For Starters

Me: Okay, but how the hell did a vampire get someone pregnant? He's dead. His stuff would be all dried up.

Shush: Seriously? That's the plot hole you're fixating on?

Me: Until they reveal Kristin Stewart is really a zombie, yes.

A Ranting We Shall Go

Why the hell are some people such big whiny babies? NOT ME. I wasn't talking about me, though if you'd been at my house the last few days you'd be all "well you SHOULD be, Whiny McWhiner" and then I'd cry. Because that's how whiners deal with shit. They whine some more.

One of the things I do is make the kitchen duty list. Everyone gets a turn. Today Chief Whiner was all "Where's YOUR name on the list" so I pointed it out and he's all "why is it only on there once, mine is on there twice?" Listen, ManBitch, my name is only on there once because I do kitchen duty every fucking day. Any time someone else has a meeting, is off, forgets or just doesn't bother I do the kitchen. Sure, it can be argued it's part of my job to keep an eye on the kitchen, but KEEPING AN EYE ON IT and standing in as your mother because you never learned to put a cup in the dishwasher are NOT the same thing. Don't believe me? I DON'T CARE, I make the fucking list and if you whine any more I'm putting your name on it every other week. Don't like that? SUCK IT.

Seriously, the next person that whines "it's not fair" at me is getting punched in the throat.

Upped

As more people in my "real" life run across this blog, I find that I censor myself more. Which sort of defeats the purpose I had for this blog to begin with. That makes me sad. I'm not, by nature, a confrontational person. I'm the one that ends the fights, not the one that starts it. To the point that I find that I don't stand up for myself when I should.

A week ago while I was in Seattle on vacation J called me and read me the riot act about having brought Shush up there with me. He didn't want M to get mixed messages about whether or not HE agreed with MY dating while the divorce was still pending. Okay. Fair enough. I think it's not a necessary concern since M is 15 and a pretty sharp kid, but okay. For almost 30 minutes he lectured me up one side and down the other about it. I stood up for myself far more than I normally do, but still, he dug in when he could with comments like "I guess it's your life and I don't have to agree with your choices anymore", and "I just don't want M around 'that kind of thing'". I was furious, I felt attacked, but he IS her other parent and does get to voice his opinion in what she is and is not exposed to. That said, Shush and I have been together since July, and have known each other for about a year. We live together, this isn't just a 'fling'.

AND THEN. Oh, yes, and then.

THEN, about two days later he tells me he's bringing a girl he's been dating for THREE WEEKS up there with him for Christmas. For the record, I'm GLAD he's dating. I'm glad that he's found a nice girl to hang out with and I'm glad that they like each other enough that they want to spend the holiday's together.

What I'm furious about is that he thought it was okay to try and make me feel terrible for having done the same thing. Seriously. Why is it okay for him ? Is it because *he's* the "wronged party" in this divorce? Because he's the one who got left, it's okay for him to move on? Is it because "everyone" (oh, yes, the ever present "everyone" gets a voice in this one too) is "worried" about him, that it's okay for him to bring a girl, but I, the one who "everyone" thinks "is making bad decisions" can't? Or is this some sort of score that needs to be settled? Some "Oh yeah? Well, *I* can move on too! See?". Either way, if he was even CONTEMPLATING taking her with him when he called me then yelling at me was not "being a concerned parent" it was being an asshole. And I thought we were past that. I thought that we'd agreed that we were going to do this differently. I know I've tried. But this? This is exactly why we had problems before.

Why can't I let this go? I didn't say anything to him about it, because, well, I have fought with him enough to last me a lifetime. It's seriously bothering me.

Dogfaced

I was at Walmart today, a place that makes me want to stab people in the throat on a good day, and I happened upon a pair of women with about eleven children between them.

One turns to the other and says "I'm just so worried about feeding Gavin formula, but I can't keep nursing! Every time I hear a dog bark my milk let's down."

Then the other one says "Oh, I have that problem when I hear fire engines".

Seriously.

The Hell?

I am wearing white jeans today, Kittens. THAT IS HOW FAR OFF THE FUCKING DEEP END I HAVE GONE. White. Jeans. Seriously.

