific enough? Probably became a badass.”

 

Placenta. I swear to God. That. Actually. Happened.”

 

“I work with two sisters whose names are Ivory and Sno. Their last name is White. Because of course it is.”

 

“At the hospital birthing my son, a girl had just named her daughter Felony. Seriously.”

 

“A girl named T9cy graduated with my brother. Worked with a nurse that named her daughter Dysphagia (a swallowing disorder).”

 

“I know a mother who named her daughter Meconium … a baby’s first poo.”

 

“I knew a guy named ‘Hi.’ Seriously, that was his given name. I never knew whether to say hi, hey, or hello when I saw him.”

 

“I have all y’all beat. At my high school, there was a girl named Leukemia.”

 

“Some guy on my ex-company email list is named Ho Mo.”

 

“I ran across a gentleman whose first name was ‘General.’”

 

“I knew someone named Merry Christmas Smith.”

 

“My roommate was in kindergarten with ‘Pajamas.’”

 

“There’s a girl in my office named Sharmonica.”

 

Latrina. It’s Italian for ‘bathroom.’”

 

“My mom went to high school with an Asian kid named ‘Peter Pan.’ His Dad did it on purpose and thought it was funny.”

 

“Most horrific baby name? Holden Hiscock — no joke, real person.”

 

“Most horrific? Mordecai BREEZEBLOCK.”

 

“I once met two sisters named Daquiri and Brandy, but Daquiri was something like ‘Dakiri,’ which just made it that much worse.”

 

“A woman working at a bank here is Nova Kane.”

 

“I had a little girl in my preschool class named Tiereney. She was a horror … you get what you pay for.”

 

“First name Ashe, last name Hoal. Like Coal. Yeah.”

 

“Most horrific: Awesome. They named their baby girl ‘Awesome.’”

 

“I went to school with a Justice, Precious, Success, Fanny & a Cinderella. They’re all boys.”

 

“I’ve worked with more than one Queen, a few Princesses, and with Beauty, Friday, Gift, and Tractor. True as Bob.”

 

“My mother worked with a woman named Vagina (vah-geena). Yeah. She went by Geena.”

 

“Farquair McArthur, but it was in Scotland so everyone pronounced it FAHRK-er.”

 

“My old janitor was named Richard Boob … as in, Dick Boob. For a 13-year -old that was comedy gold.”

 

“I knew a Freakus Pelekus (it rhymes) when I was growing up. No joke.”

 

“I can do you one better. Dad’s urologist was Dr. Ballcheck.”

 

“I knew a woman named UT. She was named for the University of Texas.”

 

“I know a kid named Master. When I met him, all I could think was, ‘Oh God, what if he wants to join debate club?’”

 

“Taught swimming to a kid named ‘Carstairs.’ On a related note, am thinking ‘Boatgarage’ for next baby.”

 

“I know a guy named David who named his son Harley, so when asked to identify himself, he could say, ‘Harley, David’s son’.”

 

“Horrific: Shamontreal after ‘the country in Canada.’ Knowing the mom, it’s impressive she knew Canada & Montreal were related. She had a sister named Shantartica.”

 

“Went to school with a girl named ‘Marijuana Pepsi Jackson.’”

 

“I had a woman who applied at my bookstore who was named ‘Sparkle.’ Really. I can’t make that shit up.”

 

“My favorite aunt: Leotha Zola Slagowski. Awesome.”

 

“Dorcus Wang.”

 

“My great-aunt Bubba’s christened name was Beulah Wonderbell.”

 

“We had a student named Yhorhighness (your highness) and his sister was Urmajesty (your majesty) at my last school.”

 

“Have relatives (siblings) named Ronya, Donya, Tonya, Sonya, and Rocky. #wtf”

 

“We had a kid named Whoopi Vasquez in class once.”

 

“Most horrific name would have to be a guy my wife knew in KY named Turley. Horrific because his last name was Curd.”

 

“I knew a T. She was a police officer in Georgia. She had a sister named Q.”

 

“My friend’s mom is a OB nurse. How about ‘Heavenly Angle’? Yes, they were informed of the typo. Kept it.”

 

“Oh, I can beat that. Ready? My friend met a woman at the bus stop whose daughter’s name was … wait for it … ATROCITY.”

 

“My cousin named her child ‘Nemesis.’ Yeah. Nice.”

 

“When I was pregnant NYT ran an article on bad names that included ‘Ogre,’ but the worst I’ve met was in son’s class: ‘Anomaly.’”

