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Tag: tequila

I’m Pretty Sure I Invented Mom Guilt, But You Can Share

A good friend of mine posted a little video about mom guilt on Facebook this morning. A bunch of mom’s talking about the things they could take back from the day, lies they told their kids, things they wish they hadn’t said.

And here I thought I invented Mom Guilt.  Turns out that deep down, a lot of you Bitches feel like you suck balls at this gig too.

I suffer from this guilt thing a lot.  Husband works long days, and by the end of his rotation I usually feel ready to either sell my children to anyone who likes repeating themselves over and over again with no results, or literally filling the bathtub up with tequila in hopes that is a pleasant way for me to drown.

In this stupid day and age of being hopelessly busy and being pulled in 5000 directions at once, I simply cannot deal with the amount of time it takes my children to accomplish one task. Why is it SO HARD to put your fucking shoes on?   Why is that always the wrong hat?  Why can they not pay attention for long enough to put on their jacket and for GOD”S SAKE how come nobody can stand straight and face me when I try to zip it up?

Sometimes I cannot handle the random crying and drama that occurs seemingly every second without justification.  The fights about nothing.  The tattle-taling.  The whining.  The constant needing.  The mess making.

The pants shitting.

And so I do what every mother out there has done for generations.

I yell.  I threaten.  I punish.


Besides feeling horrible and making them feel horrible, that is.  I also get one step closer to needing therapy and detox and a new liver.  But that’s a whole other post.

And then I put them to bed and think “Tomorrow is a new day.  A better day.  I will be more patient and try to spend more time just hanging out with them.  All they really want is more attention.  I can do this.”

And then, the next day happens and I am so busy feeding them and cleaning up after them and doing laundry and working that time runs out again and I left with the mom guilt for another day. I never, ever, ever, feel like it’s enough.  Like I’m enough.

Thankfully, every now and again, we have a day where everything goes just right.  I put all my bullshit aside and focus just on them.  I say “yes” more often.  I let the schedule go.  I let the dishes sit.  I make all the things that are usually such a big ass deal no big deal, and just fucking let it stay where it is. We stay up past bedtime.  We get dirty and eat junk food and just never mind about all the things that really aren’t that important after all.

And it’s all ok.  Everybody is still alive the next day.

So far.

And then I feel guilty that I don’t do all that more often.

But you see Bitches.  Mom guilt is just this thing that happens when you love something so much that you set up this impossible standard for yourself.  It’s when you love something so much you can’t possibly ever do enough because there is no action that could ever possibly declare just how much you actually love it.

We will always have mom guilt because we won’t ever be done trying to give our children every single thing they need to be nice humans and smart humans and happy humans.  We have the mom guilt because even though children need to be corrected, and moms are allowed to get frustrated, we don’t want our kids to ever for one second think we aren’t on their side.

We feel guilt because we want more for them than is possible to give.  So we never feel like it’s enough.

So, chin up Bitches.  Tell a few lies that helps to avoid a temper tantrum.  Yell at them when they are assholes, because sometimes love involves teaching them that being an asshole is not a desirable endeavour. Drink the wine and vow to love them JUST AS MUCH TOMOROW  as you do today.  Not more, because that’s hardly possible.

And have a “free day” sometimes where you just lower your expectations and give yourselves a goddamn break.






I Don’t Want Your Kid To Be An Asshole, I Just Want To Know That Mine Are Normal



Honest to GAWD, you guys.  I cannot take any more of this whine until Mommy loses her shit crap.  Or my mind.  Or my fucking marbles.

Why is it that a (almost) 5 year old’s preferred methods of communication include whining and high pitched screaming.  Don’t forget the waterless tears, because those are my absolute favourite.

I’m not gonna lie.  Yesterday was rough.  There was nothing that got accomplished in this house until the volume of my requests were full out screaming at my children.

It was so rough, that when the bottle of tequila started making sexy eyes at me in the middle of the afternoon, I didn’t ignore his cat calls and tell him not in front of the children.  I made the eyes back.  I fantasized about wrapping my full lips around the neck of the bottle, and taking all of him back.  Every last drop.

Thanks God for fantasies.  They get you through the day.

Despite all the shitty behaviour, and a rainy day where no outside time was really  possible, I gave them one job:  Behave yourselves at the grocery store, and we will visit Dollarama for some crafts.

