thoughts on life, parenting, news, and crazy shit

Month: May, 2013

Why Rich People Are Assholes



From time to time some of my fellow bloggers bless me with these blogging awards.  What’s nice about them is that it means someone out there is reading my thoughts in a different part of the world, even, and appreciates the shit that comes out of my head.  They forgive my colorful vocabulary and engage in debating the subject of the day, or absorbing whatever hormone induced sappy feelings are leaking.

So thank you to tric at my thoughts on a page for recognizing me last week.  The truth is I’m too pregnant and lazy to make another list of 7 random things about myself, but I appreciate her and you should go and check out her thoughts.  Who doesn’t love Irish people?

And now to Amber, at Journey into the Spectrum who gave me this:


You should pop over to her blog too sometime.  She is one of my blogging besties, and has a hilarious son who gives her endless material to write about.  She also really, really likes Mexicans.  In the bedroom.  In the kitchen.  Pretty much anywhere.

So she has to nominate two favourite bloggers.  (Thanks, Texas), and ask them a question.  Then I must do the same.

She asked me this:

If you could have just one wish -and it can’t be for more wishes, smarty pants, then what would it be?

Ahh.  Now that the housekeeping details are out of the way, we come to the meat of the post.

I thought about this one good and hard.  I thought about how to be clever and funny and all that, but really, it comes down to money.

I would absolutely, without question wish to be disgustingly, filthy, whoreishly rich.  So rich that there would always be more money as soon as I spent any.  But I would ask to made rich without becoming an asshole.  Because I think money does that to people sometimes.

And why do you think that is?  Because unfortunately, money is power.  And when someone becomes unexpectedly powerful, their asshole gene get turned on in a big hurry.  It’s like you are no longer accountable to anyone, so you just do as you please and disregard the feelings of anyone else.  It’s not like you’ll need them for any backup anyway, right?

You know why else rich people are assholes?  Because greediness is a disease.  Some people can manage it by being generous with what they have and becoming philanthropists,  but they are one major stock market collapse away from becoming an asshole too.  When you have more, you want more.  Having less than what you have right now is terrifying, even if your “less than” is millions of times bigger than most peoples’ “greater than”.

And having money means you don’t have to work as hard for everything you get.  Since you can just buy it or hire someone to do it for you.  But you know how vegetables you grow yourself always taste better?  It’s because hard work sweetens the reward.

So yeah.  My wish would be to be rich without becoming an asshole.

Now what do I want to know about my fellow bloggers?

If you had to choose between being deaf and being blind, which would you choose and why?

And my nominees are:

My Life is the Best Life.  She is fucking awesome beyond awesome so I am adding her in as #1 of 3 choices instead of 2, because her blog has been quiet as she wrangles a twee baby and a toddler, so she probably won’t get to this.  But you should read her stuff.  For reals.

Marriage, Motherhood and Madness.  One of my newest buddies.  She has two sons who like to burst in on her in the shower and spew nonsense at her.  One day, she will learn the phrase “get the fuck out of here” and maybe have less to write about.  Until then, read on.

Here’s to A Boring Year.  She’s an Aussie, and told me she loved me on our first blog date.  She has been through unimaginably hard times with an ill wee one, and still manages to have a sense of humor.  Read this.

Happy Thursday, bitches.

Parents By Contract



Shared parenting.  Has anyone heard of this before?  I’m not certain if I’ve been under a rock somewhere while this became a thing, or if it’s always been a thing that finally has an official name.   And apparently some agencies that facilitate it.

If you are like me, who until this morning had no idea that people actually did this, here is a very short introduction it.

Shared parenting, from what I understand from this article, is when two single people with the desire for a child meet through some sort of matching system, and decide to reproduce together.  Not the old fashioned way, but the old turkey baster up the noona way.  So the agency matches the two individual based on parenting compatibility  (I assume), impregnates the woman, and the two go on to have this shared child together.  They don’t live in the same house or anything, they just co-parent this child.

So.  Is it just me, or does this sound totally fucking whacko to you?  I mean, it’s not like you’re entering into a time-share agreement on a condo in the Bahamas or something.  This is a human being for crying out loud.

Have we gotten so devoid of all morality and humanity that even the act of having a child is just a procedure and a legal agreement these days?  My moral compass is begging for me to turn away and pretend I never read this article.