 

“My little Bro went to school with a girl named Cholera.”

 

“Friend of a friend is named Guy Richard Sack.”

 

“I have a cuz named Dub. Full name? W. Youngest of several, all starting with W. They ran out of names. Welcome to the Ozarks!”

 

“Knew a kid in HS named Scooby. His mom was still looped on demerol when she named him.”

 

“I work with a girl named Chattara. Like the Thundercat.”

 

“Worst ever? Ex husband went to school with a Titsalina. Her last name was Belmsquatch. Swear. To. God.”

 

“My great grandfather’s given name was Doctor, middle name Lumpkin. Did they call him Doc? Nope. They called him Lump.”

 

“I also met a kid named ‘Doctor’ after the Dr. who delivered him. I think the MD didn’t want Mom to have his real name.”

 

“Friend worked with a woman whose daughter’s name was Menageatrois. I shit you not.”

 

“There was a little boy named Trailer at a party my kid was attending. Left me speechless.”

 

“Guy at my office is named ‘Kshitz.’ Another is called ‘Semen.’ Not kidding.”

 

“I used to work with a guy who had his name legally changed to ‘Mister Ooh-la-la.’ No joke. He was on Springer once.”

 

“The star football player at my son’s HS last year was named SirGregory. That was his first name. SirGregory.”

 

“One of my college roomies was ‘dahaisy’ — pronounced just the way it’s spelled, 3 syllables. Fail.”

 

“When I was in high school I wanted to name my daughter Tether. Thank goodness I got a dictionary before I got a baby.”

 

“I went to college with a girl named Tackila. I assumed it was pronounced tak-eye-lah.  She corrected me. It was Tequila.”

 

“I know a guy named ‘F.’ (True story.) His parents were minimalists.”

 

“We have a family friend named Cash Register.”

 

“Decision. Satchel. Delicious. Luxurious. ALL TRUE. Luxurious was a boy.”

 

“I knew a girl named Spontanious — spelled like that. No good.”

 

“I have a student named Joytotheworld. No lie. That’s her first name.”

 

“My father taught a girl named Travesty. I wonder if her mother owned a dictionary.”

 

“I had an aunt named Genitalia. We called her Aunt Gen.”

 

“I went to school with a guy named 84. As in the number 84. His middle name was ‘South.’”

 

“I know a guy named ‘Potato Chips.’ He showed me his passport.”

ILL ADVISED: Lesson 2 – Breastfeeding Will Kill You or Make You Attractive to Unicorns

Link: ILL ADVISED: Lesson 2 – Breastfeeding Will Kill You or Make You Attractive to Unicorns

(a re-post from my favorite blogger and advice columner)

This week I really wanted to write about something less controversial than breastfeeding. Something like forced prayer in school. Or using gene splicing to make babies that have cat faces. But those ideas were shut down so I’m back to tackling breastfeeding. Buckle up, buttercup. This is probably gonna get bloody.

Remember when we were kids and everyone had those Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books and you’d hold your finger over the last page you went to so that if you died in the book you could be all “Oh, wait. No. I meant that I didn’t want to open the casket. I meant to not choose that. Turn to page 8.” And your teacher wouldn’t let you do book reports on them because apparently a book report consisting of “According to the cover, this book was about a dragon but I never got there because I died on page 8. The-end” was just another example of “your continued failure to apply yourself”?

Well, you know what? Fuck you, Mrs. Johnson, because those books were a metaphor for life. Every day we make choices that take us further into our own adventure as we write our own stories and try not to get eaten by dragons. That last part is a metaphor too. Unless you live in a house filled with komodo dragons. In which case you should probably fumigate.

My point here though is that choosing whether to breastfeed or not is one of the many choices that people have to make in life and almost never does that decision result in dragon attacks. It does, however, often result in personal attacks as women who choose to breastfeed and women who don’t both face harsh judgment and occasionally even battle each other gladiator-style. Except they do it metaphorically online rather than on a televised screen where the rest of us could actually enjoy it.

I’m slightly biased here because after months of agonizing pumping, lactation consultants, and medications that made me smell exactly like pancakes (true story), I finally gave up and instead used those agonizing pumping hours to bond with my daughter. I wished I’d had someone there to tell me that that was okay. Another friend struggled through valiantly and wished that she had someone there to tell her she was a saint for not quitting. Neither of us got what we needed because this column didn’t exist then. But it does now. So get ready to choose your own adventure. If you have successfully breastfed your child, then go to section one. If you are giving up on breastfeeding, then go to section two. If you never had a choice on whether to breastfeed, go to section three.

