NothingSacred

Potty Time: Winning the War of the Wizzer

I’ve done it. I feel like I’ve climbed Mount Everest. Again. I have once again achieved what might be one of mothering’s proudest moments; I have potty-trained another child!  As of today, Trey, my 2.8-year-old is five days accident-free. That includes naps and overnights, mind you. Right now I’m riding high on the crest of self-satisfied accomplishment like you wouldn’t believe. I’ve pretty much turned into an insufferable braggart, telling every person who stands still long enough in my vicinity about my accomplishment. That’s right, MY accomplishment. Because one thing I’ve learned after potty-training three boys is that this war, sisters. And like any war, the victory goes to the one who wants it more and refuses to give up.

Sure, sure. Trey needs to feel as if he is the winner here, and I can’t tell you how many times a day I still remind him what a fucking badass he is for his part in all this. I cheer every time he goes to the potty, but let’s be real, his conquering the ol’ thunder box is only half the accomplishment of me conquering his desire to continue making the foulest of unholies in his diapers. Left unchecked, he would have happily continued stinkin’ up the joint probably until some little peer had pointed out that what he was doing was babyish. I don’t got time to wait around for that sort of social development, you know what I’m saying?

 Trey proved to be my most stubborn -- which is mildly shocking considering that I’m pretty sure my ultra-defiant first-born, Ace, has Oppositional Defiance Disorder (“ODD”-- which is so funny and fitting). But hey, Trey has really earned his nickname of Little Napoleon. I was right there, ready to give up and give in to the temptations. I was considering defeat. All around me I had sympathetic moms feeling my pain, agreeing that they were going through the exact same thing- and had been for some time. Thankfully, TOM reinforced my resolve, gave me just enough encouragement not to throw in the towel and reminded me that no matter what, I could not give up. That boy could not defeat me!

So I thought I’d share some training tips with you all out there. Don’t get me wrong-- I’m in no way a poster-child of good parenting. I fuck up on a daily basis. But I seem to have found my sweet spot on the parenting front, so I thought maybe I could share some advice.

First, know what you are getting into. This is war and it’s not pretty, gals. This will be at least a couple days on end of trench warfare. It is a nuanced assault against the sweet little souls who rule our worlds, you must steel yourself. That whole idea that kids will “do it when they are ready”? Horseshit! Moms, it is up to YOU to be ready. When YOU decide you have had enough of the dirty-diaper duty, you will enable your kid to fully accomplish what is pretty much their life’s crowning achievement (thus far, of course... I hope my kids go on to bigger and better glories, but hey the jury is still out on that). 

This is a big thing for them, and they need to be made to feel as accomplished, proud and badass as you do about the whole thing. It’s like you win the war, but you let them be co-victors. Yeah, this is a win-win, it has to be. And it has to be sold to them that way. You want to build this up. 

But I bet you all already knew all that. Where’s the helpful advice, you ask? Here.

Tip#1 : Buy Azrin’s Toilet Training in a Day or Less.

This book got me through all three of mine. And for the first two, it was in one day. That little shit, Trey? Well, he thought I was just kidding there for a minute. He thought he could break me. For the first day he walked around in his new big-boy pants and used them like diapers. The whole day. He screamed and cried every time I invited him onto the potty. He thought I’d grow weak and weary, he felt if he just kept it up, sooner or later I’d get tired of cleaning up puddles of pee. Boy was he right! I did get tired of it. But I did not relent. I did NOT reach for the pack of Pampers.

Read this book. Everything I know came from it, every great tip. It will walk you through the process. It shows you how to have your kid teach a betsy-wetsy doll (modeling) and spells out the importance of the oft-overlooked first step: teaching the kid how to master taking their pants up and down. Key point on the whole deal. 

The only thing I don’t do in the book is use a training potty. I figure a kid’s gotta learn how to go wherever you are, and I’m not hauling around a fucking potty with me everywhere. (Although I did just see some mommy at swimming lessons carting around one of those mini-toilet seats that fits over toilets... I don’t know if she is just crazy germ-phobic or what, but that’s more than I can handle. Not forgetting to take the kid and his favorite blankie with me in the morning is enough-- last thing I need is a frickin’ toilet seat to try to remember!) 

Better just to teach them on a regular toilet seat, I say. They’ll have to prop themselves up with their hands, but that’s why we wash afterward, right? So you do need to invest in a couple sturdy little step stools to put in front of the potties in your house (you can get ‘em at Wally World for like $6). Plus, my kids really liked getting to flush and you can’t do that with the little plastic training toilets. 

The book was written in the 70’s so the artwork is kinda funny and some of the ideas are a scream. (It assumes you should train in the kitchen since that’s where you spend your whole day anyway, housewife!) Honestly, the only thing that is really outmoded is that today’s housemom hardly has a WHOLE day at home to do the program. That’s what I was really struggling with-- finding those hours to do it!

 Luckily, last Wednesday my whole day opened up and on a lark I decided to give it a go. Friday, when Trey was STILL trying to break my spirit by seeing if he could weasel his way back into the diapers I thought I would scream, cry and give up. But by Monday, like I said, I was annoying the checkout lady at the supermarket bragging up my accomplishment-- all in the guise of “I’m so proud of my big boy!! He uses the potty now! Tell her, Trey! Tell her how you use the potty!” (The whole time, beaming my self-satisfaction.)

But I can’t say enough about the book. The program was developed to teach severely retarded people to toilet themselves and then after proving successful adapted for small children-- as young as 18 months! (Although I’d probably only recommend 18 month old girls try it... you know how boys are... attention spans of gnats!)

Tip #2: You will question your resolve.

You will get tired and cranky with the process and think to yourself that maybe this just wasn’t the right time. You’ll say that maybe your child just wasn’t ready. Or rationalize to yourself why it is a good idea to put them in diapers for just naps and bedtime. Don’t. DO NOT. 

Stand firm. If you give a little now, your angelic little genius will notice. They aren’t dumb, friends. And if you give in even once, they’ll learn that they can take it even further next time. They’ll let you begin to take this whole training process on as your failure and  laugh in their cute little-kid way about how they are breaking your confidence. (That’s right. They are hiding in your closet right now trying to outwit you as you read this, so don’t be pulled in by the whole “I look so sweet and innocent” act. They are all tiny little Evil Geniuses. Yes. Even yours.)  Don’t even give them the option that they can go in a diaper again.

Tell them they are NEVER going back in diapers, and mean it. This time, with Trey, I returned an unopened box of diapers to the store and told him, we don’t need them anymore. No more diapers in the house. Three days in, when he was still messing his pants, did I have a moment of weakness where I wanted to throw him back in those diapers? You bet. But I held out, and every day got better and better. By Sunday it was one accident, and since then? Nada. Thank God I didn’t relent. If I had relented three days in then the next time I tried, when I REALLY MEAN IT THIS TIME, Trey would’ve held out even longer to see if he could break me again.

So make a big deal out of it. Show the kid that you are firmly resolved. Throw those unused diapers away right in front of him, or give them to charity or something. Just make sure that you remind her that they are going away, and they ain’t NEVER coming back!

Tip #3: No Anger

You can not effectively train your kid if you’re mad while you’re doing it. I know this is hard. I know it gets frustrating. And I’ve got a temper like a Sicilian, so trust me, I’ve been there. But at this point, total anger-free training is required. I’m not saying slap a smile on your face when they pee down your stairs (which Trey did). By all means communicate that you are very sad for them. Empathy, not anger. Key component here. Teach them that bad, wet pants make everyone sad, not angry. And by all means, tell them that good, dry pants make everyone happy-- and throw in a little I’ve-lost-my-fucking-mind ecstasy to really play up how happy those dry pants make you! At the very least you’ll amuse your kid a little bit. (I have a feeling this learning process is pretty tiring for them, too).

Tip #4: Under no circumstances should you EVER waste your money on Pull-Ups.

Here’s the thing about modern diapers: they are fucking unbelievable! They do such a great job that kids can sit around in a wet diaper all day with nary a discomfort. They wick wetness so effectively they cannot teach junior a single thing about the disgustingness of sitting in his own filth. Well, guess what? Pull-ups are made out of the same thing. Kids can’t actually FEEL that they’ve got wet pants (another key point here).

You’ve got to let the kids feel how uncomfortable sitting around in wet pants is, and since taking them to the amusement park in jeans for an ill-thought-out flume ride (we’ve all been there, right?) is probably not in the cards for your wee one, might just be best to strap them in some old-fashioned training pants and prepare for a day of experiential learning. You don’t like walking around in clammy pants after that flume ride, your kid won’t either. But in Pull-ups, your kid won’t feel that. They may think, “Wow, my pants just got heavier”, but they won’t be like, “Sunuvabitch! That wet cotton and denim chafes!”

Another downside? Because they are basically just diapers (albeit more expensive diapers), Pull-ups are tight! This is not the time to be getting form-fitting undershorts. Little hands have to be able to get the darn things up and down, so unlike your favorite pair of date-night jeans, tight is not the answer. Buy a size or two up in underwear. It’ll make it easier for them to learn. They have their whole lives ahead of them to find out if they like ball-crushingly tight briefs or VPL-creating bikinis. 

A quick aside: at yet another swimming lesson I saw some mom chasing her daughter around after class to get her to put her Pull-ups on. She chased her around and had her step in and pulled them up for her. What’s the fucking point of that my friend? Listen, potty-training is time-intensive. And kids aren’t the fastest at learning to pull up their pants. But the world will not stop if you are late to soccer practice or whatever. Slow down. Let the kid learn herself to pull-up her pants. (Well, not that kid, of course, because Pull-Ups are too fucking tight to pull up without either maternal assistance or hips greased in Crisco.)

Tip#5 They CAN hold it through naps/night

Now I know this will be pretty controversial with a lot of moms, but I think this point is KEY to effective training. Do not do diapers during naps or at night. Yes. THey will have an accident or two in their bed, and no that won’t be fun for you to clean up. But they have to learn that they may no longer pee at will while sleeping. A couple of points here.

First I need to share with you how a couple of my boys proved they were “ready”-- ie, they can hold it at will. Ace the Super Defiant, proved to me right off the bat he was ready. I tried for an entire morning to get him to pee on the potty. He never would. Just wouldn’t go. So naptime came along and I put him in a diaper (oops! My mistake! But he was my first, so there’s been a learning curve). When I got him up he was practically swimming in his bed he’d peed (and pooped) so much in that diaper. He’d just proven that he could hold it til he had a diaper on. That’s control. Deuce proved it to me, too. On our one-day-of-training, every time I’d leave him alone for a second to run up the stairs or dash to the other room to answer the phone, he’d peed his pants. Never in front of me, always when I’d left. Again, that is control. If you can catch your kid doing something like this, proving control, then they are ready. Period.