But here’s the thing.  Logically, it may not be such a bad idea.  Think about it.   People have children a gazillion unconventional ways.  Adoption, insemination, IVF, fostering, surrogacy. When the urge to have a child comes it is all consuming for some.  And we don’t live in a traditional world anymore.  People stay single later or their whole lives, but just because they can’t find the right partner, they still want to have children.  I get that.

Sure you can adopt or get inseminated or get pregnant on purpose, but then you have to face the reality of single parenting.  And parenting is hard enough without having backup.  And by backup, I mean another parent who is on board and ready to take over when you need a break.

So maybe it’s better to match yourself with someone else in the same boat and have that partner.  I mean, kids come from broken homes all the time.  Is this so different?

So yeah, logically, the argument could be why not?

Well, as someone who has a young child and is about to pop another one out in a few short weeks, I can certainly tell you why not.

It’s hard enough to keep your shit together and get through the first year of being a parent in one piece when you love and respect your partner.  It’s a wonderful, amazing time, but it is stressful as hell.  Babies are hard to figure out sometimes.  I can’t tell you how many times I yelled at Husband only because I was frustrated and couldn’t yell at the baby.  Do you think a “co-parent” bound by a legal agreement is gonna put up with my shit like that?

Do you think a “co-parent” wants to hear about my post-partum bleeding and come to all the post natal appointments that involve vagina talk?

Do you think I want some stranger in the delivery room watching a human being tear my cookie in half?  Do you think I would be comforted by that?

It’s just awkward.

And what if the co-parents evolve and start to disagree on things as the child grows?  What if the child has developmental challenges or behavior problems or God forbid becomes ill?  How do you face those things as parents?  How do you support one another?  Situations like that tear loving, grounded families apart.

It just seems to complicated to me.  Keep it simple.  Fall in love.  Have the sex.   Make a baby.  But a child as per legal agreement?  Not for me.

So kids.  Any thoughts on this?  I’d love to hear what you all think.

Slutty, Slutty Merida



Oh Disney.  You controversial, slut making company.  How dare you make your heroine doe eyed and begging for sex.  How dare you make a character’s look unattainable and make young girls feel inadequate.

Cause no one else ever does.  And none of the other Disney characters are so unbelievably unreal.

Seriously.  Are we even talking about this?  I guess we are.  Because on a Tuesday morning, when skimming through the news stories on the web, this bullshit has been plaguing my screen for days now.  And what I really want to know is why in the hell do people give a shit?

Merida.  Oh Merida.  How dare you get a makeover.  I cannot believe you brushed your hair and put on a new dress and lost a few pounds for a skinnier waist.  For reals?  Has anybody ever turned on the television before?  There are probably half a dozen makeover shows on tv as we speak.   Should we call out the makers of those shows for allowing women to feel beautiful?

Should we ban the sale of cosmetics, and nice clothes and be proper role models for our children?  Just someone please give me a fucking break.  Please.


It’s a story.  She’s not real.  She’s not a role model for you daughter and her self esteem.  YOU ARE.

Little girls like to watch pretty princesses and cartoon characters on tv.  Watching Ariel and Princess Jasmine and Cinderella did not skew my perception of myself.  And PS, no one bitched when Cinderella’s fairy godmother came along and cleaned her up so that the Prince would marry her.

My point is this.  Every one who has hot titties about this keeps wailing ” Oh but Merida was a role models with her bow and arrow and down to earth looks”  Here’s a newsflash.  Merida is not a role model for your child.

If you are relying on cartoon characters to provide role models for your children, I suggest you dust off your parenting skills and reassess the people in your child’s life.

I don’t even know why I am blogging about this today.  I totally don’t give a shit about Merida and her new slutty outfit.  They could get every prince from every Disney movie ever made and make a Merida gangbang out of it, and I still wouldn’t care.  Because it’s a cartoon. And if I want to watch it, I will.  If the gangbang offends me, I’ll likely turn it off and not allow my child to watch.

Fuck people, give your head a couple of shakes and take a shot of rum.  And chill the fuck out.

And if the only thing you have to worry about in your life this morning is Merida’s new clothes, consider yourself lucky and get on with your day.

Rant over.