But oh no, that was just was too high of an expectation.  They couldn’t act like normal humans for 40 minutes.

I seriously just wanted to zipper their mouths shut and tie them to the rocket cart they were driving.  It was horrible.

I didn’t even wait until we got home to yell at them.  I let ‘er lose right there in the truck,in the parking lot.

I just want to feel for one day that I am raising children that will be respectful, obedient human beings.  That I am teaching them the behaviours they need to learn so that they will succeed at school or work.  That they will realize you have to earn things in this life, and they will remember that assholery only gets you so far, and then it all falls apart.

I just want ONE DAY where I feel like I am respected in my own home and that my efforts are recognized by them.  Sometimes they just act so un-appreciatively, and it makes me so sad that they don’t realize how hard I try to make their life awesome.

When someone is always crying or complaining, it sure makes you feel like you are doing a shit job.  And I wonder if every parent out there feels the same way.

So, do you?  Feel like you never get it right that is?

That’s where Tuesday left me, Bitches.  Tell me you’ve been there and that it changes.






Surviving The First 5 Years And Making A Bucket List



So not that I plan on dying anytime soon, but I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how the days seem to drag on, but the months fly by.  And then I think that my Twee Destroyer isn’t so Twee anymore.  Almost five years have passed since I grew that beautiful little devil and brought her wrath upon the Earth. Her wrath of charm and beauty and door slamming tantrums and the ability to maintain adorableness through ever second of it.

And I also thought how us grownups are slowly but surely starting to gain a little more freedom as the kids get older, at least in the sense that I can hire babysitters more often and feel ok about it.  They looooove babysitters.

And so do I.

Sometimes I feel bad about going out without them after we already spend so much time working, but you know what?

I’m starting to get over that.  What I’ve realized is that the first 5 years of a child’s life are the most trying thing you will ever go through.  It is physically, emotionally and mentally exhausting.  Everything about me is tired. I have one hair on my head that is so fucking tired that it can’t even stay brown.  One hair that just says “fuck it” every couple of days and turns silver.

It is also infinitely rewarding to see little bits of your influence and guidance sneak out of your babies when you least expect it.  The word “fuck” notwithstanding.  Somehow, by the grace of all things holy, my kids don’t swear.  Yet.  But when they do go to school, at least they’ll be able to use those words in proper context.

Anyway, I kinda feel like the first 5 years are like baby bootcamp.  Or like Basic Training in the army.  You spend 5 years deep in the trenches of shit with the purpose of wearing you down and making you capable of handling anything that comes your way in the later years.  You keep thinking “If I was able to do that on 4 hours of sleep per week, I can handle anything.”  And maybe I will and maybe I won’t, but at least I’ll be sleeping better.  There’s that.

So maybe I’m just foolish, but I’ve been making a bit of a bucket list of things I want to accomplish for myself, once my offspring are safely in the care of a teacher, 5 days a week, 6 hours a day.  6 hours!  Every single day!  That’s almost how long it took me just to get Destroyer dressed yesterday!  What will I do with 6 hours every single day?

I have a few years to plan still, but here is my list:

  1. Run a 10k. For reals, just to say I fucking did it.  I feel like this is a goal I can accomplish in the next year.  I’ve always wanted to do this.  Also, good preparation for zombie apocalypse.  Cardio.
  2. Get back in the saddle.  Literally.  I used to ride horses 2 times a week in my late teens/early twenties.  I miss it so much.
  3. Finally learn to play piano for real.  With actual practice.  Without interruptions.
  4. Watch Dr.Phil everyday.  Because trash tv is my vice of choice.  After tequila.  And wine.  Ok, it’s #3, but still important.
  5. Go on a hunting or fishing  trip.  Kill the things, eat the meat.  Beat my chest and drink beer with the boys.
  6. Go to New York City.  Without my children.  Grandma??
  7. Take a course.  Something totally different from what I do now.   Maybe switch careers, maybe just learn to do something new.  My brain needs stimulation!
  8. Drive the West Coast from Vancouver to San Francisco.  Because, wine country!
  9. Have a date night with my hubby every single week.  Every week, because think of it like back pay for the first five years.  Right?
  10. Nothing.  Do absolutely nothing but sit in bed and watch movies.  Eat junk food.  Order a pizza.  Sweat pants.  The best ever.