Allowing them a nap-time diaper (which is really just you not feeling like dealing with the mess, and has little to do with them), is really not teaching potty training. You should expect a couple accidents in the bed. That’s how we learn. Face it, you didn’t learn that drinking a buttload of tequila on an empty stomach was a bad idea until you tried it. Experiential learning. 

So here’s my thought. While they are in the throes of this potty-learning battle, and really tuned into figuring out the signals in their brains that tell them “Hey! Gotta pee! Make for the potty toute suite!”, let them learn that this happens while we rest, too. Just like they won’t like the feeling of wet pants, they won’t like the feeling of a wet bed. But you gotta let them learn it. And it may take a few times. 

It took Trey two nights- but bear in mind we were in the trenches. Pretty much ALL I focussed on until it was mission: accomplished was him going to the potty (Sorry, Ace and Deuce, for the neglect. I think we’re a better family for it now, though, don’t you?). But I encourage you to put all the rest of what you’ve got going on aside for a couple days to do it. I know it is a lot to ask, and the mere suggestion brings up in most of us an immediate response that we just don’t have that kind of time/luxury/availability. But long run, this is a time saver.

So expect that they need to learn that. And here’s my theory: putting them in diapers for sleeping will encourage bed-wetting in the long term. Yeah, I know. I’m not a doctor and I’ve got no scientific evidence for this. It is just a mother’s intuition thing. I just think that while they are all tuned in to listening to those potty-signals they get it is a good time to teach them that the signals come at night. Get it all over with. Don’t let them get in the habit of being able to totally “let go” when they sleep, or they will have more trouble getting out of that habit. This will also keep you from eternally being the “no-water-after-7pm” police. When they can get themselves out of bed to use the potty (and maybe here’s where you’d want a small potty for their bedroom, if it is too far or convoluted a route for them to get to the john in the middle of the night), they are fully self-sufficient on the potty front. And, that, gals, is trained!

Tip #6: Enlist their help

There will be accidents. THis is sure. But don’t make their accidents about you. This should be a shared accomplishment, so they should share in the responsibilities of accidents. Make them clean up after themselves. If they’ve wet on the floor, have them help out cleaning it up. Wet pants are their responsibility to take to the washer. Same with wet sheets. Now, i know babies/toddlers aren’t going to clean these messes up perfectly and to your standards. That’s not the point. They need to help do it. You can come back later and “do it right”. But give them some ownership of this whole thing.

Tip#7: Buy that darn book.

It’s all in there. And you won’t find a better step-by-step guide around.

Tip#8: Take your victories where you can. And when you lose a battle, know you haven’t lost the War.

As I’ve spent the last two and half hours writing this while Trey napped, you will probably be happy to hear that he had an accident. So there! You think. Little Miss Answers isn’t so smart after all, is she? Well, duh. Of course I’m not. But I’m not running for a diaper and going to throw all the progress we’ve made away, or hit the “delete file” icon on this piece either. There will be accidents. But we don’t throw away the gains we’ve made up until now. We stay strong. We don’t let the bastards get us down.

 Trey helped change his sheets, put on some dry pants and demonstrated that he knows how to use the potty and that he knows that’s where he is supposed to go. And I am going to go get myself a margarita. But not without some chips. I’m not reliving that learning experience again!

Interesting article on the debate over old-school/new skool potty training here: War of the Diapers- TIME

As expected, TIME sides with the softer, gentler potty-trainers... but it's nice to know there is someone out there fighting the fight against the "Ahhh, just wait 'til they're ready! They'll train themselves!" crowd.

Does Anyone Else Smell... Cheese?

Oh, the true thrill of discovery can rarely be as dumbfoundingly dazzling as this little gem from my trusty pal, Edna. (and it has a how-to video!!) 

First off, let's give a shout out to all the preggos and new parents in the house shall we? Not only do you get to bring forth new life to utterly complicate and inconvenience your own, but you get to do it 2009 when the world's marketplace is literally flooded with product after product to "help" you out (luckily you are flat broke, so you buying this shit is really just an exercise in hypotheticals).  Sure, there is the bane of my existence, but I'm always on the lookout for newer and more useless crapola to waste your hard-earned dollars on. Edna never lets me down.

Speaking of "letting down", this little treasure promises to whisk away all of a new mom's worries when that little trick of motherhood occurs. Because we all know what a total problem and heart-wrenching waste "letting down" can be.

Without further ado, I proudly present to you "Milkies".

Slim and portable, no one will even know you are

 wearing it. Best of all — it collects your leaking

 breast milk when you nurse, allowing you to store 

extra breast milk effortlessly. When you have 

breast milk available all the time, 

you will never resort to formula.

 Ok, really? Are they serious with this thing? I can only say "yes, sadly they are" because I've seen their five-minute video explaining how very much every new mom needs this contraption. (PS- Dear Milkies People: Next time try not to use actual pregnant women in your ads-- the facial swelling is just too much. Also, you may want to consider hiring a make-up artist for your "actors").

Just a couple things, because I know what a sensitive topic this can be and have no desire to get my house egged by a ninja group of La Leche League Nazi Bitches (That's the full name of the organization).  

I can only assume a woman who would consider this is one of those women who leak milk nonstop and thus cannot think of anything else other than her dripping nipples. And for a woman like that, who is dissatisfied with the traditional nipple pads, is this really going to work for her day in and day out? Is a lactating mama expected to really wear this fucking plastic milk bag in her bra? And when the inevitable hormonal hot flashes occur, are we to believe that this thing will not slip around and spill a pint of milk down her front? And should I even venture a guess what one of these things smells like after a few hours riding around on swollen teats? Are the ladies supposed to constantly be dumping these "saving"? Because if not, let me tell you, things are gonna get pretty darn ripe, pretty dang fast. 

 Howabout the sound effects? What does a full one of these sound like when you walk around with 'em shoved in your bra? I bet is is not unlike my childhood piano teacher who was four years younger than ancient and when she sat next to you you could hear her insides sloshing back and forth like her entire body was not filled with organs, but a great, angry sea. 

Furthermore, really? Are you encouraging even MORE post-natal psychosis by suggesting women need to be concerned about all that "wasted" breast milk leaking all over? They need to worry about that, too? As if all the rest of shit they have on their mind isn't enough, now you want to make them stress over spilt milk? And trust me, I've been there, that's exactly the kind of thing that could send a hormonal, flabby-bellied wreck of a woman into hysterics. Now she's gonna feel bad if she doesn't catch every last "precious" drop? Gimme a fucking break. We're now inventing things to be stressed out about. As if there isn't enough to worry about right now.

I have to add that I did hear from a certain, nameless source that these may come in handy for those women who pierced their milkers. Yep, you probably didn't know if you aren't pierced (luckily I have friends who love to "share"), but once you shove metal bars through your nipples and then try to breast feed milk literally shoots out like a sprinkler. Front, sides, everywhere. Yeah, that's not something they advertise in piercing shops. Although they probably should. I can see them now, big surgeon general warning posters, akin to the death knell affixed to cigs, hung next to the posters of tattoo-sleeved rock-a-billies and skulls.  Plus, another smaller, screechier version put out by the La Leche League Nazi Bitches.  Well, I'm sure it is only a matter of time before those warnings are legislated by Congress. 

Another little known side-effect of the nipple pierce: If you want to fight, say MMA style, you gotta tape 'em down so they don't get yanked out. Yeee-owtch!  Who knew there was such upkeep and consequences for an impulsive decision like nipple piercing? Not I, but thankfully I've got all these pervy friends... 

An Open Note to Cashiers Who Hate Cellphones

Dear Borders Sales Clerk (or, frankly, any sales clerk),

Be it hereby known that I do not care that it infuriates you when customers (I) talk on their (my) cellphones during sales transactions.  I do not appreciate the rolled eyes, the exasperated sighs, the irritated expressions or the general disdain you exude when you are approached with a sale on a celly. Listen, you don't need to be so obvious with your annoyance. Trust that when I approach and I'm on the phone it isn't that I'm UNAWARE that it displeases you, it is that I don't give a rat's ass.

I'm not sure if in modern society there was some sort of switch that was thrown that somehow gave sales employees the notion that they are somehow not on duty to accommodate the customer and that they are instead there to socialize or something, but I missed that particular memo. Is it only me who clings desperately to that old-fashioned notion that while they are there, being paid, to help me, that we are not, in fact, equals.  I seem to be lost in some anachronistic fantasy in which the idea that the customer is always right is still alive and well. I'm firmly requesting that the "customer is always right" mentality be reinstated forthwith.  Am I wrong here?

Listen, clerks, I get it. I've worked retail. And I was subject to being bossed about by complete strangers who told me to get them this or that, to hurry the heck up, to accommodate their every whim.  Believe you me, the feeling of subservience was not one I come by naturally. I was, however, altogether aware that I was present in the shop for their pleasure. I was trying to sell them stuff. I was being paid to be there, to actually work there. I was not under the delusion that I was also just browsing around, happened to see someone in need of paying up and took it upon myself to tally them up! Oh, no, I recognized that taking their money was my job. 

[Yeah, there's no real mystery that I didn't last long at that position, but let's just all be grateful that I didn't attempt a stint at that most ignoble form of servitude known to First World denizens: waitressing. I think we all know how long I would've lasted trying that! As it was, my manager, being the outrageously resourceful and competent man that he was, immediately recognized that my talents were being overlooked at the cash register and reassigned me to "visuals" promptly.  So then I just had to serve the customer base by creating an inviting and pretty space in which they could ponder whether they needed just one wind-up flashlight or several, whether they'd need that down comforter in misty sage or silvered blue. But I digress.  The point? I get it. Retail is  thankless, underpaid job.  Then again, you can train a monkey to ring items through a scanner.]

So, when I approach your cash register please know that I have made the choice to do so, knowing full well that you may be offended by it. I have consciously decided that you and I will not be discussing the weather or how much you personally adore the items I have chosen to purchase.  I have decided that my time is better spent continuing the call I am on while you ring and bag. Amazingly, I can hand you the credit card and continue my conversation-- I think we all know this hardly even taxes my ability to multi-task. If there is an emergency you need to alert me to, like say, my hair has caught fire, then you may interrupt me. Other than that, shove off and get to work!

