Wednesday, October 5, 2011

STOP with the Mommy Martyr Routine

The other day I happened to read a blog post that, frankly, pissed me off.  Let me give you the Cliff's Notes version:

I don't need "me" time because I get all my fulfillment from my children.  I would much rather spend an afternoon wiping butts and noses than sipping lattes and gossiping with my girlfriends.  I can't imagine taking an entire HOUR away from my precious nubbins just so that I could get a pedicure or have my eyebrows waxed.  In fact, I find that the best "me" time is when I'm tandem breastfeeding my eight-year-old and five-year-old and can stare into their eyes and daydream about their futures.

Are you wearing your 'WTF' face?

Yeah.  So was I.

I hate Mommy Martyrs.

Seriously.

I love my children.  They bring me so much joy in my life and I can't imagine not having them.  I enjoy spending time with them.  But guess what?  I also enjoy spending time without then.  Sometimes I like to spend time with my husband or chit chat with girlfriends or *gasp* even have FIVE EVER LOVING SECONDS all to myself.

Johnson & Johnson runs a "Having a Baby Changes Everything" advertising campaign.  And, you know, they're right. Having a baby really does change everything.  My life is so different than before I had children.  In addition to being just Brand, I'm also somebody's mother (three times over!)  Things that were important to me before are not as important now.  My priorities have changed.  I'm not entirely the same person but I'm more than just a mother.  In 2005, the year before I found myself pregnant for the first time, I was going out a few nights a week.  Now days I go out a few nights a year.  The point, though?  I still go out every once in a while.  Why?  Because I enjoy it.  Because it's fun.  Because every once in a while I like to be around other adults.  And having children did not magically turn me into a person who is much too old or mature or whatever else to enjoy having a drink and watching some white guy whose had too many try to do full on Michael Jackson on the dance floor.

Where did this perception that some women have, this perception that motherhood means completely and totally losing ourselves, where did it come from?  Why are there so many women who think they have to completely lose who they used to be in order to be a good mom?  And what happens to the children of these women?  Could you imagine growing up the child of a woman who was stuck up your butt since birth?  And what do these women do when their children are grown and out of the house and have lives of their own?  I have a feeling the Mommy Martyr Syndrome makes an empty nest all the more lonely.

The thing is -- I think most, 99.9%, of these Mommy Martyrs are lying.  For whatever reason, they can't - or won't - admit that they yearn for identity outside of their children.  And I think that's what pisses me off the most about women like that: they won't admit it then they turn to the internet and blog or Facebook a faux-perfect life.  And, in the process, try to make other mothers feel shitty.  Maybe the younger mom who doesn't understand why a woman with four kids never needs a break while she can't WAIT until her one baby goes down for a nap so she can have an hour to herself to shower or catch up on recorded TV.  Maybe the soccer mom who loathes shuttling her kids from place to place and just wishes for a Happy Hour once every few months. 

Look, it's okay to want to spend time away from your kids.  It's okay to be fulfilled by things other than JUST your children.  It's okay!  Beyond that, I'm going to go so far as to say it makes you a better mother to have interests outside of your children.  Imagine for a moment if YOU were the only thing your husband was interested in.  Ever.  If all his time was spent with you.  Seriously?  How . . . creepy. 

As mothers, we're pretty much called to put our children first.  But that doesn't mean we have to put every single thing about our entire lives on hold.  I don't know what I'd do without my trips with my girlfriends.  I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't sit down at night and waste an hour pinning on Pinterest or catching up on things I've recorded on my DVR.  I don't know what I'd do if I had no interests outside of my children.  That just seems like such a sad existence.  For mother and child alike.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Bribery: It Works

Little something I want to tell all you moms who are brand new at this whole jig.

(My disclaimer I put in every post: I've been a mom for five years.  I really don't know shit. But I do know slightly more than I knew five years ago.  There ya have it).

Somewhere, along the way in your parenting journey, you'll stumble across people who act like "bribery" is a four letter word.  It is not (um, hel-lo, b-r-i-b-e-r-y.  It's a seven letter word.  Duh).  They will act like bribing a kid to be quiet in church or to finish their dinner is synonymous with giving them the go-ahead to commit a mass murder.