Section 1: You choose to breastfeed. Congratulations! You are a bad-ass mother. Not only will your child have a stronger immune system and be healthier than non-breastfed kids but you’ll also create a bond that will stay with you and your child forever. Plus, they’ll be able to levitate and trap unicorns. I’m not sure about the last two but this is what my lactation consultant implied to me when I told her I was quitting. Breastfeeding is also a great form of entertainment and self-defense as my sister was so good at it she could hit the cat with her boob milk from across the living room. I could too but only with the bottles of breast milk that my sister had in her freezer. That cat hated me. Also, women who breastfeed have a lowered risk of breast cancer. True story. And supposedly you lose weight like mad when you breastfeed. It’s like being bulimic but you don’t have to throw up and no one threatens to send you to a mental institution. Plus, I’ve heard that formula has bugs in it. Like, not as many bugs as hot dogs have in them but probably close. You. Are. Awesome and I’m applauding you. Go have some chocolate cake. You deserve it.

Stop reading now.

Section 2: You tried to breastfeed but it just didn’t take so you’re quitting. Congratulations! You are a bad-ass mother. I know that’s what I just told the moms who are still breastfeeding but that’s because it’s true either way. Whatever decision you make for your child is the right one … because it’s your decision. Unless your decision is to let a wild bear breastfeed your child. That’s a terrible decision. I’m not even sure why we’re having to clarify this. It is true that breastfed babies have some health advantages but you know who was breastfed? Hitler. Probably. I don’t really know that for sure but it’s possible. Also, my lactation consultant told me that women who breastfeed have a lowered risk of breast cancer which sounds awesome but I pointed out that it also kind of sounds like maybe you’re feeding your baby breast cancer. This is when my lactation consultant got all huffy walked out. Then I yelled after her “That’s probably why they call them ‘booby traps.’” She never came back. My point here is that this is one of many decisions that you will make (and be judged for) as a parent and that this one just feels worse because you’re too sleep deprived to think straight. You. Are. Awesome and I’m applauding you. Go have several margaritas. You deserve it.

Stop reading now.

Section 3: You aren’t breastfeeding because you adopted your child or you are a father or you don’t have kids or you’re on too much meth to breastfeed. Congratulations! You don’t even have to think about this. Doesn’t this all seem ridiculous and overblown from the outside looking in? Yes. Yes it does. You. Are. Awesome and I’m applauding you. Unless you’re one of the people on meth. You have a problem and you need to get that shit worked out. For real. Meth-laced milk is terrible. Unless you’re a meth addict, in which case it probably tastes delicious. I don’t really know how meth works.

Stop reading now. Also, stop taking meth. That’s probably the only valuable bit of advice I’ve given in this entire column.

Join me next week for Lesson Three: Your children’s names are stupid. Stop doing that.

ILL ADVISED: Lesson 1 – Lying and Pythons

Link: ILL ADVISED: Lesson 1 – Lying and Pythons

(a re-post from my favorite blogger and advice columner)

“Hi. My name is Jenny and I’m here to fix you. You may not realize that you even need my help and that’s a sign that you need my parenting advice even more. I’m like your own personal Mary Poppins. But with more profanity and less spontaneous singing.

Also, you may be here wondering why someone sent you this link when you don’t even have kids and that’s probably because it’s not entirely unlikely that a distant relative may die at sea and leave you with a passel of waterlogged orphans. Or maybe that someone is trying to tell you that you actually do have kids. Congratulations! You probably owe a lot of back child support. But enough about you. Let’s get started, shall we?

The subject we’re exploring today is lying.

Lying is a problem that all parents have to deal with eventually. Like when my daughter was 4 and she was all “Who got my hands all dirty?!” and I was like “Um … you. You’ve obviously been playing in the mud even though I expressly told you not to” and she was all “No. It must have been … uh … elves” and I was like “Elves. Really? That’s the best you could come up with? Elves are for making cookies in trees. They don’t touch mud. Because that would be counter-productive. Think, Hailey. I mean, if you’re going to lie to me at least make it believable. Like when I told you that Santa Claus was real. You believed that, right? BECAUSE I THOUGHT THAT SHIT THROUGH.”

Then she started crying. Probably because she realized that she’d never be as good of a liar as me, and that’s good. This is what you want. You want your kids to not lie to you. Or to become fantastic liars and go into politics. Those are both good options.