Now, let's examine the things that are wrong with this;

1) I am a slob.
2) I work in a manufacturing plant and there are pigeons living in the false ceiling of my office.
3) I drive an old POS truck that hasn't been washed since 2005.
4) THEY'RE WHITE FUCKING JEANS.

See? I'm not even making this up. I know that's a TERRIBLE picture, but you bitches can just shut up about how I look wrinkled and knock knee'd until you have tried to take a picture of your own thighs, you just don't know how fucking hard it is. THERE IS NO FLATTERING ANGLE. And I don't want to post one of those stupid 'in the bathroom mirror' shots because I hate them and also because the flash makes me look like a white pants wearing serial killer.

I'd keep going, but let's be real here, I need to not be all shouty because there is coffee on my desk just waiting to spill onto my lap.

Norman Branches Out

Remember the movie Psycho? Remember how after you saw it the first time, you showered different and were scared of roadside motels, unmarried thirty something who live with their mother and guys named Norman? And you thought, REALLY, what could POSSIBLY be scarier than the Bates Motel?

I'll tell you what.

THE MOTHER FUCKING CLOWN MOTEL.

SEE THAT SHIT? That's real, right there. I didn't make that up. That's an actual hotel in Tonopah, Nevada. Let me tell you something, kittens. I'd have rather stayed in the creepy, abandoned, broken windowed Sundowner Motel across the street than brave one single night in this shit.

SEE? They're even ON THE DOORS. Like, Hey! Weary traveler! Come on in! We're going to FUCKING KILL YOU WITH OUR BIG RED SHOES! Hee hee! Just kidding. MAYBE.

Not Duck Short

My new swim suit arrived yesterday. It's exactly the same swim suit that I had last year.

OH, WAIT. NOT.

See, here's the thing. When you buy a plus sized suit (last years was a 16) the skirted bottom is 17" long. To compensate for your having things like, you know, AN ASS. Or, maybe, you know, BEING TALLER THAN A DUCK. The regular sized suit (a ten...so still not the sort of size one expects Heidi Klum and her stick legged like to be cavorting around in) is only 13 inches long. Now, you're probably thinking (like I was; because we're dumbasses) that after using a ruler and sort of hopping up and down so you can see in the bathroom mirror where the allegedly 13 inch skirt is going to end and then deciding that after you smacked your shin for the third time that it was probably long enough that you wouldn't have to wax your bikini line TOO exuberantly and anyway, it's only $30 which is a reasonable, because HELLO, It's VEGAS TIME in like two week and you're not going to actually lose that last twenty pounds and the prospect of standing in the unforgiving light and the 4H infested floors of the JC Penny dressing room is enough to make you hang yourself with your amazing new chain & ribbon necklace (shout out to Clairs 10 for $10 clearance and a big FUCK OFF to everyone who just said "you're not 14, why are you shopping there!?") and then you're all FINE, FUCK IT! and just order the damned thing. In black. Because black is slimming, right? You'll totally look just like Heidi Klum in a black swim suit, right? And anyway the blue one you really like isn't on sale and you're not a complete masochist so you can't justify spending $74 EACH PIECE for a new swim suit that you'll wear...twice? Maybe? And anyway, the black goes with your sexy (AHEM, certain people; SEXY, and FASHIONABLE, NOT SILLY) sun glasses.

Then, you wait excitedly. By "excitedly", I probably mean "drunkenly". By "probably" I mean "totally".

True to their word (hello, free standard shipping!) the package arrives in the allotted 4 to 7 days and even though you had a big fight with your husband the night before that wound up with both of you packing and then having a stand off about who had to actually move out and even though you've got a migraine and even though the dog puked in FOUR MOTHER FUCKING PLACES, you take that sucker into the bathroom and put it on.

AND THEN YOU STAB YOUR EYES OUT WITH THE TWEEZERS.

Because 13"? SHOWS A SHIT LOAD OF WHITE, WHITE THIGH.

Bastards.