 You don't have any idea the business I'm conducting on my call, so don't give me your vexed glare and act all put out. I could be on the horn with Ben Bernanke advising him on policy, I could be arranging emergency food supplies to be airlifted to Somalia, I could work for a suicide prevention hotline that patches calls through, really any number of scenarios is possible. The point is, you don't know.  Yeah, it is more likely I'm trading giggles with Edna over the inanity of our spouses, but again, with as busy as the two of us have been, this time here waiting on YOU to hurry up and ring is my only free time to get that special girl time, ok?

Oh, and let's get something else out there; just because I'm allowed to chat on the phone during our business does not, under any circumstance, give you the right to do the same.  Again, it is pretty simple. You are being paid to assist me. Now make yourself useful to your employer and do your job. You really should reconsider the attitude in toto anyway what with so many people looking for jobs! And the very presence of your cellphone during our transaction is entirely unsuitable, even if you are just holding it on your shoulder, head cocked to the side while you half-smile at me and toss my purchases into a bag. Not ok! I may want to talk about the weather. I may want to solicit your opinion on my purchases. The thrust of the argument is this: Me talky = ok; you talky = no go. Got it? Swell.

Oh, and a special note to my optometrist's office personnel: the laminated sign you have hung on every flat surface of your waiting room decreeing that cell phones are not allowed in your office? BULLSHIT! You've got some set of balls for a group of clearly over-estrogened ladies to presume to tell me to turn my phone off! Once again, I am the customer therefore it matters not to me if it annoys you to hear me conducting my telephonic business.  And two? Even more brazenness to make me wait for my appointment if I'm not allowed to use that time to accomplish something.  Sit here and listen to the feeble drippings of your water feature that remind me to tell TOM to get his prostate checked while trying to amuse myself with six-year-old copies of Reader's Digest? I think not, sugartits.

 If you don't want me on the phone, that doctor better be waiting at the door to usher me back for my appointment. If, on the other hand, you expect me to actually wait? Uh, I'll be using my phone.  You never know, I could be negotiating a hostage release.  You don't know. It could happen.  Or, maybe Edna needs to know what the root verb of the word "are" is. That's probably more likely. 

Pantywaist Threatens Moms, Panties Bunch

Today I opened my local paper to check for any developments on the prairie dogs at the airport crisis (it's big news around here what with all the varmint loving hippies stinking up the joint.) Basically another swarm of prairie dogs has infiltrated our municipal airport and there is a big to-do over how to deal with the damage to the runways and obvious safety concerns for humans while still making sure that we continue to provide free health care, manicures and tax breaks to the plague-carrying rodents responsible for the damage.  Whilst perusing the letters to the editor in hopes of finding a cheap laugh at the expense of a fanatic, feral rodent lover, I came across a letter that I feel needs a response. 

The letter goes as follows:

Next time, I will call the police, report you

I just returned from the store where I witnessed two young children who had been left in their car alone for several minutes. To the mother who did this- and yes, I saw you- you need to realize that your children are the most priceless things you have, and leaving them alone in a parking lot is not only irresponsible, it's a crime.

Let notice be hereby served that if I see any other children left alone in a car at any time, your license plate number will be noted, the police will be notified immediately and I will do everything in my power to ensure you never put your children in that risk again. I almost lost a child several years ago by turning my back for merely a couple of seconds, and I will not stand by while irresponsible parents continue to operate under the false assumption that nothing bad could possibly happen.

Kevin King

Well, thank you very much, Mr. High-n-Mighty-Nanny-Stater!  What size brown-shirt do you wear? I'll be sure to order a spare for you, to ensure that you always have appropriate clothing when you are reporting your neighbors to the authorities. 

Let me get this straight, someone appointed YOU, Kevin King, to be the kiddie patrol? You self-righteous prick! Where do you get off making threats against parents? Is it possible that the kids you observed were in a LOCKED car? It is possible for modern cars to be left running WHILE locked? Is it possibly that you just don't have enough to worry about in your own fucking life that you need to meddle in other people's business? In this economy? WOW!!

This sort of nanny-state bullshit just sticks in my craw. It's not that I think kids should be left in cars, I understand the consequences. But a little common sense, please.  This asshat admits that they were left for a few minutes, which is not a very long time. So can I assume that running into 7-11 is unacceptable? And what, Mr. Sanctimonious Ass, is your definition of "young children"? Are we talking toddlers here? Five-year-olds? Is my eight-year-old ok to leave in the car? Howabout when he's twelve? Is that ok? Can I take him out of his backward facing booster seat at that point?

I'm just so sick to death of overzealous middling bureaucrats "protecting" us all from everything, making rules about every last minute detail of life and then recruiting cock-sucking, namby-pamby, holier-than-thou goody-two-shoes to enforce from the trenches! Seriously, assholes like this may not realize it, but they perpetuate living in a fucking police state. 

Boy, sure sorry about your near-miss with your kid (who must be a real go-getter! Bet the terms "grade-grubber" and "brown-noser" are pretty familiar to him!). That you just turned away for "merely for a second" and almost had an accident! Can you imagine?! Can I take from that that I will be reported for not keenly staring at all of my children all of the time? That's a difficult task being that I have three kids and only two eyes. I suppose I could tether them to one another. And then just for safe-keeping tie them to myself. Would that be ok for you? Would I be parenting well then?

It is arrogant fucktards like this, doing what they perceive as the "right thing" that cause more harm than help. A friend of a friend got reported for this very thing. They are a good family. They take good care of their kids. They feed them, clothe them, resist the almighty urge to beat the shit out of them when they act like spoiled little orangutans (which is like, all the time). And now, because some Nosy Nelly Parenting Nazi called them in, they get to endure surprise home inspections by CPS for the next 18 months. More tax dollars wasted on a something-MIGHT-have-happened-even-though-it-didn't crime. Sweeeeet.

Go ahead, turn this lady in for the good of her kids. Just don't expect a hug and hand-written thank you from the youngsters afterward, Sir Smug! The only person you are going to help, douchenozzle, is yourself. You'll feel all happy with your "good deed" but I bet even your friends find you obnoxious and repugnant. They certainly know not to steal post-its from the supply closet while you are around. 

I swear, it is these quiet little signs that slip away, unnoticed by the public at large, until one day you wake up and you're living in the Soviet Fucking Union, tattling on your neighbor for crimethink and ungood deeds. 

You know what I don't like? Fat kids. I think I'll start reporting them. Hey, they are a burden to the "system" AND their parents are clearly abusing them with food. It is for their own good! I'll begin carrying a scale to make sure they fit my definition of what is fat or not. I'm leaning toward nothing higher than a 22 BMI. Oh crap! I'll have to report myself-- Deuce just got weighed in on the Wii fit and it says he is "obese" and he has the Wii age of 25-- and really, really needs to work out because he's checking in at 20 years older than his actual age! Shame, shame! Well, better to nip bad eating habits in the bud early. I'll rat myself out on that in the morning.

And how, exactly, does HE know if that mom thinks her kids are the most priceless thing she has? Maybe she has two holy terrors who hector her all through the day. Maybe she HOPES some clueless sap will get his just desserts by stealing them. Or, perhaps she is in possession of a Rembrandt or the Hope Diamond. Because then, really, what is "priceless"? (That's sarcasm for you fucking overly sensitive milksops out there.)

PS- I don't know if this asshole is referring to me or not. He very well could be. I have, on occasion, left my children in a locked, air-conditioned car (GASP!). I do know that if I ever get the pleasure of meeting Kevin King, I'll give a swift and ruthless fucking beatdown, for his insufferable arrogance. 

PPS- His types aren't going to talk me out of owning guns, either. He'll try to convince us it is all for our own good, for society's good, for the children's good (whine). Instead, they'll start another civil war. And once again, I'll hand Kevin King another ass-whupping then, too.

  

False Advertising and You

I just have to really quickly call bullshit on the part of the marketing people in the employ of Marley & Me's Production studio.  Look at this DVD case:

 Adorable, no? What do you think this movie will be? Cute? Sweet? Owen Wilson and Jennifer Aniston? Must be funny, too! Oh, and look there at the bottom... "The Best Family Film of the Year". Perfect for date night or to watch with the whole family! Great! And bear in mind that if you BUY this title there is this eye-catching sticker on the plastic proclaiming in BIG letters: "HILARIOUS!!" (in smaller letters underneath "out takes and bloopers").

So would it be outside the realm of rationality to think this movie will be cute and funny and sweet? I mean, look at that fucking puppy! I think that is the general idea they were trying to portray here. And for that, I call them damn, dirty liars.

Now, bear in mind I REFUSE to see this movie since I saw the cover of the book it is based on BEFORE they hired Jennifer Aniston to be in the film... doesn't take a genius to see that this will end badly. Very badly. Old Yeller badly.

Here's my beef. They are deliberately  misrepresenting the level of misery this movie will bring to you. What a way to suck in an unsuspecting sap to screen this on family night. All the kiddos sobbing.  Wife heaving and blubbering. Old Man trying to hold strong, face beet red, claiming the allergens are really up all of a sudden.  Listen, if I wanted to see TOM cry, I'd put on a Mandy Moore movie, ok?

'Til then, Marley can fucking suck it.  I don't do violence against kid movies OR dead dog flicks. No matter how cute the dog on the cover is.

Cookie Whores and Their Daughters

That's it. I've had enough.

I have drawn the proverbial line in the sand today.  Dare to cross it.

I absolutely forevermore refuse to buy Girl Scout Cookies that are sold not by a GIRL Scout, but by a Girl Scout Mommy. Period.

Today I exited my local Wally World and was once again accosted not by adorable twee little misses in patch-covered sashes and knee-socks, no, but instead by their twinset-sporting, jean-clad mothers.  What? You may ask, Moms selling Girl Scout Cookies? But where were the Scouts?  Oh, generally they are off to the side, playing quietly together, whispering to each other or quietly plotting the deaths of their interfering, overbearing mothers. On any account, they (the GIRLs of the Girl Scouts) now seem incidental extras to the whole sales conglomerate that is the Girl Scout Organization.  

And I'm not gonna take it anymore.  The moms manning the booths, stocking the shelves, pitching the wares, making the change.  What the fuck are their kids learning with this process exactly? Other than "rely on mommy to take care of everything"? There is a difference between encouraging and helping a child versus shoving the slow-poke to the side in order to maximize profits.

And let's just set one thing straight, the Girl Scout Organization is already treading on some real thin robber-baron ice.  What with the annual creation of a false scarcity of the infernal goodness of Thin Mints and (gasp, moan) Samoas, they should probably be investigated by some over-paid, red-tape-bound bureaucratic committee from DC already.