These people?  They are wrong. 

Bribery works, y'all.  And it works well.  Oh.Yes.It.Does.

Think about it like this: we convince adults to go to work and do something they really don't want to be doing for eight hours a day, five days a week by bribing them with the promise of a paycheck at the end of two weeks.  We bribe adults with the knowledge that they'll own a vehicle out right after making monthly payments on it for six years.  Bribing does not set kids up for entitlement.  It merely prepares them for responsibility.  And that's some real talk, y'all.

I started working on potty training K1 before his third birthday.  He did great.  Three days of sitting him on the throne every 15 minutes and - Voila! - he was going on his own, not having accidents, just merely being King of the Toilet.  Way to go K, way to go Mom.

Then.  For whatever reason, he regressed.  At least one accident a day.  Wanting to wear pull ups all day long (I'm not one of those who swears off pull ups -- but we only use them for nighttime and going in public until I'm 110% confident that we can go to Walmart without me having to haul ass to the bathroom and peel wet clothes off a tiny body).  I was frustrated, aggravated, irritated, agitated -- you pick the adjective that ends in -ated.

But.  When all else fails (or if you're smart just do it the first time) bribe.

We promised the kid he could pick out a new toy car if he could go a full week without having an accident.  And guess what?

He's the proud owner of a new car that he swears is Chick Hicks -- just in yellow -- and I'm the proud Mom of a kid who hasn't had an accident in three weeks.

Bribery.Is.The.Shit.

P.S. If you leave me a comment telling me your kid was potty trained in 15 minutes when they were 18 months old, I will punch you in the babymaker.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Small Town Southern Man

And he bowed his head to Jesus
And he stood for Uncle Sam
And he only loved one woman
He was always proud of what he had
He said his greatest contribution
Is the ones he'll leave behind
Raised on the ways and gentle kindness
Of a small town southern man


I don't remember who started it or when it started.  But every Christmas, PawPaw ended up with a bow on his head.  We have pictures - year after year - with a red bow or a partially smooshed silver one, maybe a green ribbon or something in shiny gold perched on top of Pawpaw's head.  As the years went by, his hair got thinner and he went from looking like the Pawpaw of our childhood to more like his own daddy, our Granddad.  But the bow.  It was always there.  Always.

My PawPaw passed away last Wednesday, the 10th.  He won't be unwrapping presents or eating ham with us this Christmas.  In fact, Christmas this year will probably be quite sad.  I'm hoping, though, as he's celebrating the birth of the Savior from his perch in Heaven, when he looks down on our celebration, that he'll have a bow on his head.  That is my favorite PawPaw memory.  That bow, that's how I always want to remember my PawPaw.

I'll remember bowls of ice cream or cornflakes for a night time snack. I'll remember dominoes played on an old piece of cardboard.  I'll remember helping pick up eggs and feeding the fish in the pond.   I'll remember all you can eat catfish.  I'll remember riding in an old pickup truck with the windows down and a dog in the bed as we went to pick up something from the feed store or the hardware store.  I'll remember fried fish and homemade ice cream.  I'll remember the "no Whammy, no Whammy, no Whammy!" show and westerns on the TV.  (To be honest, there are only a handful of things that I can ever remember being on my grandparents' TV: a gameshow of some sort, a western of some sort, Law & Order, the Cardinals, wrasslin', and . . . Howard the Duck.  It still makes me giggle when I think of how my PawPaw liked that movie).


My PawPaw was a great man.  Everyone who came to comfort us, grieve with us, and show us their love in the past several days has reiterated that over and over: "Dollen was a great man."  And he was.  He was a hard worker with an amazing and impressive work ethic.  He loved my grandmother fiercely and all he seemed to ever want out of life (other than perhaps a new llama or a set of peacocks -- both animals they  had on their farm at different points) was for my MawMaw to be happy.