How can they DO this to me? ME? Me of the pasty, white, white winter thighs with their soft whiteness and the glowing pale? After I told the WHOLE TEN PEOPLE who read this piece of Internet clogging awesomeness that I loved their damn swim suits and I'd wear it in public and now it would seem I meant 'wear it and show my pubic' which isn't NEARLY a good idea. Unless it's true that people will pay you to put your clothes back on and that's why the fat stripper earns the most (is that true? I could use a second job.)

SO THEN. Then, I have to return the damn thing (just the bottoms. The top is perfect) and hope that the replacement (a luxurious 15") will be long enough.

Otherwise, I suggest y'all don't look in the direction of Vegas unless you're wearing welding glasses or want the white, white glow of my ass burned into your retinas forever.

Conspiracy Theory

Things that are proof that the Universe is Evil and conspires against us:

1) Those really cute shoes that are the last pair and really cheap will always be a half size too small. So you'll buy them anyway, because they'll TOTALLY break in, right? Only they won't and you'll have to hobble around with bleeding feet all day because OF COURSE it's the one day your normally sedentary life turns into a MUST RUN EVERYWHERE busy sort of day.

2) You only have a good hair day when there is no one to show it to. You will have a HORRIBLE hair day when there are to be photos taken. That girl you hate? Her hair is always perfect.

3) The next person to sit at the slot machine you just put $20 into will drop in a dime and win $500 on her first spin while you're still close enough to see her jump for joy.

4) If you used to wear a size xxl and now wear a size medium, everything on the clearance rack that you love will be a size XXL

5) The roadtrip you elect to opt out of will be the one that your friends will never shut up about for the rest of your lives.

6) The lipstick color that you LOVE and that looks perfect on you will obviously have to immediately be discontinued. Same with the jeans that make your legs look long and thin and the underware that doesn't ride up and the perfect shade of red nail polish.

7) If you pass a sign that says "no services for the next 60 miles" and you think "I don't really need to pee" you WILL REALLY NEED TO PEE and you'll have to find a bush on the side of the road, dig around under the seats for an only slightly filthy McDonalds napkin to use as toilet paper and pray that no one sees you squat and also that you don't pee on your shoes and that a snake or a rabid badger or a really big hairy spider doesn't creep up and bite you on the ass and so when that piece of grass tickles your ass you'll wind up jumping up mid stream and then there will pee all over your pants and you'll have to ride in pee-pants.

8) The time you don't close all the windows on your computer and leave Farmville open on your desk top when you get up to get a coffee will be the time your boss decides to come by and wait for you to return.

9) The $59 airfare isn't going anywhere you want to go at any time you could go there. Or, worse, becomes available on YOUR flight only after you've booked a non-refundable $250 seat.

10) If it tastes good, it's bad for you.

Oh, Snap!

I suspect people think I'm kidding when I tell you that I see things like a fat lady at a bus stop wearing nothing but a bed sheet, or the time I saw a guy walking a rooster on a leash, or that time the mariachi band rear ended the nuns. But I'm not!


This time, I have photographic proof! Proof that I almost DIED getting for you guys! Because that's how dedicated I am to this blog. You're welcome.

It's a Red Neck Strip Club. Seriously.

Dear Clothing Makers. I hate you.

Seriously.

How in the world do the jeans I wore on Monday fit fine (if a bit loosely) and have a size "14" tag and the jeans I'm wearing TODAY also fit fine (though also a bit loosely) and have a size "10" tag?

How is it possible that my size medium shirts fit pretty much the same as the large and they both fit almost the same and an extra large, except that in different brands where the medium is too large and the extra large is too small?

It makes NO SENSE.

NONE.

Bet I'll get some interesting Google Searches from THIS one.

M is very joiny. She signs up for EVERYTHING. Which would be fine except she can't drive and *I* wind up driving her all over town. (That's a lie. Usually I make her ask other people for rides because I have things to do).

This year, after many years of begging I finally consented to let her work as a cast member at the local Rennaissance Faire. And by local? I mean AN HOUR AND FIFTEEN MINUTES AWAY EACH WAY.

Anyway, the Faire entertainment director holds cast workshops on Wednesday night (a scant 45 minutes away). They're a good way to bond with the other cast members and we usually go.