The Birth Of My Humanity



I used to always say that one of my most redeeming qualities was that I didn’t really have any feelings.  No, really.  Not in a sociopathic scary kind of way.  In a way that made it easy to know where you stood with me.

Life was way simpler then.  I didn’t cry.  I didn’t let things get to me.  I’d tell you to fuck off and then figure out a way to solve whatever problem was occurring.  I was the “give your head a shake and suck it up” person when you cried.

It’s not that I didn’t love other people.  It’s not that I didn’t care.  I don’t know….I just somehow detached myself emotionally from their bullshit.  It’s how I rolled.

And then it happened.  I got pregnant.  And once I was done panicking about 9 months of sobriety and the fact that I was going to have to take care of another person once it came out, it happened.  I took a deep breath and became a mother.

Motherhood hit me like a chronic illness.  That’s sounds horrible, doesn’t it?  But all of a sudden, I had all these urges and feelings and I cried every single time I watched Oprah.  Every time.  And it was an adjustment, because I wasn’t used to being overcome by things.   I was always in control, and suddenly I had none.

Motherhood evolved me into a complete human being.

And I hate to say that, because it implies that childless people aren’t complete.  Not so.  I think our lives were complete for a long time, because we said we’d never have children.  We felt whole.  Until one day we weren’t.  You know?

The biggest thing that motherhood did to me was give me empathy.  I could feel another parent’s pain when I watched the news.  I feel angry alongside strangers when I hear of abuse and neglect and suffering.  I can put myself in the shoes of any other parent on the planet and understand them when they say “I did it for my child”.  No matter what it is.

Motherhood makes you readjust your perspective on everything as you relearn about the world through your child’s eyes.  I have to remember that everything is new to her.  I have to explain what everything is and does and says in two year old speak.  It gives you back your innocence for a time, I think.  Because the answers at this point are simple.  And simplicity is refreshing.

And having a child is the most empowering thing I have ever done.  Not just the physical birth, but all the afters.  Every time I see her be kind to another child or an animal, or figure out how something works, I feel empowered.  I think that in that moment, I must be doing something right.  Through all the shitty moments where I forget to lead by good example, she must have learned the good stuff from somewhere, right?  

So yesterday, for Mother’s Day, we kept it simple.  There were flowers and presents for the Moms in our lives.  And I am grateful for the guidance and love that these women show us every day.  And I know how much they love us, because I know what it is to love a child now.  Our child.

But yesterday, in my heart of hearts, I spent time with my twee Destroyer of hearts and all things neat and tidy, and I celebrated her.  Because she has turned me into something worthy of her.

I may have birthed her, but she gave me life.

Hot On The Titties: The Independent Child



I’m not feeling the heat this morning.  On my titties, that is.  But I think I know what will spread a little warmth amongst the masses.  A little parenting debate, anyone?

I’ve spent the morning ( since 5 am because the wretched spawn  sweet little life inside me woke me up starving) perusing this article and this one too.  Both articles are similarly toned.  They discuss cultural differences in child rearing philosophies from around the world and compare them to North American habits.  Really good reads, by the way.

They both came up with the same conclusion.  We suck at parenting over here.

That’s right.  You. Me. All of us.

Why?  Because we have crawled so far up our children’s asses that they don’t even know what we look like anymore.  Get out of your child’s ass!

Here’s the  first Hot on the Titties part.  There is, in my opinion, a bit of a conflicting argument in both articles.  Both of them advocate for attachment style parenting in the early years of life.  Co-sleeping, constant contact, not introducing a scheduled feeding etc etc.   The argument is that these things provide comfort and teach the baby reassurance and confidence and comfort.  On the flip side, one of the articles states that getting a baby on a schedule and letting them cry things out doesn’t teach independence or how to self soothe.   Because they are incapable of learning routine this early.  Or at least that’s how I understood it.

Well which is it?  An infant is or isn’t capable of learning a habit or behavior at this point?  I’d like to know, because I loved pretty much everything else I read in the articles.

Anyway, moving forward to Hot on The Titties part 2, there seems to be some things that us North American parents need to address, so based on the information provided in the articles above,  Here are Cookie’s Rules of Preventing Assholism and Pussiness In your Kids:

1.  Give your child knives to play with and let them fall out of  trees.  No. Really.  Children are not made out of glass.  I know this because Destroyer regularly throws herself down stairs or other high up objects and she’s not broken yet.  She likes to play with pointy sticks and still has both eyes.  The idea is to give them situations where they learn risk assessment, I suppose.  Just keep the bandaids handy.