We know our PawPaw is in a better place.  We know he is.  He knew he was going "home" and even let his minister know that he was ready.  He's with his parents.  His body is free of pain.  There is a lot of comfort in knowing we'll see him again one day.  But it's still sad.  It's sad that J may very well be the only of my children who remembers his PawPaw -- and his memories of him will not be strong and vivid.  It's sad that my grandmother lost her husband, who was once the boy she and her own Daddy picked up hitch hiking, of 59 years.  It's sad that such a great God-fearing, salt of the Earth man is no longer in this world.  It's just sad and it hurts and it sucks.

His legacy speaks for itself: three daughters, six grandchildren, ten great grandchildren, and a church full of lives he touched and people who loved him.  This world had him for 81 years.  He was my PawPaw for 31 years.  And while I wish we could have another decade (two, really, or perhaps even three.  Four?) with him, I realize how fortunate we were to have him as long as we did.  How fortunate we all were and are that he is our PawPaw and that we had him in our lives for as long as we did.

He said it's alright cause I see angels
And they got me by the hand
Don't you cry and don't you worry
I'm blessed and I know I am
'Cause God has a place in Heaven
For a small town southern man


Friday, July 29, 2011

A Mother's Prayer for her Daughter

A Mother's Prayer for Her Daughter
Tina Fey
Bossypants

First, Lord: No tattoos*. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not  the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half.  And stick with beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the nearby subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators**, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock N’ Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance.  Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes.  And not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the drums to the fiery rhythm of her own heart with the sinewy strength of her own arms, so she need not lie with drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.

Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, for childhood is short — a Tiger Flower blooming magenta for one day – and adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the internet forever. That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers and the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a bitch in front of Hollister, give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, for I will not have that shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 a.m., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck.

“My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a mental note to call me. And she will forget.

But I’ll know, because I peeped it with your God eyes.

Amen.

  * We won't say no tattoos less Mom is made into a hypocrite.  But: no cartoon characters, tramp stamps, dolphins jumping in a circle, or the name of anyone she does not give birth to.

** Let's add special emphasis to the "getting on and off escalators" for those things have always terrified me.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

How to be an Asshole on Twitter

I'm probably not the best person to write this post.  I've only been on Twitter for, like, two minutes.  And I have the dumbest Twitter handle ever.   I invent random hashtags. I have drunken Twitter parties with my girlfriends.

The fact that I just admitted to "drunken Twitter parties" makes me both an asshole and a loser.  #realtalk

However.

This one is pretty easy to write.  There is no long list of asshole-isms when it comes to Twitter.  There is just one:

1) Do anything Khloe Kardashian does on Twitter.
Now, here's the deal.  There was a time when I was sortakindamaybealmost a fan of the Kar-skank-ians.  In my defense, this was before Kourtney went to US Magazine and complained about being a size 2.  It was before Botox ate Kim's face.  And before Mama Kris decided to turn the little Jennerdashians into mini skank whores.

Through it all -- through the infamous sex tape, the Keeping Up, the Taking of Miami, and all the other E! spin offs, Khloe has always been my favorite.

Always.

She's rude and crass and, I can't lie, the time Kourtney burned her vajanoonoo while waxing it was probably my favorite moment on any show that involved the Kar-skank-ians "taking" anything.

She's also not Kim.

I just like her.

So I followed her on Twitter.

Mistake.
Mistake.
Mistake.

Khloe Kardashian is a Twitter asshole.

For starters, she refers to her husband as Lam Lam.  The man is 31-years-old.  He's, like, 7'0 tall and plays for the friggin' (stupid ass hate them, hate them, hate them) Lakers.  I really - REALLY - doubt he appreciates being referred to as Lam Lam to her 3 million Twitter peeps.  Just typing Lam Lam makes me wanna punch her in the babymaker.

She also refers to all her Twitter followers as "dolls."  Which, I suppose, would be all great and fine IF SHE WERE A WAITRESS SERVING PIE TO MEN ON THEIR LUNCH BREAK SOMEWHERE IN MISSISSIPPI. 

She retweets EVERYthing halfway nice that's said about her.  Narcissistic, much?

Then, to top it all off, she tweets all.the.time.  Isn't she busy running a store or hocking jewelry on QVC or coming up with a mid-priced bedding collection for K-Mart?  HOW does she have time to tweet constantly?