Except this week, I was pretty sure I had maggots eating my brain (or that I was turning into a zombie. Could go either way.) and so I just dropped her off and holed up for the two hours they did dancing and singing and whatever else it is they do fully costumed on the play ground of a school.

As we're driving home M cheerfully announced

" I learned how to FLUFF!"*

Um. What. The. Fuck.

I assume that some of you are thinking something wholly innocent** and if that's the case I urge you to click here . Unless you're at work. Or around children who can read. Or don't like porn.

If you don't like porn what the fuck are you doing HERE though?



(* she meant arranging your lady lumps so they're properly supported and presented in your corset. But that's far less interesting. So I'm not telling that part of the story)

(**I know, right? Who doesn't know what fluffing is? Some people are so repressed. I bet they still wear white underwear, too!)

(PS. Sorry about the soda you just spit onto your key board)

(PPS. No, I'm not.)

This is why I can't have nice things

See that? That is my husband driving my $40,000 (new, retail...now probably about $25,000 BUT STILL) truck down a dirt road so jacked up that if he stuck his hand out the window he COULD TOUCH THE GROUND.

JRP = CRAP

I simply don't understand why people want to make me screamy. I'm not a shouty, lathered up kind of girl. I have a wicked bad temper, yes. I get snappy, true. But all out DON'T MAKE ME STOP THIS CAR? Not so much. There is very little in life that to me, is worth getting myself all worked up about. Shouting almost never solves anything.

Except when it does, apparently.

M, as you know is full of The Drama. The child lives to be on stage. Or at least with an audience. In October, she was accepted to an acting school. The school runs sessions and the next session started in November. so I paid her deposit and we waited. When it came time to start class we learned that the adult class she was meant to be placed in was doing "love scenes" and because she's not yet 16, she couldn't participate. No big deal, we'll just start after the new year when the class schedule resets.

Classes were set to resume on 1/6. So I called on 1/5 to confirm that she was in fact scheduled for Wednesday at 7pm and that classes did indeed start the following day. This is how the conversation went:

Me: I need to confirm that M is scheduled to start classes tomorrow.
Hunan: Yes, that's correct, Saturday at 1pm
Me: No, Wednesday. She has prior commitments on Saturdays
Hunan: I will check
(several minutes of holding)
Hunan: Okay, yes. I moved her to Wednesday, she can start on Saturday.
Me: No, she can't. She can't come on Saturday, that's why she's in the WEDNESDAY CLASS.
Hunan: Oh, yes, I see.
Me: So class starts tomorrow?
Hunan: I will check
(several minutes of holding)
Hunan: No, class will begin on 1/13
Me: So not this week, next week?
Hunan: yes.

Seems fairly straight forward, right?

OH BUT NO.

Last Wednesday we drove all the way to the other side of town during rush hour traffic.

And found the office dark and locked.

Apparently they had MOVED. And did they put the new address on the door? NO. Of course not. That would just be silly! Instead it said "we've moved to the x mall!" Which, as you can guess is NOT HELPFUL. Like AT ALL.

So I start calling their office number and high tail it the 20 miles to the general area of where they may or may not be. And does anyone answer the phone? NO. OF COURSE NOT.

About call number 6 I get a poor guy in ANOTHER STATE that not only has NO IDEA where they are but has no idea if there is even a class that night. And has no contact information for anyone that MIGHT have it.

Awesome, right?

About that time the battery on my phone dies.

And that's when I get all shouty.

I call them back on M's phone and find out that not only is class canceled, but that THEIR OWN OFFICE (granted in a different state) has NO IDEA where, exactly they are.

I express that this? This is wholly unacceptable. I firmly insist that I get a call back, from a manager the following business day.

It's been a week. Guess how many call backs I've gotten even though I've called every single day? If you guessed NONE you're completely right.

Now this isn't an inexpensive class. This is college tuition expensive. This is used car expensive.

This? Is complete an utter bullshit. At this point, as far as I'm concerned John Robert Powers acting school in Scottsdale Arizona is a sham. Their utter lack of customer service and professionalism is so complete that I caution ANYONE who has any dealing with them whatsoever to seriously consider finding someone else to give their money to.