So, Bitches?  Do you ever fantasize about what you’ll you once your kids go to school?  Is this all just wishful thinking?

How did life change for you after the first 5 years?

Tell me your things, send me your lists!

G Is For Gin. One Letter Away From Win.


Some of the bloggers I know are doing this A-Z challenge, where everyday they use the next letter of the alphabet as their inspiration.  Today is “G” day.

And no.  As much as I love them, “G” isn’t for grandparents.  Or greatness.  Or Grand Canyon.

Bitches, “G” is for gin.

With it’s juniper aroma and delicious and versatile flavour, gin and I go waaaayyyy back.  For a time it was definitely my drink of choice until I whored myself out to tequila in my post birth years.

Gin is what got me into trouble, and tequila is how I’m coping with the aftermath of it.

Here is what gin means to me:

  1. Gin in a martini.  3 olives.  Very dry and the dirtier the better.
  2. Gin in a Caesar.  Don’t judge that until you’ve tried it, and then you will never go back to vodka.
  3. Gin straight out of the bottle before you go out to a club for the night.  Because it’s cheaper than drinking at the bar and then your party is already started when you get there.
  4. Ultimate panty remover.  Gin played a large role in the conception of my children. If you lean in really close, you will catch the faint scent of a pine forest in their hair.
  5. Provides some of the worst hangovers ever but it leaves a faint minty taste in the vomit.  FYI.
  6. Straight gin in a dark room after finally getting a screaming baby to sleep after a really rough day.
  7. Supposedly helps with the taste of a man’s love juice.  I heard from a friend.  I wouldn’t know because I am not a dirty whore.
  8. That I can remember.
  9. Gin Cassis martini.  JUST.DO.IT.
  10. Gin is one letter away from Win.  Losers don’t like gin…remember that when picking your friends.


Now unfortunately, I don’t drink gin much these days.  Much as Buddy ruined seafood and ketchup for me while on the inside, I haven’t been able to rekindle my relationship with gin since giving birth to him.  BUT, it took years for me to eat shrimp again, and I can report that I am gloriously pouring ketchup all over my eggs and fries and pancakes (that’s a whole other post) again.  So I have high hopes of a new relationship the G-Man, built on a solid foundation that will come back stronger than ever.

Until then, I will maintain my whore like affair with tequila, because everyone needs a little mexican in their life at some point.

What does “G” mean to you?


Wine Is Way Better Than Jogging

Every time I consider giving up drinking wine I casually reminisce about the week I’ve had and all the retarded things my kids have done.  Then I reconsider and go to the Liquor Store.

There’s rarely a problem that wine can’t fix.

And YOU.  Stop fucking judging me, because 10 million other mommies out there feel the same way.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not an alcoholic or anything. At least I don’t think so.  I have usually 2 glasses with or after supper.  It doesn’t affect my ability to parent or do my job. I rarely ( if ever) drink to excess. I’m not hungover in the morning.

But the thought of giving it up sucks.

It’s kind of like asking someone to give up jogging.  They jog every day.  They’re not sore after.  It takes their stress away.  It makes them feel happy. Jogging doesn’t interfere with their life, but they look forward to it every day.  If they accidentally jogged too much one day, they would pay for it the next day.  Everything has it’s price.

But you know what?  Wine is way better than jogging.  And some days, a shot of tequila is really nice too.  Like on Sundays, when Bestie is here and both kids are finally in bed.

So you can jog or do yoga or whatever, and I’m gonna do shots of tequila on Sunday night because last week the Destroyer climbed a tree and caught a fucking bird.

You read that right.  She’s playing in my parent’s backyard when I hear this horrible screeching sound.  I look over and my almost 4 year old has climbed a tree and is slowly crushing a crow to death with her bare hands.

“LOOK!  I think he likes me!”

Jesus Christ.  Some wine would’ve been nice right then.

I drink wine because my Buddy is going through this cute phase where he tries relentlessly to murder himself.  While playing in traffic is his number one priority, he’ s also into drowning and throwing himself off tall objects.  Almost two year old boys are complete fucking maniacs.  Maybe he should do the jogging, and burn off some of the crazy.

And in all fairness, it’s not just my children’s fault.