Khloe Kardashian = Twitter asshole. 

Like I said, though, I'm no expert.  After all, I still follow Rob Kar-skank-ian.  And I even proposed to him for a friend of mine. 

Sometimes it's just more fun to be an asshole.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Never Say Never

Hi.
Me.
Back again.
With another post for brand new moms.

This is a very important lesson.  Please lean in and listen closely.  Are you ready?  These three little words should be adapted as the mantra for your parenting. 

Here we go: Never say never.

I realize I touched on this in How to be an Asshole Parent but it's just so vital and important and life changing that it deserves a post of its very own.

And here that post is.

"Never say never" can be broke into two parts:

Never say never about your parenting skills
and
Never say never about anything your child may or may not do

Let's start with the parenting skills.

Here's the deal.  Right now, you have that sweet-smelling, totally adorable, bald, beautiful bundle of joy.  And you also probably have all these ideas about parenting, and who you are going to be as a parent, running through your head.  The problem is, at this point, the toughest thing you've been through is either labor or a newborn ass-explosion all over the front of your favorite yoga pants.

Believe me when I tell you that neither of these can prepare you for having a toddler.  (And, though I don't even want to think about it, I'm pretty sure all the trials and tribulations that go along with having toddlers and asshole 4-year-olds can't even begin to prepare us for the teenage years.  Don't want to think about it.  Don't want to think about it.  Don't want to think about it).

Right now, you cannot imagine your 8 pound, 7 ounce bundle of love and adoration spilling hair dye on your carpet.  Pouring syrup all over the couch.  Cutting chunks out of their own hair.  Smearing poop on their bedroom walls.  Coating themselves in fingernail polish.  (Really, I could go on and on.  I'll stop now.   You're welcome).

Since you can't imagine any of those scenarios, you also can't imagine yourself yelling.  So you say it: I will never yell at my child!

I will never spank my child!
I will never lie to my child!
I will never fake diarrhea just so I can have 10 minutes to myself in the bathroom!

Never say never.  Because you never know what one of those little shits is going to do.

Now, onto the child end of the never say never equation.

I love it when people think they can say what another person - a person with, like, their own mind and emotions and thought process - is never going to do.

One minute you swear that your children will never wear light up tennis shoes or shirts with cartoon characters on them.  The next you're fighting with some heifer at the Disney Store over the last Lightening McQueen t-shirt in a size 4T.

And that's not even the really "serious" stuff.  I always roll my eyes when I hear people proclaim that their precious nubbins will never do something that every child since the beginning of time has done and will continue to do until the end of time. 

My child will never talk back to me.  Ha!
My child will NOT be a whiner.  Never.  Haha!
My children will never be brats.  Hahaha!

I have a friend who is a (former) stripper.  Once upon a time, I was hanging out with her and another of her (former) stripper friends.   They were both saying how their own daughters would NEVER grow up to be strippers.  My friends mom jumped into the conversation, "oh yeah, you say that now and then one of these days you find yourself sewing sequins on a costume."  Is there any better way to sum it up?

Never say never!

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Four Year Olds are Assholes

It's going to be an emotional day at my house.  My brother and his wife are stopping by on their way to Virginia.  Where they are moving.  You know, like, to live.  And, those assholes, they're taking my nephew WITH THEM.  We won't for definite sure see them until next summer.  So it's going to be a sad day.  That means I need to keep the mood light around here, right?

So let's do another "lesson" for new mothers/ expectant mothers/ hot ass 16-year-old girls who are lax with the birth control.

* Disclaimer: I am not trying to pass myself off as any sort of parenting expert.  I swear to you I'm not.  MY OLDEST CHILD IS FOUR.  You could fit what I know about parenting in a very small box.  And by "box" I mean envelope.  And by "envelope" I mean . . . well, something very small.

The funny thing about being a parent is, it's the easiest job you'll ever land.  No interviewing required, no passing the test of any committee, or producing a resume.  It's also the one job in the world where you can screw up constantly  - hourly, even - and still hold your position. All of that is pretty awesome - hello, no job interviews and job stability.  However, parenting is also the only job that you can NEVER, EVER be an expert at.  Even if you want to call yourself something dumb like "Tiger Mom" and write a book.  There are no experts when it comes to parenting.  None.