Klassy Khristmas

When my sisters and I were young, our mother worked for the Seattle Indian Center (now renamed something less offensive like Northwest Center for Native American Heritage). It was, as indicated in the name, primarily dedicated to social services for disenfranchised Natives. They had day cares, work centers, etc.

They also frequently hosted pow wows, pot latches and other cultural events.

At the dedication of their new building, the room was packed with elders and members of all the local tribes. We were, I'm sure, the only pale faces in the crowd. Our blond or red hair shown like beacons and KL, who was three and both very loud and very precocious was holding court amid a group of grandmothers resplendent in their very nicest clothing and beaded jewelry.



As the ceremony is ready to begin a hush fell over the room and a dancer dressed in full regalia entered the room.

And then my loud ass sister shouts out "OH MY! Mommy! Look! It's a REAL INDIAN!"

Now, if you've ever taken a toddler to church you know that anything they say that is inappropriate is going to be crystal clear and loud enough to embarrass you.

Every pair of brown eyes in the room turns to look at us. CK and I begin surveying escape routes, but my mom says to KL

"You know Axl (my mothers Aleutian drunk bush pilot work boyfriend)?" and KL agrees she does know him. "And you know Rosemary? (the stunningly beautiful receptionist)" and KL agrees that she does "Well, what do you think they are?"

KL, little fists on her hips doesn't miss a beat and in the tone that children reserve for their parents when they're being especially retarded says;

"They're your FRIENDS"

Later, when Robin the transgendered ex-con got drunk and tried to sell Mum her shoes, she slurrily told her how glad she was that my mother had raised such lovely, classy children.

Which is why today my sisters and I will be posing like this for our holiday cards.

Because NOTHING says Klassy like posing in lingere with your sisters, am I right?

Miss Behaving

I confess. I watch really, really bad reality television. The sort of TLC shows that make me scream at the television until someone takes away the remote and brings me a cold compress and a shot of Jameson's.

Shows like "My Monkey Baby" and "Love me Love my Doll" make my eye go all twitchy with the hilarious, awesome wrongness. "Obese and Pregnant" makes me stampy and "I Pooped a Baby" (aka: I didn't know I was pregnant, I think) makes me shrieky.

The one that REALLY does me in though is "Toddler and Tiara's". Don't get me wrong, I'm all for parading around in too much make up and inappropriate clothing and insisting that people tell me I'm beautiful. But I'm an adult. And frequently abusive to both controlled and legal substances. Asking a child, a wee impressionable (demon) darling to forfeit playing with Barbies in favor of being one is just...creepy.

Leaving aside the whole JonBennet Ramsey argument, I have to wonder what sort of fucked up psychology leads a parent (an unattractive, often over weight, definitely past her prime mother) to declare that one identical twin is "beautiful" and the other is not. THEY'RE IDENTICAL YOU TWAT.

It's the sort of rabid for fame mentality that leads to this . Not the web site, I don't mean, because THAT is rather brilliant, but the horrible objectification of children that leads both the kids and the parents to believe that they're not good enough as they are.

Not to mention how the really crap photoshop skills cause the kids to look like the spawn of Jessica Rabbit and Ronald McDonald.

Seriously. It's creepy. Especially the first one and the baby with the Wilma Flintsone updo. HOW CAN A BABY HAVE AN UPDO? With fucking pearls? What the fuck is WRONG with these parents?

Go check it out.

(thanks to CK for the link)

Judge Kiki

Much like my housekeeping, my style of parenting mostly involves ensuring that no one is in immanent danger of death or dismemberment.

The older M gets the more lax I get. If the child doesn't know not to stick a fork in the light socket, then, well, I'll just give her a lovely funeral and buy a smarter kid to replace her.

When she was little though, I was much more vigilant. The drawers had little tabby whatsits that prevented adults from opening them and the sockets had covers and the dresser was bolted to the wall and so on. She was always belted to her seat and never allowed to ride in the basket of the grocery cart. Because babies? ARE STUPID. That's why they have parents, right?