 I mean, they could just sell those fuckers in the grocery store and let the money pour in all year round. But no, they've decided to structure it so that they make us behave like ravenous baboons ready to tear the faces off our neighbors for the last box of Do-Si-Dos, ostensibly to allow the "teaching" aspect of the cookie sales to remain for the benefit of the scouts. That is, to let their little girl scouts get a taste of big business sales. Show them how to market and respectfully approach strangers with a great fucking product and maybe, just maybe, reinforce some math skills by counting money and making change (not too hard, we're not tacking on tax here or anything!).  But let's call a spade a spade.  I call bullshit on the whole fucking delicious empire!

These girls AREN'T doing any of this any more! All they do is dress up and dolefully follow their moms to where she's set up and then quietly step aside and let Mommie Dearest take care of real business. In fact, the last time I bought cookies (last year, when an actual GIRL approached me), her mother hawked her so closely, "helping", that I had to tell her to back off so the kid could count change to me! She (the mom) was so concerned that her daughter was taking too long and holding me up she was willing to sacrifice her daughter actually learning how to do something for herself.  It's ok, lady! If I'd wanted someone who could make fast change I'd buy my cookies in the store where I can use my debit card. I understand, implicitly, when I approach a folding card table that the transaction may take a little longer than what has become customary in today's Montezuma's Revenge-quick world.

One more quick aside-- these bitches set up everywhere now. Every grocery, every WalMart. Its like an infestation of locusts.  Rapid, yet ubiquitous. I wonder, how do they decide whose troupe gets the best corner? Does it go to the troupe most in need of funds? Or the prettiest? My bet is the prettiest, only because scouting has, by the looks of the moms, become the second-tier bastion of ex-sorority sisters. One step out of college, one step below the Junior League. 

Unite with me, ye of common sense. Insist that your cookies are genuine GIRL scout cookies, not Mom-of-Girl scout cookies. You'll be doing a whole generation of girls a favor.

Defense of Santa, Exhibit II

It has come to my attention that I wasn't particularly clear with my original rant Defending Santa.  I am afraid I rushed through it, and forgot to include a couple thoughts that were floating around in my head, just didn't get included in the final draft. So, I won't feel right unless I cop to them now.

Primarily, I think I should clarify.  It seems there are two different types of parents who are down with the whole "Out Santa" movement.  Both types honestly do it with the best of intentions, but let's face it, that doesn't make it any less sad, or wrong.  First, there are the Evangelicals and other hard-core Christians, who hate to see the so-called "commercialization" and "secularization" of Christ's birth.  My friend, Marie, I think falls into this category.

  TOM, however, thinks Marie belongs to the second category, which is the New Order Parent who shares every last horrible little thing with their offspring in order to "prepare them" (and possibly scare the shit out of them about growing up, considering.).  Who knows, maybe Marie is both. At any rate, my rant primarily focused on that second group. And upon further reflection I find this group to be even more egregiously in need of a parental take down. You all think you are "preparing" your children for the big horrible world? You think you are giving them a leg-up by letting them in on the adult secrets?  That helping them to become "adult" faster will really be in their best self-interest? Refer to my earlier post for the berating you deserve, you fucking numbskulls. 

It seems to me that logic would lead you to do things like let your daughters wear make-up when they're six, or let your eighth grader start paying rent on his room or something.  I mean, what's the friggin' hurry?  Can't you let them be kids? Can't you trust that they will grow out of ALL their childhood innocence.  And it ain't gonna be all that long before it happens. 

 TOM put it to me this way: Figuring out about Santa is a rite of passage. It is something you EARN, and figure out yourselves.  It is solving a little mystery, and you're a better kid for it. To rob a kid of that is taking away a developmental learning experience-- and we all know how your ilk feels about making every fucking second of the day a goddamn learning experience.  To sum up: You are STILL shameful for raping your child's innocence like that.  That's right. You heard me.  Innocence and Magic Raper.

Ok, then there is that first group, the Hard-liners out there.  Which I prefer to think my friend, Marie, is a part of, and thus less willfully malicious in your shattering of the crystalline magical dreams of your little 'uns. But, I have an argument for you too, one I meant to expound upon more in my earlier post and just couldn't fit in right.  (You may want to smoke a doobie to fully appreciate this argument)   

Santa is a concept that children can grasp.  I know that you want your children to understand the true meaning of Christmas, but let's face it, everlasting life is a pretty heady idea. It takes some time to start really appreciating the intangibles of true Christian faith. One might argue it takes until adulthood, and one may further argue that perhaps it is child-rearing itself that is that mark of adulthood (or at the very least getting past the drunk-all-the-time stage of life), for a person to truly appreciate and be able to understand the larger, more complicated concepts behind faith.  But thankfully, it isn't that hard a lesson for most of us, because we felt that joy and magic and release to a higher power before, we'd already been down that road-- when WE were kids, waiting for Santa.  

Santa is simply a Play-Skool version, a dress rehearsal, for true faith later in life. But kids don't understand receiving joy and love from everlasting life. Hell, they think snack time is an eternity away. Life and death aren't real concepts to them. Nor should they be.

Little kids need concrete things. That's why we don't teach them shit like algebra and philosophy in grade school. They don't have the capability to think abstractly, and then, right around the time they make it through that rite of passage of their own discovery, their brains start to get it. They start to understand higher conceptual thought.  But it isn't that way for small kids. And c'mon folks, do you remember being seven? Four? It ain't that old.

For a child Santa is that representation of Christ's eternal love.  

St. Nick loves all, unconditionally- sure, he warns you not to be naughty, but who among us EVER got coal (the figurative "hell") in their stocking? No one. Because our parents loved us unconditionally and forgave us, just as we learn as adults to really appreciate in a savior and ask again of him right around this time of year. 

Santa brings a child a toy as a gift just as Jesus brings the gift of everlasting life in the kingdom of Heaven to adults. With the concrete display of the Santa Plan they (kiddos) can get it. And it primes them, educates them for later on.  It teaches them faith in something larger, grander, more magnificent.  It buries in their hearts a recognition of true abandon and joy.  Those are lessons that will come in handy when they are adults and are hit with that moment where they reach for faith and are ready again to surrender to something larger than themselves. The magic and belief in Santa will be a light to shine their way home.

But no matter how hard you try to explain or how much YOU believe in those higher concepts, your kids won't understand.  They'll nod and agree with you because they see that's what YOU want them to do and to them you ARE God (again, because those abstract concepts are pretty tricky early on). They only seek to please you, so they will happily say whatever you want to hear. But they'll know that the real kid reason, the reason you can touch and comprehend, to celebrate Christmas is because you get presents. 

 And it is not their fault!  They shouldn't be shamed or guilted for that-- that's just a kid's understanding.  It is a level of maturity issue-- which I suppose loops right back around to TOM's point of rite of passage. I love when thinking is circular. It is so much more whole, you know? Definitely more feminine.  I always feel there is a higher truth around when a concept can fold back over itself and continue.  Like truth itself is a spinning vortex, touching here, connecting to this other thing and expanding into this whole other thing you didn't think it ever would. Whoa. That 1991 acid is coming back on me a little bit. Sorry.  

Ok, it is with great love that I defend Santa, for my kids sake, this holiday season.  And it is with great happiness and depth of emotion that I praise and am grateful this Christmas to Jesus and God.  It has been a hard fucking couple months, and who knows if it will get better anytime soon.  There is a lot of need this year, a lot we can give of ourselves (since I know we're all fucking broke as hell!). But I think it will make it all the more meaningful and poignant this year as we give thanks for our families and our friends, no matter how far away they are or how long it has been since we've told them what they mean to us. And all of us partake, one more year, in the magic that is Christmas.  

And I know I rant and rave and spout off-- it is my nature. I trust that you all know me well enough to know my intentions are good. I love you all no matter what, and I still believe. 

In Defense of Santa

Awhile back The Old Man had the pleasure of hosting a friend of ours, Marie,  for a couple days.  She is super cool and smart, has three kids and was visiting us from TOM’s home state.  TOM and I were regaling her with our various ploys to “play Santa” around this time of year and asked what her Clausian strategies were.  In an authoritative tone she informed us that she told her kids the “truth” about Santa Claus (AND the Easter Bunny!) and has told them he doesn’t exist. Including her 7-year-old son (who's older sisters clearly could've kept him in the dark if they'd so chosen-- or been forced to). I should mention that we were eating breakfast at the time, and her pronouncement (sacrilege!) made me nearly choke on my eggs and TOM sputter through is coffee a , “WH-WH-WHAT?!! WHY?!?!” 

With a delicately arched eyebrow, Marie informed us that she and her husband, Dan, don’t bother with all that because they don’t “believe in lying to the kids”!  Uhh. WHAT?!?! Ok, so TOM and I rolled our eyes and gagged down our meals as we felt the world spin on axis and left it at that. She and her family live 1500 miles away so there was no way their kids would be able to spoil it for our troop. 

Then yesterday I received this email from a friend of mine:

I'm lucky enough to live across the street from two boys similar in age to mine whose parents are of the "we don't want to lie to our kids so we told them there isn't really a Santa Claus when they were both 4 years old..." school.  Are you fucking kidding me?!?!?!?  And the little shites across the street tell anybody they know that "Santa isn't real!!!" whenever Christmas rolls around....

Let me just say that TOM and I go to great lengths to perpetuate the myth. We are the parents who fake muddy tracks on the carpet from the fireplace to the tree. We make sure we suck down every last cookie (with crumbs artfully arranged) and nibble purposefully from carrot sticks to imitate reindeer dentation. 

Of course we KNOW Santa is not the main deal about Christmas, which was Marie’s further point, that her kids attend public school and Christ has been sucked out of Christmas and so they reinforce that Christmas is NOT about Santa, and is about Christ’s birth and all that.  Fortunately, we send our kids to parochial school, so there is no way they don’t know that the big man’s b’day is upcoming. A further side-effect of their small Christian school seems to be a glut of very gullible children, so keeping the story going for Ace, my second-grader, hasn’t been as hard as I had thought. 

Then again, that kid, Ace, is a true believer, man. In general, all my kids seem to be pretty trusting and not naturally skeptical, which I will admit makes things easier for TOM and I. In fact, last night as Ace and Deuce hung ornaments on the “Santa Tree” (the tree that will be “delivered”-- of course you know that’s not Mama’s fancy pretty tree!), Ace reprimanded Deuce for hanging the Black Spiderman ornament too low.  “How is Santa gonna see Black Spiderman there?! Geez, Deuce! Think!!" he snapped, repositioning it higher and to the left. 

So there is that. My kids DO believe. And we like it that way. So I have a message for all you holier-than-thou spoil sports out there: Knock it off! You know the rest of us are in on it and yet you let your little brats run around running their mouths to ruin it for everyone else! 