And I totally went off topic there.  The point of all this, the lesson in this one is: four year olds are assholes.

If you're a brand new, first time mom then odds are you are totally enchanted by your sweet little Nubbin.  You're entranced, you're in love, and you can't get enough of them.  Except . . . they're maybe, possibly just slightly a little tiny bit boring.  Oh, they're cute and cuddly and they snuggle right into your chest whenever you hold them.  But they pretty much just eat, sleep, poop, and cry.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  And you've probably found yourself thinking, "I cannot wait until this kid is, like, four and we can carry on conversations and play at the park and go to the circus and I can take her shopping."

Stop that train of thought and GET OFF NOW.

Four year olds are assholes, y'all.  I can tell you this from experience.  The "terrible two's" suck and the threes are worse but neither prepares you for the way they MAKE YOU WANT TO JUMP OFF A CLIFF with their ever lovin' attitudes once they round the corner and turn four.

It's really unfair, too.  Because everyone tells you how terrible the two's are.  And then you might hear a thing or two about the "trying three's."  No one ever speaks of how awful the fours are.  No one talks about the attitude, the back talk, the mouthiness, the know-it-all stage they go through.  They don't talk about it because it's just that bad.

Several of my friends and I have kids who were born in 2006. They're all four turning five.  And they're all assholes.  We refer to the collectively as the '06 Assholes.  At least one of them has done one of the following since turning four:

- bit off an entire toenail
- got a popcorn kernel stuck in their nose
- flushed a ringpop down the toilet
- took a razor to the hair (boy)
- took scissors to the hair (girl
- shaved a strip down the front of a leg (girl)
- smeared lotion on a TV
- smashed chapstick into the carpet and wall
- dumped a whole can of fish food into the tank
- consumed an entire box of popsicles on the sly
- played in Vaseline and stuck a penny to her face

All of these might be a little funny if they'd been performed by a 2-year-old.  Or maybe even a 3-year-old.  But by the time they're four, it's no longer cute and the little shit has just earned Asshole status.

And, believe it or not, everything on this list pales in comparison to the way they:

- cop an attitude
- whine
- cop an attitude
- don't listen
- cop an attitude
- talk back
- did I mention they cop an attitude?

Now, go snuggle your brand new little baby and be thankful they haven't reached "THE FOURS" yet.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Your Baby is not Cute

I'm no expert on parenting.  Believe me.  My oldest kid is only four (and a half).  Not that that really matters.  Parenting is the one thing that you can have 80 BAZILLION years of experience in and still know absolutely, positively NOTHING.  So I pretty much know nothing about parenting.  But that doesn't stop me from having a list as long as my arm - and yours - of things I would love to tell every single brand new mother out there.

Here's the first one.

Your baby is not cute.

I know.  You're ready to throw stuff at me.  Even those of you who have babies who are now in their 20's are shaking your heads and saying, "maybe your baby wasn't cute.  Maybe every other baby in the world was not cute.  BUT MINE WAS."

They are wrong.  You are wrong.  Your baby is not cute.

Your baby is precious.  Your baby is beautiful in the "oh em gee - THIS is what a missed birth control pill can do" sense.  Your baby is absolutely wonderful and amazing and awe-inspiring and possibly even breath taking.

But your baby is not cute.

Your baby is red-faced and wrinkled.  It may have a smooshed ear and a smattering of baby acne.  It inevitibly looks like the world's smallest angry old man when it cries.

Your baby is not cute.

You, Dear Mother, are blinded by love.  I know.  I've been there.  Three times. 

Your baby will be cute.  By the time they're six months old.  By then, they'll have developed an adorable layer of baby fat.  They'll grin, even when it's not gas.  They have just a smidgen of personality.  And 99% of them are cute just by virtue of the fact that they're a baby.  (The other 1%?  Well . . . bless their little hearts).