Apparently someone has forgotten to pass that memo around.

Yesterday, while wasting my lunch hour at Target I was standing in the Christmas card aisle (side note: WHAT THE FUCK? It's the MIDDLE OF OCTOBER) when out of the corner of my eye I spotted a woman herding four children through the aisle. Three were running around like mental patients on cappuccino and the littlest, a boy about two, was standing in the baby-seat part of the basket.

Oh, yes, you DO know exactly where this is going.

I watch Baby start to sway and just as I yell out "HEY!" to alert the mom to sit his wicked little ass down, he FALLS OUT head first onto the floor.

It's been a while since my first aid certificate was valid, but I dashed over and whipped a Kleenex pocket pack out of my purse and pressed it to his bleeding head while the little fucker squirmed and tried to bite me. His mother was wailing like a tea kettle in Spanish causing the other children to begin to howl, while I tried to remember anything to say to her that wasn't insulting or obscene. As it turns out I don't KNOW anything in Spanish that's not at least suggestive. Because I'm classy like that.

Luckily, an employee arrived right about that time and then the ambulance was called and the cops arrived and I had to give a statement to absolve a certain Bullseye from liability. My statement went like this "Her back was turned and the baby was STANDING in the cart unrestrained and then he fell out. The end. It was COMPLETELY the mothers fault". Because you KNOW in this society someone is going to try to sue over this situation. God forbid we take responsibility for our own actions! NO! It can't POSSIBLY be your own fault, that's just CRAZY TALK.

But you want to know the best part? After staunching a (superficial, luckily) head wound? I didn't get a single drop of blood on my white tee-shirt!

Sometimes a good deed DOES go unpunished.

Well, until they call me to testify. And then? I will judge. OH YES I WILL JUDGE. Because any parent less attentive than I am is probably....uh...Jon Gosselin and that deserves some serious punishment.

Shirt

Fanny-pack spotting is so over. All the cool kids are now playing a game called "shirt or dress". And by "cool kids" I mean me.

The rules of "shirt or dress" are simple. Is that skankily dressed girl wearing a garment that is meant to be a shirt or is it really a dress? The answer? ALWAYS SHIRT. I'm not fucking kidding bitches. If I can give you your annual gyno exam from ten feet away that shit is NOT a dress!

See? THAT IS A SHIRT, SLUT. A FUCKING SHIRT.

Okay, fine. Maybe she isn't a slut, I don't know her. Maybe she's an amnesiac who forgot she's supposed to put on pants before she leaves the house. In that case? Her friends hate her. Probably because their boyfriends spend all day gazing at the matching carpet and you know what? If you were a better friend you would have told her that's a FUCKING SHIRT and then she wouldn't be hooking up with your boyfriend behind the beer tent. So, really, it's your own fault, isn't it? I hope you've learned your lesson.

A ShamWow Themed Party

Because nothing says "Happy Birthday" quite like beating a paper mache' hooker to death just to see if she's filled with candy.

Stuck

So remember that one time when you had a really shit day at work and you were all super stressed out about what to do about that one thing that was a really big deal and so then when you got home you took a Xanax and had a glass of wine and then you started feeling all mellow?

Then remember how you thought it would be a good idea to try and give yourself a "smokey eye" make over using that how to card you got from Sephora that said it was so easy? But maybe because your mom didn't teach you how to do make up or maybe because the "smokey eye" is only achievable by skinny jean wearing fifteen year old boys or maybe because you have to sacrifice baby penguins to the eye liner gods, but WHATEVER it totally didn't work and you just looked like you got punched in the face by Tyler Durden?

Remember how after that you thought it would be a good idea to have another glass of wine, because really, when ISN'T another glass of wine the answer? Then you tried to wash off that "smokey eye" only black eye shadow is no match for mere soap and the more you washed the more you looked like Rob Zombie?

So then after that you started rooting around under the bathroom sink, remember? Because there has to be some of that free gift with purchase eye make up remover in there somewhere, only instead all you could find was three pink foam rollers, a used Hannah Montana band aid and that home waxing kit that you ordered off of TV that time you got stuck hanging out at the United terminal for three days eating nothing but saltines and coffee and watching MSNBC.