Some parenting manuals claim that the best way to teach kids about lying is by example, but I think that’s just because most parenting manuals are written by people who don’t love their children enough to come up with imaginative and overly complicated lesson plans. Like maybe leave a box with a big bow on it in plain sight in the closet and tell your kid that they aren’t allowed to peek until their birthday and then later stumble into their room and be all “Oh my God, I’ve been bitten by a python. Quick! Bring me the present from the hall. It’s filled with powerful python anti-venom vapors. That was my gift to you” and then they’ll bring it to you and you’ll open it and breathe deeply from the box and then you look at them with horror and shock and say, “THERE’S NO ANTI-VENOM LEFT. YOU OPENED THIS AND NOW I’M GOING TO DIE. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS. WHEN. YOU. DON’T. LISTEN.” Then die slowly and agonizingly in front of them with a look of deep disappointment on your face. Then they’ll be all “Why?! Why did this happen?!” and you’ll be like “Well, it probably happened because you didn’t listen to me” and then they’ll be all “Wait … I thought you were dead!” and you’ll be like “Well, that’s because you’re 5 and you don’t know how anti-venom works. Pythons don’t even have venom. Why do we bother to buy you all those Ranger Rick magazines if you’re not even going to read them? That’s the second lesson. Don’t just look at the pictures. The words are there for a reason, Hailey. This isn’t Playboy. It’s education.” BAM. Two lessons in one.

Of course it’s possible that your child will claim that they never even opened the box to begin with and in that case you should probably send them to their room for lying twice. Or perhaps they really didn’t open the box, in which case you should tell them that you’re proud of them and that the box was probably opened by the evil fairy that lives under their bed that grows bigger every time they accidentally knock over their milk or masturbate. Whichever ridiculously minor thing you think is most unforgivable.

Join me next time for my second topic: “Breastfeeding ~ frankly, we’re all a little sick of hearing about it.”


Plastic From Hell

I don’t know who thought that plastic molded around the desired object and then crimped it shut to an inseparable oblivion all the way around was a good idea but let me just say it was an awful idea!!!! Awful!! No matter if you have scissors or not, which you usually don’t…. You’re guaranteed an embarrassing injury that begs the discussion about how horrible this plastic packaging is.

Plastic my friends, isn’t as recycle-friendly as other consumer products like… oh say a cardboard box or so? But noooooo cheap plastic that will spend eternity in a land fill is a better alternative. Especially when that plastic rips your hands apart and makes you resort to looking like a three year-old trying to open a package. Whoever invented that plastic should go to hell. And also, that packaging should be illegal!!!!!!!!!!

*THUD*

Silly wabbit…streets are for cars.

To My HuSbAnD:

On your Birthday this year…

1. Forget the past, you won’t be able to remember it soon anyway.

2. Forget the present, I kinda forgot to get you one.

3. Something about the Future… umm… maybe getting drunk on the way home was a bad idea. Sorry honey! I love you.

HA PEA BURF DEA TWO EWE!

People Watching

I often find myself in a crowded place tucked back into the comfort of a corner or wall where I can sit idly and watch my surroundings pass in all their different speeds. Some people at Mach3… some at a slower more appreciative pace. All of them with an agenda of their own and entirely clueless as to how fascinating they are to me. Most of them, nearly all of them are so wrapped up in whatever they’re doing that they don’t even notice me. Those who do are greeted with a simple smile but still no insight into the inquisitive nature behind my purpose, to which of course there really isn’t one. After all…. I’m simply observing society. I wonder where these passersby are going… each of them. And what they’ll do when they get there. Who are they? What type of family did they grow up in? I know that I’ve had my own set of struggles and unique stories and if anyone ever asked me about certain things I would certainly burst out into tears, other things laughter and other things smiles. So surely, these people must all be the same in their way. They all have stories, past present and future. They have thoughts…. what must they be thinking?? Are any of them wondering about this lonely girl sitting at a table in a corner of the room by herself? Do any of them wonder what it is I am thinking?

People. People are so fascinating! So they all must have a history and of course thoughts. But perhaps the best part about people is what they DO. Their interractions with other people and what they do when they think no one is watching or when they think they are alone!! Oh boy. Thinking about this just makes me warm and fuzzy with giggles.

Nose Pickers, you’re awesome. I could write a whole blog entry just about you. In fact one day I probably will. You got a bad reputation somewhere along the way… In my opinion, as long as the finger doesn’t enter the oral vicinity… pick away!! It’s liberating! It’s freeing! and after all, it cleans out your nose WAY better than that dumb Kleenex ever could. Breathing is better. Ahhhhh…. feels good. Now go smell the roses!