Trust me on this one.  You'll look back in a few months and realize just how right I was.  The proof is in the puddin':




Those babies, at birth, are beautiful.  Wonderful, amazing, and I would do anything in the world to hold them - at that size - just one more time.  Cute, though?  Notsomuch.

Monday, May 2, 2011

How to be an Asshole on Facebook -- Part Two

I posted this on my Facebook status the other day:

Do you ever see someone's status and feel the need to remind them that they're a middle class white girl from somewhere like Arkansas or Kentucky?

And judging from the comments I got, I figured it was time for another round of How to be an Asshole on Facebook.

Here we go!  Round Two!

1) Two words: Ghetto Speak.
Look, if your friends have to pull up Urban Dictionary to be able to discern what you're saying then, well, that makes you an asshole on Facebook.

2) FML.
Pretty much every abreviation from LOL to SMH earns you asshole status.  But, folks, FML should've gone out with 2009.

3) Using "FML" after you've BROKEN A NAIL.
(FML = F*ck my life)
If breaking a nail is the worst thing that ever happens to you in life then, well, please don't send me a friend request.  Kthanks.


4) Post EVERY SINGLE PICTURE from your recent trip to the beach.
This includes pictures of random parking garages, hotels you did not stay in, and road side rest areas.  Go on 'head and throw in those pictures of the interior of the airplane.  The ones you took for Great Aunt Bessie who never has been and never will be on a plane.  You know ALL your Facebook friends want to see those types of pictures.
(Side note: You can take pictures of whatever you want when you go on vacation.  Go for it!  It's the age of digital so you're not using one of your precious 24 shots on a roll of film to get a pic of the Waffle House.  BUT.  If you post that shit on Facebook then I reserve the right to make fun of your ass).

5) Two words: Family Drama.
If there's anything at all that'll make you the most popular asshole on Facebook, it's posting your family drama for all the world to see.  There's nothing quite like a good old fashioned cat fight between cousins.  And by 'old fashioned' I mean hashed out on a Facebook status for 480 of your nearest and dearest to 'like.'

6) Misuse the 'Tag' Feature.
My girlfriends and I have a rule when it comes to pictures from our trips: never tag anyone.  The surest way to lose a friend quick is to tag them in a photo where they look to' up from the flo' up.


7) When you're late for work, forget your doctor's appointment, or can't find  your child's shoes -- blame it on the president.
You hate him.  We get it.  Everyone on your friends list gets in.  You can hate him all you want -- it's the American way and it's your right.  But you're broaching on asshole-ness when you blame him for everything from natural disasters to not being able to find your car keys.

8) Update every 20 minutes just to let everyone know exactly what you're doing.
"Sitting here eating Cheetos and watching The Price is Right."
"Done eating Cheetos, now just watching The Price is Right."
"Still watching The Price is Right."
Everyone loves their feed to be overwhelmed by the mundaneness that happens to be your life.

9) Reveal the BIG ENDING of a show before it's had time to air on the west coast.
You know, every now and then the hubs and I toss around the idea of moving to California.  Other than the fact that I'm southern to the very core, I could not move west for fear that some a-hole would tell me who wins The Biggest Loser before I get a chance to watch the finale.

10) Be that Play-by-Play Poster.
EVERYone is watching the Grammy's (or the Super Bowl or this week's American Idol) so they probably already know what JLo's dress looked like, that #44 totally bobbled that pass, or just how much so-n-so butchered that Elton John classic.  They really don't NEED you recapping every single little thing that happens every 8 seconds.  But that doesn't stop YOU.  Asshole.

(Special thanks to my favorite whores for their ideas!)

Monday, April 18, 2011

How to be an Asshole Blogger

It's been a while since I've done an "how to" series.  I'm still working on part two of the Facebook series (and appreciate any feedback you might have on how to be an a-hole on Facebook).  So, in the meantime, we'll talk about how to be an asshole blogger. 

For the record, I am TOTALLY an asshole blogger.  I'm opinionated and rude and a little crass.  I never comment on other blogs (seriously, seeeeriously going to try to get better on that one).  I could go on and on.  But, it's okay for me to be as asshole blogger because I can admit it. 