Having a job is nice because I can afford to buy all the wine I need.  But the irony is that people are dicks too.  Not as much as toddlers, who are outright assholes most of the time, but they are full of drama and stupid behavior.   Sometimes having to deal with people who are over 5 feet tall is a real pain in the ass.

And you know what?  I am WAY wittier after a glass of wine, which makes making fun of people that irritate me that much easier.  Can jogging so that?  I don’t fucking think so.

So yeah.  I’d rather do my heart a favor in the liquid form.  And yeah  I guess I could have both, but I’m not a greedy person.  I take only what I need.

Bottoms up, Bitches.

10 Things That Could Make Me Give Up Sex For A Year

So I was farting around on msn.ca this morning, and came across this lovely short article about how a large amount of women would give up sex for a year if it increased their well-being.

And I thought, how is this news?  What kind of researcher would make this, of all things, the focus of their research?  Why didn’t they make it more entertaining?

Because Bitches, ( and no offense Husband) I can almost always be bought if the price is right.  And so, here is my top ten things I would give up sex for a year for:

1.  A few million bucks.  Hell,  one million bucks.  Dollars, that is. Nothing with antlers.

2.  Lifetime unlimited supply of alcohol.  Duh.  One year of celibacy versus a lifetime of free tequila drunk sex?  Giddy up.

3.  A dragon that doesn’t eat goats. (no I’m still not over it…see yesterday’s post.)

4. A potty training magic fairy.

5. A temper tantrum fixing/prevention/diffusing magic fairy.

6. A law against stupidity and assholery among the general public.

7. A full nights sleep where I wake up when I’m not tired any more.  ( See you in 2015)

8. Ok.  I’ll settle for a nap.

9.  Somebody, anybody who will take away Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber and make them stop being a thing.

10.  Just one more Buddy. One more….. as long as # 4 and 5.


How about you, Bitches?  What would convince YOU to give up sex for a year?

Monday Blues In The Land Of Eternal Winter



I don’t have anything inspiring, or newsworthy or really all that interesting for you this Monday.  I’ve been up since the crack of way-too-fucking-early, and have some work stuff on my mind that feels overwhelming.

I feel a little bitchy.  I feel a little panicked.  Because helloooo third trimester.  There is nothing prepped for Little Buddy.  The Destroyer is not in her big girl bed.  The walls are dirty.  And I just sneezed three times.  And all you pregnant or have-been pregnant girls out there know what that means.

So this is going to be a therapeutic, mind clearing whine session.  It has no direction, and is nothing but a complete waste of your time.  Maybe I’ll get a few “hell yeahs” or something, but really, I don’t expect my readership to rise today or anything.

I fucking hate lazy people and stupid people.  And to be honest, I am so tired lately that I feel like I am becoming both of those things.  And then I start to feel like I have a million things to get done, but don’t have the energy to get them done.  Then I don’t sleep well, and the cycle continues.  Anyone up for a bottle of tequila yet?

It is April the fucking 8th today.  It snowed here last night, and there is snow forecast again over the next few days.  And it is seriously pissing me off.  Can’t it just be over yet?  Can’t I just let my kid go outside without dressing her for eternal winter?  We had dinner reservations last night and I could not find a pair of leotards that fit over my enormous belly.  And the thing that really pissed me off about it was that I shouldn’t even have to wear leotards this time of year.  Please just someone who is about to die take this rant up to the Good Lord above.  Remind him that there are FOUR seasons in this shithole.  Not winter, sortawinter and fall.

Do you know what happens when you let a baby consume copious amounts of Pasta Fagioli soup from the Olive Garden?  It makes for one happen baby.

And the next day it makes for explosive diarrhea  and red bums.  Just when I was bragging to someone that we never had to deal with a diaper busting shit, karma came around a roundhouse kicked me in the balls. But I guess it could have been worse.  She could have had it in the tub.

My finger tips are getting more and more numb as each week passes.  And there is 12 weeks to go.  It feels like trying to do everything with mittens on.  Which is convenient, because I live in eternal  winter.And while pregnancy is busy turning you into Jabba the Hut, brace yourselves because it’s not done with you yet. It also makes your ass hurt.  So you’re too tired and sore to stand because your back and hips hurt, but also too sore to sit.  Donut, anyone?   Or can I offer you a pack of stool softeners?  How about a C-section?