Remember how you thought it would be a good idea to try it? Or maybe the wine thought it would be a good idea and totally talked you into because wine is a very fucked up friend and it has a sick sense of humor? But then, since you'd shaved your legs and pits that morning and that super evil eyebrowless waxing lady ripped out your Burt Reynolds on Saturday and so you have nothing to wax and then, you're standing there naked except for your Chuck Taylor's and you realize OMG! I'm going to wear a bathing suit in public in like three weeks, so I should start waxing my bikini line! Yes! Good idea! But, since you've had your hooha waxed before, you know that it hurts like a mother fucker so you take another Xanax and have another glass of wine and then you warm up the wax and smear in on your lady flower and press on the linen strips and

HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD THAT FUCKING HURT.

So then remember how you looked at that linen strip and you're all THE HELL MAN? there wasn't a single freaking pube stuck to it. But the box of wine was all, try again! So you applied more wax and pressed the strip more firmly and then ripped it even faster and

SWEET STRIPED KITTENS THAT FUCKING HURT, with the hurting and the OW OW OW.

And you know what? STILL NOT A FUCKING PUBE removed because apparently you have SUPER PUBES who are growing straight out of your bones and then you get all stubborn because you're a)Irish and b) a little drunk so you decided to try it one more time. Then you drain that box of wine right into that 7-11 cup and keep sipping from the bendy straw and you apply the wax again and rip it off AND IT STILL DOESN'T WORK BECAUSE IT'S GARBAGE, that's why.

Then do you remember how you tried to use that eensy-weensy "skin soothing" wet nap that the evil hairless tv slut said would remove all traces of the wax and leave you porn star smooth? Remember how it DIDN'T FUCKING WORK? So you tried Vaseline and baby oil and nail polish remover and peanut butter and then you're all MOTHER FUCKER. So you pulled your clothes back on and drove all super careful to CVS even though you're pretty sure the bus driver who honked at you was the Terminator and was trying to kill you. Despite the fact that you just broke a shit load of laws you managed waddle into CVS and buy mineral oil only OF COURSE their credit card system was down and you had no cash so you had to pay with the dimes from your ash tray but whatever; you get it and you drive home and you don't even hit that big chicken that was wandering in the roadway.

Remember how after that you go back into the bathroom and take off your jeans and try to take off your Hanes Her Way only they are TOTALLY FUCKING STUCK to your cooch? Like, permanently bonded. Like, the harder you pull the more convinced you are that you're going to wind up on "Real Stories of the ER" and you're going to be that woman and someone will recognize you and you'll get on Oprah only not because she finally acknowledges that you're her best friend but because she's having a show about people who are completely incompetent. So you grab those panties and you give them a yank and every single freaking curly on your lady flower rips straight out by the roots and GREAT CESAR'S GHOST you have to grab the counter to keep from passing out?

Yeah, that sucked.

Soapbox

I try not to judge the way other people parent. Unless, you know, they're really REALLY bad at it. For the most part though, I think that people are doing the best that they can with what they've got to work with. I figure that, as a general rule, you're going to the do everything in your power to make sure that your kids get what they need to succeed. If that means sitting next to a child who whines until you're ready to smother them with a grocery bag until they manage to complete those three math problems then that's what you do. If it means that you threaten to take a snow shovel to their room because OH MY GOD THE MESS, then that's what you do. Hell, if you actually take that snow shovel and start shoveling their treasures into giant Hefty bags, well, then I guess next time they'll clean their damn room, won't they?

I am a big advocate of letting your child test the limits of their world. I think that kids are probably a hell of a lot more capable than we think they are and if we just let them TRY then we're going to be pretty amazed.

I am also not a "helicopter" parent. I let M ride the city bus alone. I let her navigate connecting flights at LAX solo. I let her experiment with cooking and I'm all for her listening to and reading whatever she wants.

For the most part, she takes these freedoms and runs with them. I can honestly say, with the exception of her EXTREME laziness at school work M is ready to navigate the world. She reads at a college level, she has no fear of new things, she's excited to see the world because she's never met a stranger.