Let me further say this: I call bullshit.  You don’t like to “lie” to your children? Horseshit! You are Grinches, plain and simple! Don’t think we believe for a second, as your parental peers, that you tell your kids the truth about EVERYTHING! Really?!

You don’t lie to your kids? Riiiight. You told them all about how you used to cheat off Billy Henderson’s algebra tests? About that time you “experimented” with coke (for four or five years)? How about how you used to shake your tits for money? Truthiness abounding about that time you “accidently” blew that sailor in Rosarito? Of course not! You DO LIE about some things.

Parents lie to their kids all the time.  I’ve come to find out it is part of the job. In fact, I never did lie 'til I had kids. And not all of them are BAD lies. There are some things that we shelter children from.  In fact the real irony of this is that it seems you “anti-Santa” fuckers are exactly the type of doofs who would suggest wrapping the hearth in faux-leather pads just to make sure the wee ones don’t bonk their little noggins, or even, God forbid, wear those fucking helmets!   You are the types to carry around socket-plugs in your pockets, "just in case". 

For the most part you douche-nozzles seem to be OVERLY-concerned with your kids well-being. I’m sure you’ve even been accused of being over-protective from time to time.  But apparently you have no interest in protecting your child’s precious innocence or belief in magic and endless possibilities.  Fostering a good imagination is not high on your list, eh? Well, at least they’ll be germ-aware since you can’t seem to keep your hands off the anti-bacterial goop you keep in a holster around your waist at all times, walking around looking like a massage therapist ready for an on-the-fly rubdown. 

Jesus! (Happy Birthday) Get over yourselves.

That’s what Christmas is all about. It’s about BELIEVING, its about FAITH, you morons! Faith in wonder and magic, in things greater than yourself, like Santa Claus...or, I don’t know... Jesus Christ?!! 

Santa is a symbol of that belief and hope.  Christ (again, feliz cumpleanos), you can believe in Obama and you can’t believe in Santa?! Whatever. At any rate, you DO NOT have the right to ruin it for the rest of us, you buzzkills.  

The very hope and inspiration that Santa brings us as small children is exactly the same sort of belief and faith that we will take with us as adults, in our love of freedom, our country, our God, or whatever the hell it is that makes us individually phosphoresce.  We can use that child-learned, Santa-inspired exuberance and zeal toward almost ANY end... maybe even being excited about creating a new clean energy source, or ending hunger, or curing cancer or AIDS, or finally creating a non-fat cheese that tastes good, or even just inventing the perfect non-nutritive cereal varnish- and actually BELIEVING it is possible. Believing anything is possible. It is exactly what helps us be hopeful people. 

You know those adults who are cynical, bitter and shitty? Yeah. I bet they had parents who were Grinches. So well done, you spoil sports. Way to watch out there. Way to create those totally rational, completely devoid of humor pills. The world, and your local cocktail party hostesses, thank you. 

And you know those people who still believe (not in Santa, but more like in the idea that ANYTHING is accomplishable)? Who walk around optimistic and happy and hopeful? I bet they were overdosing on Santa Claus and Disney’s version of America as youngsters. And today they are the ones you see the glass as half-full.  Oh, and as much as I curse and bitch on this blog, I’m sure you all know that I’m up to my eyeballs in optimism.  Thanks, Mom, for “lying” to me early on.  You made me a better person for it. And I am doing my part to pass it along to my kids.

One last word for all you fucking high'n'mighty Scrooges out there with your  "morality" vis a vis Xmas lies: You are being inconsiderate fucktards, the lot of you. Shame on you. Oh. And Merry Christmas!

The Wentz Wince

First things first, I need to admit my bias right up front.  I don’t like Pete Wentz. I never have. He needs his ass kicked. Hard. If you don’t know who he is, don’t worry, you aren’t missing much.  Then again, you need to get out more, because it is hard to miss his over-exposed, kohl-rimmed eyed, tight-jeaned self. He’s from this pseudo-punky pop band, Fall Out Boy .  From what I can tell he is the Gen Y equivalent to Prince, or the generation before mine’s David Bowie. Minus the talent. 

At any rate, as most of you know, I like my men a little more alpha and a little less prancy. Certainly less eye-lined. And I swear to god, Pete Wentz needs to be taken out behind the woodshed for the cultural abomination of making teen boys think they will get laid (and in some cases I’m sure it works-- barf) for wearing fucking girl jeans.  You know what I’m talking about. You’ve seen the little fuckers at the mall, charging up the ‘rents credit cards, mincing about in their tapered, tight little denims,  affecting a sort of wanna-be pansy-punk emo pout that really begs for a butt-whoopin’.  When you see these little twerps, you can thank Pete Wentz.    Oh, and did I mention he’s practically a midget? And that alone keeps him on my gal Edna’s shit list (Eek! Midgets!). Basically he’s an Olsen twin with a bottle of black hair dye and testicles. Well, at least one. He's a breathing Bratz Doll, and now he has begat. God help us. 

It is for these reasons that I harbor a blood-lusty grudge against him and firmly believe he deserves a world-class ass-kickin. So imagine my happiness to hear that Jessica Simpson’s little sister, who used to be the ugly one ‘til a modern medical miracle landed squarely on her face, shat out a little Wentz for him last Thursday.  Let his ass-kicking commence! (He soooo doesn’t know what he’s in for! Gleeful excitement peppered with schadenfreude. )  

I’m sure you can imagine how quickly I clicked on the headline when I spied it on my iPhone thursday, and how hard it was to wait for the page to download so I could see the BIG news-- what did they name it?!!?

Bronx Mowgli Wentz.  A boy. 

Where, o where, do I begin?  How about here...

Nice try, you two.  But methinks you see yourself as a bit more than you are with this appellation, as evidenced by your clear mimicry of not one, but TWO  Hollywood “power couples”! Shame on you! This is the nomenclatural equivalent to yelling at a doorman, “Do you know who I am?!”  Bronx!  Are you kidding me? Desperate attempt to be super-original while clearly ripping off the ideas of others, this name screams “My parents were trying too hard”.  

 First off, The Beckhams named their first son Brooklyn, like NINE years ago.  The “named after a New York borough” meme? Soooo 2000.  Secondly, taking a tip from the Brangelinas by going with the masculine name ending in X, huh? Not cool. Not cool at all. Mr. and Mrs. Wentz should recognize that there are a finite number of such names available to the super-couple AND that the couple is clearly going to keep adopting and reproducing until their family resembles a large traveling band of gypsies. Thus, it is a real possibility that they’ll run out of names for their sons. Poaching one is soooo not ok.

Thirdly, just from a sound perspective, this name is horrible! Bronx Wentz? Ouch! Did these two monkeyfucks even bother saying it aloud before they condemned their firstborn with it? Aren’t they musicians? Shouldn’t they have chosen something at least a little lyrical? Something that rolls off the tongue rather than crashes off the teeth? Saying this name aloud sounds like a cross between a sneeze and a cat vomiting. A sound this gutteral is usually confused for a French-accented Yiddish curse. 

Fourthly. Wait, is that a word? Quarterly? (Whatever, you can see this ill-conceived choice’s folly goes on and on) Mowgli? Are you fucking joking? Don’t you think Pete’s parents had to leave the room to roll their eyes and snicker the first time they heard that? (God knows her pervy Dad was eye-ing up Ashlee's engorging mams and thinking dirty thoughts and thusly probably dumbly nodded upon hearing his new grandson's moniker, not listening, just jockeying for a better eyeful of swollen teat.) HAHAHA! When I first read it my mind immediately pictured Gremlins’ Gizmo swaddled tightly in hospital issue blankie, giant eyes just primed for daddy’s first lesson in  properly smudging “guy-liner” (I swear to god, that’s what he calls it. More reason to kick his ass).

But no. That’s not a Mowgli... that’s a Mogwai... my mind reached... what the fuck... how do I know it... it is something cutesy and child-related... oh! That’s it! The Jungle Book! The little brat from the Jungle Book is named Mowgli. Really?  No. Really?? Did you learn nothing from those LopAnthony twins being named after cartoon characters?!?

A quick side note, Amy Poehler and Will Arnett recently had their first baby.  A boy. Named Archie. Which any other couple in the world would earn a foul rebuke from me if they’d done that to their kid, but really, for this knee-slappin' duo, this choice is gold. Archie Arnett. All he does is crap and cry and already he’s hilarious. Accolades and hand-flourishy bows are all I can offer on it... and can’t help but wonder if they named him after Bunker or Jughead’s pal, or both. Or maybe even John Cleese’s character in a Fish Called Wanda.  Either way. LOOOOOVE it.

Back to the tool chest. Pete and Ashlee... you poor, sad little twits. The only thing I can think is that Fall Out Boy is doing a cover of "I Wanna Be Like You" , and Pete wanted the song to have extra significance or something. Whatever. This baby name gets one star out of five, for failing on both originality AND aural loveliness.  Ick. 

Course, that hasn’t stopped me from wishing the baby well (and by that I mean sending positive vibes that he didn’t get mommy’s REAL nose) and fed-exing out a Baby’s First MAC eyeliner.  Now, little Bronx, get to work kickin’ your dad’s ass. He totally deserves it.

Nanny State Chronicles Part 1: The Whining of the Mommy

  Further evidence that a total nanny state is imminent and whining and crying over every little slight and injustice will now be rewarded national notoreity, I give you this, from a local woman:

Local blogger stops ad

Long story short (in case that link disappears, which is fairly common for my local paper's website): Mommy Blogger sees a web-ad for Motrin ( see it here), and decides she's so outrageously offended that she makes a huge cyber-stink and now Motrin feels compelled to take the ad down.  Bear in mind this Mommy Blogger's blog is called "Crunchy Domestic Goddess"-- which I will NOT link as such granola-centric crap will not be abided on nothingsacred.

Obviously from the name alone this is a woman who is FAAAR too sensitive and clearly has given up on little things like say, shaving her legs, wearing make-up, blowing her husband, etc... Basically, anything sexy ever again revolving around her vajayjay is now rendered impossible since she accomplished the task of squeezing offspring out of her 'gina.  Her poor husband. It is women such as these that inadvertantly encourage infidelity.  Women who take up the cause, nay, the NECESSITY, of bonding with their babies by physically strapping them to their chests, engorged teat in mouth, as so instrumental to their very existence that even what I consider to be a mild tease by a company is as sacriligious as denying global warming, generally have an ill-developed sense of humor. Especially of the self-deprecating variety, which happens to be my favorite. They are so fucking serious. All the time. To them, all of it is curing cancer, inventing the lightbulb, winning the world series. These are the women who wear thier children.  