Wedgie pickers, pick away. Despite the humor involved, no one wants to walk around with their underoos crunched up into an awkward battle of anus vs. fabric! Lets face it, human butt cheeks really aren’t meant to spread out like that. I’ll just leave everyone with that visual.

Moving on… Self Conversationalists. You are probably my favorite!!! No one appreciates the value that you bring to society. I do! You talk to yourself but try to pretend that you’re not. Some of you get a little embarrassed and shrug it off. Others of you go to GREAT LENGTHS to pretend that you weren’t. You are by far the funniest. I’m going to be honest with you… most of us don’t care that you were talking to yourself so you probably don’t need to stumble all over yourself and dump out half the contents of your purse or pocket trying to find your phone trying to act like that’s what you were doing. Save yourself the additional embarrassment and just own it. We all have little moments, it’s totally OK!

Other people’s teenage children: I was you once. I too thought I was cute and not at all troublesome, bratty, annoying, and all those other things adults accused me of. Guess what? YOU ARE. Go buy some clothes that fit, ask your parents to discipline you and take your cell phone away because whatever you’re doing while you’re out of your parents sight is surely something they would not approve of. Why do I know? I might be old, but I was once your age!

And the list goes on… People watching my friends, is the worlds best form of free entertainment! And you can do it anywhere. I used to do it in traffic jams! I’m telling you, American Idol had nothing on these people I used to be stuck in traffic with!!!

"By the time you can drive…"

Oh Yeah Mom… Where the hell is my flying car?!?

Your OCD is relapsing when…

A good friend posts a cute picture of her cat watching TV and your comment is: “OMG!! Where is your mattress pad, sheets and comforter?! Your bed is NAKED on Facebook!!!”

Dear Fat Man

for next year, I think I’m going to need you to clearly define what types of things constitute getting onto the “naughty list” or the “nice list” so I can better control the outcome. Just sayin’
Sincerely, a NICE girl (despite your incorrect assessment)

Santa Baby

There is a reason we teach our kids not to talk to strangers. Yet there you go plopping your kid on some creeper’s lap for a picture every Christmas! Betcha he takes copies home…

Dear Fortune Cookie

You’re full of shit.

"We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone…"

Bars have the good sense to cut people off… McDonald’s should institute a similar rule.

Award Winning Confections

I might audition for that “Next Top Baker” show on TV. I’m so good even the smoke/fire alarms hoot, holler and whistle when I make cookies and cakes!!

Time well wasted

Ever have a conversation that was about as productive as eating Oreos while brushing your teeth?

Vocab Builder

What is a MERKIN?: a pubic wig. Origins are believed to date back to 1450. Ummm…… yeah… Times certainly have changed.

Dear Stalker

Naked Taco Tuesday is always fun, but no pictures, please

Note to self:

The green bottle of minty smelling liquid on the counter in the ladies room of a “fancy establishment” is NOT the hand soap!

I drive Optimus Prime

I think my car likes it when we’re the car in front leading a bunch of others. It’s like being the Commander in Chief leading them into battle! We are badass and awesome!

Husband’s Humor

Just saw something randomly funny! Thought the guys shirt said FAT MAN but it said BAT MAN. Don’t know why I was so distracted to think that? Maybe the 6 yds of fabric the logo was on?

Editor’s note: he insisted that I post this on my blog. Which I felt super obligated to do because he usually doesn’t show much interest in my blog. (Probably because he stars in half of it.) Either way, I was kind of proud that he wanted me to post it and even though its totally not as funny as he probably thought it was, I love him for showing an interest in my blog, even for a few seconds. *WIN*

Psychoanalysis

-concern for husband: he locks the cat in the closet for “timeout”
-concern for self: only concern surrounding above scenario is that he didn’t turn the light on for her and she’ll be scared.

Mothership: 1, Neighborhood Bunny Population: -1

A conversation between my very good friend and her 4 year-old I have to share …
 
F: Mommy? What was that?
 
H: I think it was a rock (please let her believe it was a rock, please let her believe it was a rock)
 
F: Nope, I’m pretty sure you just hit a bunny. I hope it wasn’t our bunny’s mommy (we have a bunny that lives in the backyard)
 
H: Uh, hmm, me too sweetie, me too (inside I am thinking…gotcha ya little sucker!)

Word to the Wise

I strongly advise against the plucking of rogue nose hairs with tweezers. Even if it is a “cliff hanger” … you WILL regret not waiting until more appropriate grooming tools are available!!

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