2.  Let.Your. Child. Play Outside.   Unstructured, free play.  Don’t play with them.   Don’t pick them up every time they fall.  Let them get dirty and tear the holes out of the knees of their jeans.  You know they are only going to fit for another 2 weeks anyway.

3.  Don’t schedule every single minute of after school life.  Your child will thank you.  Your bank account will thank you.

4. Next time you start cooking dinner, and then pull out some chicken fingers for the kids, find someone to give you a good spanking.  Make the kid eat what’s on his fucking plate.  I can’t tell you how much I love the Koreans for this rule.

5. Let your child ride his bike and bounce his ball and make ALL the noises outside.  And if someone gives him shit for making too much noise, give your kid permission to tell that person to fuck off.  And tell your kid to give that person your phone number so you can tell them the same thing.

6.  When your child is playing with other children, park your ass on the bench and watch.  Play on your phone.  Yack at the parent next to you.  If your kid wants you, they know where you are.  Where they don’t want you?  Up their ass on the play structure.  Seriously.

7. Let them solve their own shit sometimes.  Like when Destroyer can’t reach something on the other side of the table, I’m not getting up to grab it for her anymore.  She can figure out to walk around to the other side, and retrieve her heart’s desire her goddamn self once in a while.  And if she can’t figure it out, she will have to learn to cope with frustration and disappointment sometimes, won’t she?

Now, before some of the crazies out there jump all over MY tits and start calling me apathetic in regards to my child, know this:

I love my child fiercely.  God help the motherfucker that ever tried to lay harm on her, they would know what it means to regret something.  But how can she learn to be independent if I am there spooning every single thing in to her?  How can she grow up to be her own person?

I want her to experience some things in life on her own terms.  And if I do my job right, she will have the decision making skills and confidence to be safe and smart and brilliant.  And my hope is that she will come back to share her experiences with me because she knows that I am always waiting for her, supporting her and cheering her on, even when I’m not up her ass, prodding her along.  I want her to know she can do it on her own, even though she’s not on her own.


Top Ten Reasons My Kid Is On Team Awesome

Yes.  That's a leash.

Yes. That’s a leash.

1.  She’ll eat just about anything.  Except for brussel sprouts, because they’re round and she finds that confusing.  Rounds things are projectiles, right?  She also thinks they taste like shit.

2. She’s not a waster.  Yesterday we dropped some popcorn on the floor at the community center.  She helped me pick them up and kept right on eating them.  She tried to get them out of the garbage, but couldn’t reach.   She could solve world hunger.

3. She can sing louder than most adults.  And by sing, I mean express her displeasure at something by screeching at the top of her lungs in a cat-Mariah Carey hybrid style.  On the bright side, her husband will never have to guess how she feels about something.

4.  She’s kind.  She even ties to pat bugs.  Once bitten, twice shy?

5. Her hair makes it look like I accidentally had a baby with Albert Einstein.  Brushing it does no good.  One less thing to do every day.

6.  She kind of laughs like Eddie Murphy.

7.  She is easily distracted with a game of UP/Down or Hello/Goodbye.  Keep it simple, right?  As in, keep the child simple.

8.  She’s afraid of loud noises.  Which gives me an effective out when it comes to vaccuming, blowdrying my hair or fixing shit around the house.   I’m glad she supports my choices.

9.  She is so fucking hilarious that we sometimes wonder if she’s a bit touched.  And so awesome that even if she was we probably wouldn’t care or even notice.

10.  Yesterday, before climbing on to ride her unicorn, she put it’s horn in her mouth.  Porno style.  In front of her Daddy.  The fact that his heart is still beating tells me she is capable of small miracles.

She’s my favourite miracle.  I love that fucking kid so much I could burst in half some days.

Hey Mike Jeffries, Try Banging A Fat Chick!

Oh Boy.

This could almost be a Hot on the Titties subject.   Any Abercrombie & Fitch fans out there?  Did anyone see this article making the Facebook rounds this morning?  You should read it.