I'd like to take credit for all of this, but lets be honest, a lot of this has to do with the schools she's attended.

Which brings me to my point (and here you thought I didn't have one!). Lea, who you'll recall is ten years old is home schooled. The reason I was given is that due to her severe speech impediment her mom felt it was "safer" to keep her at home. I can see her point, kids are pretty cruel at times and talking to Lea is an exercise in translation. She's very bright but is about as comprehensible as your average two year old. Her comprehension skills are amazing though, if you show her something once, she's got it. Home school, in this instance, isn't a bad choice. Speech therapy is available through a variety of resources so there's no reason she can't excel.

I'm kind of on the fence about home schooling. On one hand, I think it's great. It gives each child the opportunity to learn what they need to learn the way they need to learn it. Something that's lost in most school scenarios. On the other hand, it's hard for me to believe that any one person is capable of excelling at teaching every subject to the same standards as a teacher who specializes in a single area would be. Home schooling is also pretty labour intensive for the care giver who provides it. You're the everything. It's up to you to make sure this kid gets everything they need. It's got to be exhausting and I'll be the first one to raise my hand and say there is NO WAY IN HELL I could do it. Knowing that, I wouldn't even try. That's called being realistic, right?

As we sat in the car waiting for D to deal with the car repair place Lea and I fished through my car for us something to entertain ourselves with. I found a book that M had left in there probably some time in 2004. The reading level is listed right on the cover as 4th grade. A little young for Lea, who should be entering fifth grade, but anything to do is better than "eye spy" for the 500th round. I hand her the book.

"What does this say?" she asks, pointing at the cover.

I'm pretty used to M being as lazy as humanly possible and I'm a chief bud-nipper.

"Dude, you can SO read that" I tell her.

"No, I can't" she replies.

I'm still convinced she's screwing around and I tease her a little more and say something like "The elephant that stalks the clowns at midnight" or something equally silly. I fully expect her to call my bluff and say in that oh my god you are such an idiot voice that children use with adults "No, it doesn't".

But she doesn't.

"read it to me" I tell her

"I can't read!" she whines

"You can't read? Not even this right here?" I say pointing to the first sentence (it said "My name is Sam and I am a super hero, but don't tell anyone" if I recall correctly.)

"I know my letters though" she assures me.

Lea is completely illiterate.

She's ten years old and she can't read. At all.

"don't you read books for school?" I asked her, thinking maybe it was a learning disability.

"No, my mom says I don't have to" she tells me.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

But, still, I think that maybe there is something else going on. Kids exaggerate.

A few minutes later D gets back in the car.

"Can I spend the night at your house?" she asks me a few minutes later.

"Don't you have to do school tomorrow?" I reply

"(her mom) hasn't really been doing that with them. She's (meaning the mom) on the computer a lot" D tells me.

Seriously.

I am trying not to be all high horse I am SO a better mother than you about this, but how to do you let your child remain ignorant because you can't tear yourself away from the Internet? What is so important about WoW or Second Life or whatever the fuck you're doing that you can't take the time to make sure your children are getting educated? Is it really worth failing them to make that raid on the Horde? And if the internet IS that important, if you can't be bothered to teach them, why not just send them to school? Oh, right, because that means you can't stay up until four in the morning and sleep until two in the afternoon. That means that you will have to make sure they have clean clothes and lunch and aren't running around eating raw Top Ramen (I'm not even making that up) and wearing underwear that might, once, have been light pink and a bathing suit top that probably fit when they were six and is held together with a PAPERCLIP. That might mean that they would make friends who would wonder why you have the pulled out seats of a van instead of a couch in the living room because the couch is in the driveway and that might tell their own mother that there is GARBAGE IN THE BROKEN WASHING MACHINE IN YOUR KITCHEN. It might mean you had to think of someone other than yourself for five fucking minutes.

How do you look yourself in the face every day and know that you are the reason your kid is going to suffer for the rest of their life? How do you not do everything you can to ensure that they succeed to the best of their ability? How do you reconcile not even trying?