Seriously, can we just take a step back? Do we really have to be so fucking sensitive that a little mild teasing can't be shaken off? When the fuck did everyone become so unable to take a joke? And I gotta say, I was expecting something much funnier, with a little more cut then the web-ad they put out. Somethin' with a little stank on it, you know? I personally think they kept the kid gloves on... I mean there really is SOOOO much more to crack on about those types of moms-- and you either know one or you ARE one (and we all roll our eyes and giggle about you behind your back anyway, Miss Holier-Than-Thou!).  I mean this ad wasn't even disrespectful! If the Crunchy Mom Brigade needs a good dissin' there are plenty of other places to get it. Namely, here. Just for Madame Humorless' hissy fit, I am going out today and buying myself a big bottle of Motrin. I'm clearly gonna need it since America has officially turned into a bunch of fucking pansies!

Oh! And this whining, over-protective mommy is just the type of gal to invest in this little rip-off:

 Yep.  That's right. It tests for alcohol in breast milk.  Just to be extra safe! Are you fucking kidding me, people?!?!

 Number 1: There's this little organ called the LIVER that all mommies come equipped with (and if yours ain't functioning properly, you got bigger fish to fry than getting loaded and breast-feeding)... it does this amazing job of cycling out impurities from what we ingest.  Seriously, I sometimes think that in the total self-absorbed, self-aggrandizing cocoon of "reality" new mommies live in they somehow think that there is a direct tube that drops whatever they put in their mouths, chew up and swallow directly to their nipples. Like the rest of their digestive system is suddenly rerouted and/or obsolete.  Course, we're brainwashed to think that by the La Leche Nazis who come pounding on the hospital door 17 minutes after you've caught your breath from all the pushing to add further anxiety to the crushing load of post-natal hormones bearing down on you, and then throw in your first taste of mommy-guilt to boot.  These women make you feel like if you don't get that baby on the teat in the first 10 minutes your chances of ever bonding with your brand-new sparkly clean little miracle is nil! And they practically tote in a white board and diagrams to chart out how everything you eat, breathe, look at or think about will immediately be transmitted to your baby through "proper latching-on technique". 

#2: Women who use products such as these are clearly overlooking the only added bonus of drinking whilst breast-feeding. If, on the off chance, even a drop of alcohol gets by your liver and other handy self-cleansing organs to be delivered to your little miracle, that is not necessarily a bad thing! Let's face it, after boozing it up like that you're gonna need your rest! A little nip for the little bundle just might be exactly what your kid needs! God knows if they are surviving on breast-milk alone they'll be up every 2 hours anyway! You are both gonna need your rest to deal with that hangover! 

(Now don't go gettin' your panties in a bunch you crunchy bitches-- I'm not really advocating binge-drinking and breast-feeding.  Not cuz I'm worried about the babies health, but really hangovers and wailing wee ones don't mix. I speak from experience. Again! Don't worry-- I was never able to breast feed for more than a couple months, so my drinking and lactating never overlapped.  Speaking of that... if you are at the point where you COULD be drinking that heavily, you may be over due to get the kid off the tit! If your kid is sass-moutihng you, you really need to pull the fucking cord already.)

#3 The type of mom who would actually BUY this product is probably the last mom on the planet who needs it. This is the mom that unstrapped her little angel from her sling for a quick two hour jaunt for drinks with the girlfriends who haven't heard from her since she squirted out the pup, and during those two hours she called home to check on her sex-starved husband four times and felt so guilty she only had half a glass of red wine anyway. I bet never in the history of "milkscreeen" has a CUSTOMER of theirs actually gotten a postivie result! Although surely the bovines they force fed malt liqour  for the clinical trials had to have gotten a positive result, right?? I mean, these tests would have to work if they are available for sale, right?

One more little thing.  I know I've covered this before, but the products available seem to be expanding, so clearly I need to reiterate myself, and this persnickety hippy mom reminded me of it.  Again, if I ever see one of your kids wearing  one of these, I will kick your ass!  You've been warned. Twice.

Take care, I love you all. Now lighten the fuck up out there, would ya?!? 

No New Window Today- But something I need to set straight

I wasn't able to do much in the way of window-messaging today as Trey had a bit of an adverse reaction to the medication we got for him from Urgent Care over the weekend for a nagging cough/wheeze. Don't worry, he's fine now, but after a few doses of oral prednisone, my 21 month old baby turned into what can only be described as THE INCREDIBLE HULK!  I may as well have given him liquid Gamma!

Seriously, you haven't lived until you've lived through a baby's 'roid rage! 

I spent all of today chasing around a toddler who was either screaming at the top of his lungs, arching his back, throwing his head against the floor, wailing or slugging me in the jaw.  Honestly, if he were any bigger he would have broken me in two!

Imagine your kid's worst temper tantrum ever. Now multiple it by 17.  And drag it out for hours on end.  I don't know how he managed to keep his strength up for the whole day doing it.  I certainly didn't. I'm on my second glass of pinot already.

And then, as quickly as the madness had onset (basically yesterday at the gun show), it ended, and my normal, feisty, funny little guy returned.  Capable of communicating his needs.  Laughing.  Being affectionate.  Like a switch.

Needless to say, I threw that fucking "medicine" in the garbage.

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Okay, well I'm sure I don't need to point out to you what tomorrow is....

My THRID ANNIVERSARY!! Yippee!  Here's to The Old Man! For putting up with me for one more year!  Hip, Hip, Hooray!

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There is one little thing I need to mention.  While blogging today I came across a comments section rife with your typical back-n-forth between the sane and the logically-impaired.  And it reminded me of how woefully misinformed and undereducated the populace at large is, and by God, its time we got something straight.

From The Rocky Mountain News Site (concerning voter fraud in CO):

• HolierThanThou writes:

  If conservatives had their way, they'd still be credited with an extra three fifths of a vote for every slave they owned.

•  Once and for all, can we get our history straight please?  It was the REPUBLICAN party that freed the slaves, that championed the women's suffrage movement AND the civil rights movement. Hell, even Martin Luther King, Jr was a Republican! There is an indoctrination campaign led by the public school system to spread misinformation and overlook little things called FACTS in an effort for the Left to appear to be the "party of equal rights".  But it is bullshit.  
  
•   
• I think the guy from Everything I know is wrong Blog  put it best:
•   
• "Democrats believe that their party has always been the "party of civil rights"; that theirs was the side that fought against slavery, and for equal rights, citizenship, and the right of blacks to vote, even women's suffrage. In fact, they have been on the wrong side of every single one of these civil rights issues, and more--much more.
  The fact that ordinary Democrats believe that their party is the party of civil rights, though incorrect, is grounds for a significant amount of forgiveness. Their hearts are in the right place (on this issue) and they are, after all, being duped by a gigantic system designed to do just that. I myself was once among their number." 
•   
•   So, here is the history of the Republican party re: civil rights, in case you or the people you know slept through this particular unit of high school civics (if your school even bothered to cover it, which let's face it, wouldn't exactly be in their self-interest now would it?).  And PLEASE do me a favor... spread the fucking word.  The trite, useless, and (ironically enough to the idiot that originally got me on this rant from the RMN) "Holier-Than-THou attitude of it all is totally fucking played.  It would be nice if there was some fucking evidence that Republican=Racist, at least for the fucking idiot whack-jobs who keep trying to silence my opinions on Obama, but all the indicators are that "Holier-Than-Thous" dost protest too much. Also note the fortuitous birthday of the Republican Birthday-- same as mine! Well, plus 121 years...  (Also, please note that the "terrorist wing" of the Democrat party was known as a little organization called the Ku Klux Klan.) 
•   
•   
•   
•   

• To stop the Democrats’ pro-slavery agenda, anti-slavery activists founded the Republican Party, starting with a few dozen men and women in Ripon, Wisconsin on March 20, 1854. The party spread across the northern and western United States like a prairie fire of freedom. The first Republican state convention was held in Jackson, Michigan in July 1854. The Republican National Committee met for the first time in 1856, followed four months later by the first Republican National Convention.      

  In the election of 1860, Republicans swept to victory in the White House and won majorities in both houses of Congress. Just six years after the party’s founding, the Governor of every northern state in America was a Republican. That phenomenal progress was possible only because the Republican Party was based on the powerful idea that our nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to equality, must live up to its founding principles.

  Despite fierce Democrat opposition, Republicans passed constitutional amendments banning slavery, extending the Bill of Rights to the states, guaranteeing equal protection of the laws and due process to all citizens, and extending the right to vote to persons of all races and backgrounds.

  Republicans in Congress also enacted the nation’s first-ever Civil Rights Act, which extended citizenship and equal rights to people of all races, all colors, and all creeds.In 1875, the Republicans expanded these protections to give all citizens the right of equal access to all public accommodations. Struck down by the Supreme Court eight years later, this landmark legislation would be reborn as the 1964 Civil Rights Act.      

  Republicans led the fight for women’s rights, and most suffragists were Republicans. In fact, Susan B. Anthony bragged about how, after voting (illegally) in 1872, she had voted a straight Republican ticket. The suffragists included two African-American women who were also co-founders of the NAACP: Ida Wells and Mary Terrell, great Republicans, both of them.

  Republican Senator Aaron Sargent wrote the women’s suffrage amendment in 1878,though it would not be passed by Congress until Republicans again won control of both houses 40 years later. It was in 1916 that the first woman was elected to the U.S. House of Representatives, Republican Jeannette Rankin. The first woman mayor was elected in 1926, the Honorable Bertha Landes of Seattle, another great Republican.      

  Democratic opposition to Republican efforts to protect the civil rights of all Americans lasted not only throughout Reconstruction, but well into the 20th century. In the South, those Democrats who most bitterly opposed equality for blacks founded the Ku Klux Klan, which operated as the party’s terrorist  wing.

  Every single African-American in Congress until 1935 was a Republican. Among the Republican pioneers were South Carolina’s Joseph Rainey, the first black member of the House of Representatives, in 1870. Republican Hiram Revels of Mississippi became the first black U. S. Senator the same year. Two years later, Pinckney Pinchback of Louisiana became the nation’s first blac Governor.

  Californi was the first state to have a Hispanic governor, Republican Romualdo Pacheco, in 1875. The first Hispanic U. S. Senator, Octaviano Larrazolo, came to Washington from New Mexico as a Republican in 1928. The first Jewish U.S. Senator outside the former Confederacy was a Republican from Oregon, Joseph Simon, and the first Jewish woman to serve in the U.S. House of Representatives was a California Republican, Florence Kahn.