It turns out that Mike Jeffries, the CEO of A&F seems to be a bit of an asshole.  “What’s that?!”  You must be shouting in complete disbelief. The CEO of a company an asshole?  How could this be interesting enough to write about on a Wednesday morning?

It turns out that he’s not just a simple, greedy bastard like most.  He is in fact willing to give up a lot of potential sales  by eliminating at least 25% of the population from his marketing strategies.  Now, all brands are going to have a certain demographic that they sell to.  This is not a big deal either.  What makes him a jerk is his public declaration and outright loathing of fat people.  To the extreme, I might say.  Nothing in the A&F store is above a size 10 for ladies.  Size 10!  Omg.

So.  Here’s the thing.  It’s his company and he can do whatever he wants.  Obviously his marketing strategy has worked, because he is outrageously rich and successful.  He might be an asshole, but his reasoning is brilliant.  Because you know what?  When you’re in high school, the biggest desire of 99% of the kids is not to get good grades, get into a good college, and become a better person.  The biggest desire is to be popular.  To be a part of that exclusive club where you can do whatever you want socially because somehow you are at the top of the social food chain.

Jeffries has brilliantly created this exclusivity to his brand that makes the cool kids wear it.  Good for him.

But sit down on my couch, Mr. Jeffries, and let me take a guess at what your childhood was like.  I suspect there are two most likely situations.

A)  You were one of the popular kids at school.  You were maybe good at school sports, reasonably good looking and very cocky.  You probably never had a real girlfriend that you cared about because you were too shallow to give a shit about her personality.  Your popularity was your only redeeming quality, because you didn’t have any real talents or strengths.  You had nothing in your life that made you feel special other than being popular.  Protecting your exclusivity became your highest priority, so no one would ever find out what a douchebag you really are.

B)  You were a total loser in school.  Maybe you were too fat for nice clothes.  You had good grades, but never had a girlfriend because girls wouldn’t give a loser like you the time of day.  You longed to be part of the in crowd. You vowed one day that you would be in charge of your own shit, and make up your own rules.

So what now?  Do we call for a boycott of A&F because Mike Jeffries doesn’t like fat people?   He can manufacture and sell whatever product he wants.  And maybe he’s right.  Maybe the only thing that makes his brand different from other jeans companies is that he will only accommodate a certain demographic.

Maybe he’s making all this shit up for some press.  Maybe it doesn’t matter.

You know what I think?  I think Mike Jeffries should fuck a fat chick.  A solid size 12 even.  I wonder if we could bring him over to the dark side then.  Cause maybe he just doesn’t know what he’s missing.

It’s like sushi.  The thought of eating raw fish before you’ve ever had it is sort of mortifying.  And then once you try it for the first time, you’re totally hooked.

So if you suddenly see sizes 12 and up in and Abercrombie & Fitch store, you’ll know we got to him, girls.




For The Love Of Money



Let’s talk money today.  I love money.  I don’t actually have a lot of it, I don’t know that much about it, and I’m too lazy too figure out all the complicated crap.  That’s why I have an accountant.  I keep my rules simple, and they seem to work pretty well.

Living paycheck to paycheck is commonplace these days, I think.  Instead of having a cash reserve for emergencies, we tend to have credit cards for emergencies.  I guess it depends what kind of emergency we’re talking about.  There are so many bills to pay…..mortgage, car loan, students loan, line of credit, utilities, groceries, kids activities, vet bills.  The list is endless.  Every penny is spoken for.  It’s hard to budget.  Right?

I don’t know.  I mean, your salary is what is is, right?  You have X amount of money to spend in any given period and its your problem to allocate it as necessary.

That’s no different than a generation or two ago.  When most families were single income, and had more children.  So what’s different?  Why does it feel like everyone is struggling to make ends meet these days?

I think there are a couple of things different.  One, things cost more.  Duh.  But we also make more, and have two incomes now.  So whatever.

Two.  Everything costs more when you add interest to it.  We have become a credit relying society.  Nobody knows how to save up for shit anymore.  We see it, we want it, we whip out a credit card without a second thought.  Guess what?  Now that item just cost 12.9 % more.  Or 18 % percent more, or whatever your interest rate is.  When you have to pay cash for something, it hurts more to part with your money.  For reals.