The Destroyer says “mama” 1800 times a day now.  Especially when she doesn’t want to do something.  It’s almost accusatory.  Like ” don’t put me to bed, I need you mama.” How about we interchange the mama and dada in those whining situations, kid?  Since you’ve been gleefully saying that word since about birth.  I get it.  My name is for whining, his name is for good times.   If anybody needs me, I’ll be in my snow fort outside until June when the snow melts,praying I go into labour so that I can open the bottle of gin I’ll be caressing for the next 12 weeks.

Anyway.  That’s my Monday.

Wanna Come Over For a Glass Of Wine? My Kid is Having a Tantrum.



Anyone who currently has, or has raised a toddler is all too familiar with one thing:  The tantrum.  Anyone who claims to not have a toddler who freaks out spontaneously and makes you want to guzzle tequila on a daily basis is either  total fucking liar, or has like 17 nannies who deal with this shit for them.

If you fall into the latter category, please stop reading.  Actually just go away.  I want my misery to have some company, and I don’t need any  bitch from Superior Land to tell me all the reasons why I am facilitating this and blah blah blah.  There are enough things that are my fault, and plenty of opportunities for me to fuck up my kid coming in the next few years.

So yeah.  The tantrum.  I’m going on the assumption that the mechanics of a tantrum are all pretty similar.  Toddler wants.  Toddler doesn’t get.  Toddler freaks out.

Sound about right?

If your kid is anything like mine, there are degrees of tantrum too.

Let’s start with a first degree tantrum.  These are usually short lived.  Notice I didn’t say mild.  There is no such thing as a toddler doing this shit half assed.  Tantrums are always intense, but it’s the duration and side antics that define the level. No?  For example, yesterday our internet was being retarded.  As in the actual meaning of the word retarded.  Delayed. Slow.  Not loading Baby Einstein in a millisecond.  That’s all it took for the Destroyer’s yogurt to go flying across the room during breakfast.  All over the floor, the wall, the chairs, everything.  Not to worry, my furry clean up crew was on it.  Then I noticed one of the dogs was covered too.  Who the fuck is going to clean that?  Oh and yes, my kid watches tv during breakfast.  Blow me, super mommies across the world.  However, once I got the damn thing loaded, the Exorcist left, and my angel was back.  First degree tantrum.

Second degree tantrums.  This usually happens when something that needs to occur interferes with her agenda, or interrupts whatever little magic she is creating at the moment.  At our house, these often include trying to dress It.  My offensive behaviour usually starts by requiring It to not be naked.  This is a major issue.  I don’t care much about the nudity, but I care about piss on the furniture.  At least put a diaper on.

Anyway, a second degree tantrum will often result in a “limp baby”.  “Wanna interrupt my nakedness, motherfucker?  Wanna interrupt me playing with the thermometer?  My teddy bear has a temperature and you are wrecking my fun!”  So at this point, her body will go limp, making it impossible to carry her, let alone get her feet into those fucking onesie pajamas.  And if you do happen to get a foot in, it will promptly be removed by the time you attempt the other side.

Third degree tantrums.  These suck.  They last forever.  They make you consider having your tubes tied, or becoming celibate forever.  The child is completely inconsolable.  You are inconsolable.  And this is what you do to solve it: Not a goddamn thing.  The third degree tantrum is nothing but a power struggle.  Who will give in first?  Not me.  NO fucking way.

This usually happens when It wants something, and I say no.  It involves her throwing herself on the floor.  It involves a whole lot of noise and a whole lot of time.  My suggestion?  Get some earplugs, and open a bottle of wine.  If you give in, It will subconsciously remember  that it works, and will use this tactic later in life.  You will pay for it.  Stand firm, the third degree tantrum is annoying but it is a metaphor for the teenage years.  Prepare yourself.

Oh and then there is the little gem, the Public Tantrum.  This is the one that really makes you think about selling your kids.  At what point do you just say “fuck it” and leave your full cart of groceries in the aisle?  At what point do you box your food to go and hightail it out of the restaurant.  First degree? Second?  I think that you can manage until third degree, because that is the one you can’t fix.

Anyway, it is a joyful time in our household.  Blizzards.  Tantrums. Another baby.

I better make certain the bar is stocked for summer.  Oy!

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