  In 2004, America marked the 50th anniversary of the modern civil rights movement, which began with the Brown v. Board of Education Supreme Court decision. That landmark decision was written by Chief Justice Earl Warren, the three-term Republican Governor of California appointed by Republican President Dwight Eisenhower. The author of Brown was also the 1948 Republican vice presidential nominee.      

  Three years after Brown, President Eisenhower won passage of his landmark Civil Rights Act of 1957. Republican Senator Everett Dirksen authored and introduced the 1960 Civil Rights Act, and saw it through to passage. Republicans supported the 1964 Civil Rights Act and the 1965 Voting Rights Act overwhelmingly, and by much higher percentages in both House and Senate than the Democrats. Indeed, the 1964 Civil Rights Act became law only after overcoming a Democrat filibuster. 

The Loons have Landed

As I write this, protestors to the Democratic National Convention have taken over the streets of Denver, shutting down traffic as they march from the Capitol to the Convention Center. 

For months now our local stations have been talking about protestors to the DNC and the city has been running classes on how to correctly run protests and demonstrations. Whenever I saw the stories about this I'd roll my eyes and wonder why they were bothering. I mean, I can understand that those sorts of things might be needed in St. Paul, MN where certainly the Republican National Convention will be protested, as is tradition.  But Republicans demonstrating outside the DNC? Are they retarded? Republicans don't march in the street.  When Republicans gather en masse it is for things like, say, football games. 

So I thought, maybe, there might be a couple groups, pathetically small and laughably ineffective, that would protest the DNC. Maybe a group of anti-abortion bible-thumpers. Maybe a rag tag group of right-wing anti-government gun loving types.  I figured their numbers would top out at a scraggly 30 or 40 if they were lucky. It would be rather embarrassing at the lack of groundswell support. Republicans just don't have it in 'em to congregate in the hot sun and scream and stamp their feet.  

So imagine my surprise this morning when the news cut to hoards of angry protestors taking over our fair city, and then imagine my amusement to hear the demonstrators protesting the Democratic National Convention are... Democrats. 

I knew Republicans couldn't organize a protest.

With super-star protest speakers like super-mom Cindy Sheehan and the "esteemed" Ward Churchill, banging their angry little war drums about ending the war in Iraq and ending US occupation. But get this, they're not just anti-occupation of Iraq and Afghanistan, no, they are calling for the US to pull out their occupying forces in locales like Hawaii.  Yeah, you read that right. They want to end the occupation of the US's fiftieth state. You know, the one that voted to be in the union in 1959, sixty some-odd years after voting to be a US territory after they'd overthrown their monarchy. Yeah. That Hawaii.  

Because I'm sure all our island-y brethren are all pumped up about "reclaiming their sovereignty" and mustering up their own Army and all.  Yeah. Their calls for "Freedom!" ring through the air like grass-skirted William Wallaces.  Just like the good folks in Guam and the US Virgin Islands and Puerto Rico. All crying under the oppressive tyranny of Uncle Sam.  

Looks to me like this "Recreate '68" rally these tin-foil-hatted fucksticks are throwing is overlooking one obvious thing, and by God, I'm not going to stand by and let them forget it: its time to end the occupation in Kansas! Enough is enough! 

  

Ask and you shall receive, one more celebubabe

Ok, so just yesterday I was wondering when Gwen Stefani was going to pop, and lo and behold, Zuma Nesta Rock was announced this morning! That's a boy.  Zuma Nesta Rock. Wow, where do I begin with a name like that? 

Doesn't seem to necessarily "go" with Kingston, but maybe they'll call him "Rock" so they both have a music vibe to them? I mean, both the first two names end in A, so they are a touch feminine, not that boy's names ending in A are necessarily girls names... but I did have to verify that it was a male child since the name itself would have suggested otherwise. Zuma for a girl I can see, what with it nearly being Uma, and having that fabu Brangleina last-letter-of-alphabet addition (Angie seems to favor those, I think... lots of Xs and a Z and now a V). I'm frankly still trying to get my brain around little baby Zuma, but perhaps I'm just too distracted by the similarity to "Zoomba", the new "latin dance-inspired" fitness class offered at my local Y (which no matter how many times they announce its arrival in pump class, still sounds crazy dorky to me). 

Or, it could be that she and Gavin felt like they really needed to fit in with music legend Frank Zappa on the fucked-up naming tip, or to really show that sassy little upstart Shannyn Sossamon with her son Audio Science (still my vote for worst name ever) that she ain't got nothin' on them! At any rate, thought it was worth noting that Gwen did, in fact, give birth this summer after what seems like the longest pregnancy ever.  Next up? Ben and Jen's new little bun.  I'm thinking boy for them. Any bets?

Also, still so don't care about Jessica Alba's baby or her getting pics in star rags, won't care if Eva Longoria is preggers, and is anyone else suspicious as to why JLo's still hiding her little accountants, I mean, Anthonys? They've gotta be looking better by now!

Update: Just read on perezzers that Nesta was Bob Marley's middle name, too. So there's that Jamaican connection to link the new one up with his big bro!  (People like theme naming. They really do. Which is not necessarily bad.)

And The World Just got Two Pitts Prettier...

Of course it didn’t escape my attention that Angelina popped out the WonderTwins over the weekend, and I must go on record with my whole-hearted approval of the name choices.

I love the name Vivienne, especially that spelling, and had hoped to name my own daughter that... alas, my daughter arrived with a little extra something and so we decided to call “her” Trey. (Sidenote: The Old Man was not as enthused about my love for Vivienne as it evidently reminded him of skanky old stripper he used to know, but clearly TOM was wrong in this instance.)

As for Knox, I am slightly partial to it as my cousin just named his kid this last year and I’m sorry, but its just cool. I notice they are going with the whole boy’s names ending in X theme, and can dig it, but do wonder how that will pan out if they continue to expand the menagerie-- which by all accounts they intend to. Las ti heard before Angie got knocked up she wanted to get a little African to match up with Zahara. So, clearly Max and Jax are out since they rhyme with Pax, and I think we can count out Fox, too. I guess the next one will be Rex or Lex or Dex or something. Frankly, I kind of like the idea of a little African named Tex. Or maybe Phoenix, Lennox, Felix or Hendrix.

I do anticipate trouble though, as the expansion continues, there are only so many X names to go with, and by my estimation Angelina is trying to outdo Mia Farrow with this whole giant adoptive/birthed clan thing (being that Angelina seems to be hell bent on superlative living-- most beautiful, most charitable, worst accent, most mother-y, etc). I think Angie’s inherent need to compete with everyone on earth and show them that she is better and more perfect in all ways will lead her to at least go for 15 to top Mia’s 14 kiddos. Although, it seems thus far Angie has learned the Farrow lesson of not bringing home any Asian girls as they will me-so-horny grow up and steal their adopted dads. The only husband stealer in Angie’s house is Angie, by God!

I do like that she’s given all her girls names that can be shortened into really cute little nicknames. Z, Shy, and Vivi will surely run the roost. And I’m sorry, but the whole female world owes Angelina a debt of gratitude for replicating a son for Mr. Pitt.

Either way you know I’m checking Perez obsessively to see when the first pics of those little monkeys breaks. I can hardly sleep in anticipation! I’m praying for the boy to be dark-haired like his mama.

I’d also like to go on record saying that the name Knox will sky-rocket in popularity, as it isn’t even on the top 1000 list for 2007 (most recent figures). Maddox went from non-existent in 2001 (when Angie brought that lucky little son-of-a-gun home with her) to #325 for the decade (adjusted for spelling variances), and all the way up to #198 for 2007 (again, adjusted for spelling). I’m willing to bet Knox will debut on the top 1000 list at around 500 by 2009, and keep its ascent for the next few years. Vivienne will surely also catch fire, as it is even more mainstream than Knox.
Personally, I like that the Jolie-Pitt clan chose actual names and not things/ideas, as the recent celebrity naming by Jessica Alba (Honor) and Nicole Kidman (Sunday Rose) sort of left me cold, although it is miles better than those retard choices the LopAnthony’s made. Matthew McConnaughey didn’t fuck it up too badly with Levi-- it seems appropriate for a guy who can’t seem to find a shirt to name his kid after pants-- but TOM pointed out he probably just should have gone with his favorite catchphrase-cum-brandname J.K. Livin’ to be true to himself. J.K. Livin’ McConnaughey has a bit of a ring.

On the upside: we still have a preggers Gwen Stefani to look forward to this summer. She’ll surely come up with something amusing.

How My Stupid Fucking Insurance Cuts off Its Ugly Fucking Nose to Spite Its Grotesque Fucking Face

       We’re done. The Old Man and I are finished. No, no! Our marriage is fine, but we have decided to officially retire the baby-making equipment.  I’ve made peace with the fact that God saw fit to bless me only with male children and I surrender to His higher wisdom in that, perchance, I am best suited for that. Come to think of it, for awhile there in my formative years I only had male friends, so while I now enjoy all my girlfriends more than life itself and appreciate the sweet succor that only their friendship can provide me, it very well may be that I am just rightly attuned to the needs and demands a passle of boys will lay upon me.  At the very least, it has certainly opened my eyes to some hard truths of life that heretofore I had heartily ignored. For instance, boys just don’t think about the same shit girls do. End of story.  They are inherently different. No matter what. No matter how you try to “fix” them.  They’s jus’ diff’rnt. Period.

    That said, the Old Man and I have decided to no longer bless the world with our specific DNA cocktails (I hear your chorus of sad groans, and offer you our heartfelt apologies). We know, we know.  We do good work. They are a cute bunch. But lets face it, adding another (male) mouth at this point just extends the amount of time until the two of us can hightail it to Europe and Morocco and Iceland and wherever we want to go for our great travels after we ship the last one off to college. Not to mention the baby weight! Mama’s done stretching out the ol’ temple, if you know what I mean. From here on out we’re only fixin’ her up, rather than tearing her down (well, except the nastiness Father Time and that bitch Auntie Gravity decide to wreak upon me.).

     So we start looking around at more permanent or long-lasting fixes to the whole fertility thing (as it took us a grand total of 6 tries to conceive 3 children by my last count). Fertile Myrtle and Virile Victor have the concept of conception, well, covered. As it turns out, though, the Old Man is a little gun-shy about the whole snip, snip dealio, and actually had the nerve to suggest to me that I get the procedure.  When I reminded him that I was the one who actually gestated and birthed not one, not two, but three of his progeny, I believe that he got that that option was off the table.  Or else it was the quick slap upside the head that drove that point home.