Three.  We have blurred the line between want and need.  I think if we looked really hard at our expenses, we would find a way to trim the fat.  I look at our bill for phone/internet/cable and think to myself holy shit.   We could seriously pay for another new car with what we spend on mindless entertainment every month.  For reals.

I guess what spurred my post this morning was this article on http://www.msn.ca; a slideshow on 10 ways to get out of debt.  The advice is nothing new.  Consolidate, only use credit for emergencies etc.  But maybe they missed out the most obvious thing. Maybe they need to spell it out a little clearer.  Don’t spend what you don’t have.

And by not spending what you don’t have, I mean including in your monthly expenses a donation to your savings account, or sock under the bed, or coffee tins under the counter.  Or all of the above.  Predict your future.  Because in your future, your roof will leak, your furnace will go, your car will die.  One of you might lose your job.  Could you get by?

We have a couple of unwritten rules in our house.  The first is one major purchase at a time.  This excludes mortgage and car payment.  These will both plague us for the next ten years or so.  So if you just spent 5,000$ on a new living room, you aren’t allowed to do the bathroom until you pay off the living room.  What if your bathroom sucks?  I guess you should have prioritized better.  What if your bathroom start spraying water everywhere?  See emergency fund. 

The other rule is to ask ourselves if we would be able to pay our bills if one of us was working a minimum wage type job.  Would you survive if one got fired and had to take a job at McDicks until you found something better?  If the answer is no, I think you are stretching yourself too thin.

Anyway.  I’m no expert, but I think we can all make changes to our spending habits.  I mean everyone points to the banks and the rich people and blames their greed on the current state of the economics in the world.  But I think the truth is we are all guilty of the same thing.  We get used to a certain lifestyle and the thought of having to do with less is terrifying.  And while the rich people and banks and politicians are dirty and greedy and all of that, we are partly responsible because we decided our desire for more things outweighed our common sense.

And don’t get me wrong.  There are people out there who budget every cent and still struggle.  There are single parents who can hardly feed their kids.  There are families who work harder than you or I will ever know how to, and still come up short.  I am talking about the middle class.

So appreciate what you have, and don’t always have your sights set on something new.  Because sometimes something old will do.


There’s A Toddler Tapping On My Last Nerve

32 weeks.  That’s how many weeks I have spent so far growing this Little Buddy inside me.  Nobody told me how much harder the second pregnancy is.  With Destroyer I bounced around happily until the very end.  I had energy.  I got fat all over.  I felt tight.  I felt excited.

This time, I’m gaining all in the belly.  Sounds awesome, right?  Except it looks like I am carrying a goliath sized basketball under my shirt.  And all that pressure is on my bladder, and it feels like my vagina is working overtime just keeping him inside.  Sorry to bring up vaginas so early on a Monday, but christ.  

I’m slow.  I feel tired.  Everything is a real effort.  And by everything, I mean parenting my toddler.

Oh the toddler.  I blame her completely for my misery.  For being so awesome and beautiful and making me think babies were such a piece of cake.  And then this weekend happened.  The weekend I started to cut back on work because I feel tired and sore and all that shit,  but mostly because I simply don’t give a fuck anymore. Less time working meant I had way more time to spend with the Destroyer.   So more time working for free.

Friday: We decided to go to the mall.  Destroyer used to love the mall.  She’d happily sit in the stroller and watch all the things and all the people.  But now she gets antsy and starts acting like an asshole if she doesn’t get some time to run around.  So I thought we’d go hang out at the play area while Daddy finished up some shopping.

Great idea.  I get settled in to watch her happily run around, and realized that as she’s running, she’s puking.  In the play area.  Not sick puking, but Destroyer puking.  Because that’s how she rolls.  She’s a puker.  I can tell the difference, because if something is wrong, she’ll cry too.  She just coughed and gagged and up came her dinner.  Fucking great.

Now for this reason, I always have a change of clothes with me.  But the play area has nothing to clean it up with.  So I go to Customer Service and they call the cleaning staff and no worries, right?  I mean its a play area with kids, right?   To my surprise, the parents that were there were rude and haughty about it.  Gave me dirty looks.  Acted as if their child had never shit or spit up in public before.  Give. Me. A. Break.

Whatever.  It gave me great pleasure to send her back in, and watch them scramble to get their children out.  We actually had almost the whole thing to ourselves for a while.  As if were 1982, and she had AIDS or something.

So anyway.  We went home for bathtime.

And bathtime produced an enormous shit in the tub again.  For anyone who needs to know details about this glorious event, you read about it here, in Poopalooza.

Bedtime was a happy moment on Friday.

Sunday:  Sunday was what really got me down.  Destroyer whined her way through every fucking thing she did.  Or didn’t do.  Or wanted to do.  Or couldn’t do.  Incessantly.  Constantly.  She needed my attention and engagement at all times, and it was making me bitchy and tired.  I couldn’t complete a task.  I couldn’t go to the bathroom.  I couldn’t answer the phone. Or put the groceries away.  Or not pay attention to her for one goddamn second.  Unless we were outside.  Thanks God for outside.

And it was making me crazy.  And making me feel like I couldn’t keep up.  And worried for those days where Husband will be working and gone for like 14 hours and I will be alone with two children under the age of two.

And it made me feel like I wouldn’t be able to handle it.

Will I?  Will the three of us make it through every day?  Is it too early for postpartum depression?

So I gave in to my hormones and my frustration and I yelled at her.  Then I marched her up to her room and slammed the door, because I couldn’t listen to the whining cry for one more second.  Cause all of that helped.

Except you know what?  It totally didn’t.  And what made me feel like the biggest douche of all time, was when I opened her door two minutes later.  To her tear streaked little face, her sad eyes, and her arms reaching out to me for comfort.  To me.  When I was the one who caused most of her misery in the first place.

That kid has a lot of faith in me.  I hope she’s right.  Or the three of us are fucked this summer.

Locker Room Etiquette: Hot On The Titties Friday



Get it while it’s hot!

Hot on the Titties Friday.  Everybody’s favorite post of the week.  Today’s topic:  Hockey.

I know.  What the fuck?  I hate hockey.  Maybe I’m a shitty Canadian, but I can’t skate, I can’t play, I don’t know the rules, I find watching it boring, and it goes on forever and ever. 

But you know who I love? Don Cherry.  I. Fucking. Love. Don. Cherry.   He’s an opinionated, ornery bastard who gets it right even when it pisses you off.  I’d go 10 rounds in the sack with him just to listen to him bitch me out and tell me everything I’m doing wrong with my life.  ( Sorry Husband, but you know I would be powerless to the Don.)



So, when Don’s talking about something, I pay attention.  And this week, he sparked a few fires when he declared that women reporters should not be allowed in the locker room. This of course produced a whole lot of reaction from women in the media, newscasters and chit chat amongst everyday joe hockey fans.

Anyway, I had forgotten all about this controversial statement made by Mr. Cherry until Husband asked me about it over dinner last night.  It was a romantic moment for us because when the conversation turned to hockey I actually engaged him for real rather than my usual generic, humoring responses.  I’m an excellent wife that way.

“So do you think women should be allowed in locker rooms?”  He asked me.   I looked up from my pork chop.  ” No.  I don’t think anybody should be allowed in the locker room.  Unless you are a player, a coach, medical staff or trainer.”

I think he was surprised by my answer, but he decided I was right.  Of course I am.  I’m your wife, pregnant and haven’t had my ice cream yet.  Right by default.

This is also why.  I think a team needs time to debrief and wind down after a game.  They need time to shit, shower and shave before they can speak like human beings in front of a camera.  Give the poor assholes a few minutes to put their false teeth in and look presentable.  And give them some privacy, for crying out loud.

There is no “post-game commentary emergency” that requires interviews to be held by a sweaty , toweled mess of a man with a turtle head poking out.  Give the man a minute.

A locker room is a locker room.  It is a place for team bonding.  It’s a place for nudity.  It’s a place for privacy.   It doesn’t really matter if the reporter is a man or a woman, because the footage will be broadcast on tv anyway.  I mean they’ll edit out any junk that accidentally flashes across the screen but come on.

And what if men were in women’s locker rooms?  HMMM?  You’d be hearing a lot from the peanut gallery on that one I’m sure.  And if I were a woman trying to get my shit together after 3 hours of playing hard sports, the last thing I’d want is some jackass shoving a microphone in my face asking me stupid questions they already know the answers to while my tits are hanging out all over the place.

So as usual I agree with Don Cherry.  But he only got it half right.


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