     So as he hemmed and hawed, I continued the daily struggle to remember to take my birth control pills. Which, oddly, is both difficult to remember because these three kids keep me so darn busy, and yet contradictorily simple as I think, Holy Christ! These three kids are keeping me too busy! Better take your pill to avoid having anymore! Unfortunately, I’m usually in bed falling asleep when I get a minute to have a complete thought like that, and then I have to get up and walk across the darkened house and dig the pills out of purse where I carry them around with me so that in case I remember them at any given point in the day I will have them with me to take. Is it any wonder that I actually only log about 5 full hours of sleep a night?

      So, I started investigating alternative methods and after careful consideration (ok, talking to a couple friends and figuring out it is pretty much the ONLY reliable alternative available), I decide on the IUD. I gotta tell you, the name alone is a little off-putting as it so reminds me of “IED”, which of course makes me think of little tiny shrapnel-laden bombs in Iraq. Which then makes me envision the first time the Old Man and I get down to business after implantation and well, you know, a good strong thrust into my newly buried landmine and, BOOM!!! Anyway, I finally make the appointment, thinking that will buy the Old Man a couple (okay, FIVE) years to get used to the idea of getting his junk fixed.

     Let me start out by telling you that my doctor’s office used to have two Obs, one male, one female. They were sorta like Momma Bear and Poppa Bear, except that Poppa was super-sensitive and gentle and sweet, and Momma much more brusque and masculine and a skosh intolerant (not to mention, she was the absolute embodiment of Seinfeld’s “Man Hands”—which is something altogether memorable in a “lady doctor” if you get my drift). But, Momma has recently left to start her own office, which ended up sort of being like a divorce in the office, and has left all the patients to have to choose: Mom or Dad?!?! Additionally it has left the original office (Dad’s) to be staffed by pretty much an entire new crop of ladies. So I don’t recognize anyone when I go in, and unfortunately for them, they don’t recognize me either. [If they had worked in the Ob’s office for my last two pregnancies, they would have known better than to approach me in such a stupid fucking manner and try a bit more diplomacy.]

      As I reach into my wallet to pull out my $30 office visit copay the new little twit behind the little sliding-glass window tells me that will be $650.  WHAT?!?!? “Oh, didn’t you know that? Let me go find out why that is.” Yeah. You do that. Little Twit leaves to find New Big Twit.

     New Big Twit towers over me. “Yes. Well it looks like we talked to your insurance and you have what, a 70/30? Well, you have a thousand dollar deductible and you haven’t used any of it this year so they want to put all this toward it and it looks as though someone called you on the 8^th of May. So it will be $650.” She raises her eyebrow at me.  As if.

     Clearly, New Big Twit does NOT want to negotiate or work this out with me. “Did anyone leave a message on the 8^th of May? Because if you call my house and no one answers, and you don’t leave a message, that’s not exactly communicating with me, is it?” It is sort of like a tree falling in the woods, isn’t it, you stupid fucking cow?

      I turn on my heel and leave the office, head spinning at the twin incompetence of New Big Twit AND Great-West Insurance Company. Let me get this straight? I know why I get to pay full price up front for New Big Twit: because I WILL pay. That OB office marches an insufferable amount of uninsured teenage moms and clearly illegal immigrants through its doors. Sitting in the office with them all during my last pregnancy reinforced that I was getting to pay full-price for my pregnancy services so that all these other bitches could keep squeezing out pups on everyone else’s dime! Everyone in town knows it (Momma and Poppa had a very big business… they know half this town’s lady parts)! I have a strong suspicion that this issue is what led to Momma’s divorce from Poppa in the first place! (Momma doesn’t put up with guff like working the system. Poppa, on the other hand, his poor little heart bleeds). And it looks like I will be taking my business, my lady business, over to Mama’s from now on, as Daddy OB was still clearly tolerating the free-loaders and expecting me to pay full-price for it!

       As for my stupid fucking insurance company.  What sort of absolute short-sighted mental retardation are the policy-makers at Great-West Insurance clearly suffering under??  You mean to tell me that it makes MORE financial sense to you dimwits to not pony-up for a FIVE-YEAR method of birth control with an efficacy rate greater than 99% in favor of trusting the three-child-addled-brain of mine to remember to take my pill every single day and hope I don’t get knocked up??? REALLY!?!?! Because paying for FIVE YEARS of generic birth control pills is roughly equal to one Mirena IUD, except you don’t run the risk of, oh I don’t know, me popping out another kid or two!

       There’s no way you can convince me that giving me an IUD is not cheaper in the long-term than covering pre-natal visits, sonograms, blood-tests, birth, and then an additional child’s wellness visits, shots, broken bones, occasional sniffles, etc, etc.  You fucking morons!  And you know that if my insurance had chosen to pay for it, they would have gotten the “negotiated” rate, which is sure as shit less than $650, I’m willing to bet!

      Just for this, Great-West, I may have another two kids in the next five years just out of spite! Let those scum-suckers suck up that cost! Fucking insurance bastards! I curse them with anal warts and burning halitosis!

Hollywood Birthin'

Ok, so a story about Brangelina popping out those twins erroneously hit today—and sparked me to write this little diatribe (Point of fact, Angelina DID NOT give birth today, so any details about said birth in this post are wrong! And also-- I'm soooo not going to believe anything on Perezhilton again!):

So Angelina just popped out those twins. Girls. I'm sure it was via C-section with a side order of tummy tuck. I just know that's Hollywood's dirty little secret on "trimming up" after births, no matter how scant evidence I can find to support that theory (and don't think I haven't tried!). Plus, it explains why they ALL want C-sections!

I'm just not buying the "convenience of scheduling around our busy lives" bullshit or even that they want to choose their birth days for some sort of cosmic astrological reasons-- not all of them are THAT into astrology! I mean, really? None of them can schedule time off for birth? Really?! They didn't see that oh, sometime, around 9 or 10 months from now, I'm going to have to clear my calendar for a couple weeks?  Really?! Somehow the rest of us regualr folks can recognize that AROUND this date, give or take a couple weeks, I'm gonna be busy shittin' out a critter! REALLY!?!? Nope, evidently Hollywood moms (even ones not shooting films because they are, oh I don't know, VISIBLY pregnant) can't figure out how to hold out a couple weeks on their calendars for the blessed event without scheduling iron-clad, contract-bound appearances. Really?? We're supposed to believe that?!!?

There's just no way they aren 't getting some sort of extra little snip, suction and lift while they are birthing up these little creachlings.  (Added bonus: no torpedo heads, black eyes and bruiser punums on their kids so they are born camera ready!)  Yes, I'll give you that C-section rates continue to climb, but these women are SELECTING to do it with their first kids, MONTHS in advance! SUre, their publicists will tell you they were "emergencies", but c'mon! The C-section rate for stars has to be pushing 95%! I mean there are just TOO MANY for it to be anywhere near the regular rate.  A-listers Angelina, Xtina, Madge, Posh, Gwen, Gwynnie, Kates (Holmes and Hudson), Brit Brit-- they've all had them. B-,C-, and D-listers, too! Claudia Schiffer, Elizabeth Hurley, Denise Richards, Tori Spelling. The list goes on and on. In fact, it was harder to find a recent birth that WASN'T via C-Section! (Nicole Richie, oddly enough!)

It is Weird with a capital W.  It just is. And it sets off my extreme paranoia, making my bullshit detector beep like a reversing dumptruck! Listen folks, I'm a Pisces-- we do not ignore what we intuit! There is something else going on here, and I'm guessing it has something to do with looking good in bikinis in an extremely short amount of time post-partum!  Don't get me wrong, here, I definitely asked my doc this last time if I could schedule up one of these Hollywood deliveries and get me a little dose of plastic surgery to go with-- its nothing short of genius! (She ignored the request.)

Just what kind of moron approved this, I wonder yet again.

Just what kind of moron approved this, I wonder yet again. Current mood: incredulous Ok so last night The Old Man and I are snuggling down into a nice evening viewing of Intervention. So TOM desperately wanted to go to sleep while Little Mama insisted that she must find out just what happens to this pillhead before clicking off. C'mon! I was 45 minutes invested into the sad story of Brooke, the pain-killer addicted arthritis sufferer! I HAD to see... Cut to a commercial... TOM is trying his best to sleep, I'm trying my best to stay awake. I hear the jingle and the promises. A new breakthrough in acid reflux treatment! This pill neutralizes stomach acid PH, so when acid DOES come up it doesn't burn as much! It's brilliant, its new, you must get it immediately! Only minor side effects of neck rigidity (huh?), fever, third eye, yadda yadda... and then, there it was. The single funniest thing I have heard in possibly three days (hey, I've got three little Martians living with me, they come up with some kooky shit!)-- THE NAME! Oh, yeah. I don't know what genius cocooned this idea, or better yet, what committee vetted it. But by God they stuck with it! (And evidently not a single person said it aloud during all of testing, marketing, retesting and FDA approvals.) And honestly, on paper it looks good.  Acid + Ph + ex (which clearly must indicate that it is gone, as in "my ex", or "extinguished"  or something like that). But when you aren't looking at the tv screen, and you aren't paying attention to the rest of the commercial, here is what you get.... "Call your doctor. It might be time for ASS Effects" Needless to say after laughing up our own little set of "ass effects" (that is to say, laughter till asses are trembling uncontrollably) at whatever douchebags over at said pharmaceutical company's approval of that name, Big Daddy and Little Mama were up for the rest of sad Brooke's story.  Side note: Upon further investigation... it appears that Aciphex comes to us from my absolute top favorite country ever (besides the good ol' US of A, o' course). Japan !! It should be no surprise to me. This is Engrish at its very fucking best!!!

I love this woman and her free range kid

April 27, 2008
Current mood: catalyzed

Check this out!

(for newbies, click the link above to read the article I'm referencing here. There ya go. See? Not too hard.)

I WISH we lived close enough to school and activities to kick these little suckers out to walk/bike to school! Nicole and I did it everyday and we're better people for it, I say. Especially after that one time when we caught two guys doing something they weren't supposed to be doing while taking a "shortcut" up an alley and they chased after us with a machete... but that's another blog.

I love the idea of hovering "helicopter parents"—meaning only that I love the name thought up to describe the phenom. Obviously I think they suck, and realize that I am, more than likely one of them!

Free range kids… now there's some common sense! I NEVER would've guessed it would come from a New Yorker!  I figured all

New York

SuperMoms were over-educated, hyper-liberal, the ideal hover-types. Congrats to her. [And also, big time shout out for naming your kid Izzy Skenazy. That is BEYOND cool!]

I'd love to hear if you guys agree with me (and her) on this...

PS- Everyone give a shout out to The Old Man, who has finally joined in on reading my blogs! He better put on his flak jacket and new Harley helmet!!

PPS- Thanks to Anne for bringing this Common Sense Mommy Pioneer to my attention!