Now.  Let's get this show on the road. 

How to be an Asshole Blogger


1) Try to be The Pioneer Woman  She's successful.  She's made a butt load of moo-lah off her blog.  She snagged a book deal (or two).  She's getting her own show on the Food Channel.  So, hurry and quick like take a bunch of pictures of your hubby's backside.  Talk about your butt puckering.  Post 18 photos of your dog in the exact same stance.  Totally steal her niche.  If it worked for her, it can work for the five million people who try to be just.exactly.like.her, right?
2) Give your husband a cutesy nickname.  Look, if he's between ages 25 and 35 then there's a 90% chance his name is either Brian, Matt, Michael, Jason, or Josh.  But, hey, gotta stay annonymous in the blogging world!  So go ahead -- the more nausea-inducing the better.  Shnookums.  Mr. Snuggles.  My Huggy Wuggy Bear. 

3) Lie. Your life is perfect!  Your kids are perfect!  Nothing bad ever happens to you.  You walk on sunshine and your world is full of unicorns that fart rainbows.  Not really.  But go on ahead and let everyone who reads your blog thing so, mmkay?  After all, no one can tell that all that extra sugar online is just to cover up for how much real life sucks.

4) Accept every single product pitch that comes your way.  Who cares if you have no need for Metamucil and Geritol?  It's FREE, ya'll!  You know your audience loves it when a "Mommyblog" turns into one big advertisement for mayonnaise, kettle corn, and wart remover.

5) Only accept comments that agree with you 100%.  Comments are what keep {most} bloggers going, right?  Well, nice, pleasant, and agreeable comments are what keep {most} bloggers going.  Turn on moderation and use that bitch!  Delete comments left and right.  One should only surround themselves with people who agree with them in the Bloggy world.

6) Use terms like 'Bloggy world.'  Self explanatory, ya'll.

7) Add a "continue reading" tab.  Everyone likes to take an extra step to keep reading your blog entry!  Especially if they  have a slow internet connection and have to wait for the page to load again.  Who doesn't LOVE that? 

8) Make people jump through hoops just to leave you a comment.  Make sure you're logged into Google.  Type this word exactly.  Hum the national anthem.  Stand on your head and recite your ABC's backwards.  TOTAL asshole status if it takes people longer to leave a comment than it did to read your entry!

9) Have music begin playing automatically when your page loads.  Extra points if it's a song that's a) annoying as hell or b) no one else knows.  Personally, I think I'll add something like "Who Let the Dogs Out" to my page so that you'll end up singing that for the 12 hours following every single visit to my blog.  ("Who Let the Dogs Out," "Hey Mickey," or the Hamster Dance?  Which is the most annoying?  And who will be humming the Hamster Dance for the rest of the day?)

10) Join ever "Follow Me" Meme on the Planet.  At least three per day.  Who blogs to actually, you know, talk about stuff?  Doesn't everyone blog just so they can somehow attract 8,000 followers and earn free samples out the wha-zoo? No need to bother actually putting up an actual with words blog entry when you can just hop on a Blog Train and Meme your way to four figures worth of followers.

** Can I also just add real quick, and on a more serious note, that there is one thing that absolutely does not make you an asshole blogger.  But it SHOULD get your ass kicked.  And that's posting nude pics of your kids.  I'm not talking about cute little baby bottoms (I'm talking newborn here -- the picture that everyone has taken of the naked baby in the angel wings and blah blah blah).  I'm not talking about kids who have no shirts on or kiddos in bathing suits or bath pictures with strategically placed bubbles.  What I'm talking about is pictures where you can see little girl parts or little boy stuff.  That's not okay and you deserve to have your ass kicked.  End of story.  And off my soapbox.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

No Bake Birds Nest Cookies

No Bake Cookies remind me of Vacation Bible School.  Back when I was a wee thing and did the whole offering-contest-at-Bible-School thing, it seemed like the snack was always No Bake Cookies served with red Koolaid.

They are such yummy cookies though.  And super easy to make.  A couple weeks ago, I was blog hopping and saw a No Bake cookie . . . with a Peep sitting inside it.  I thought "that is just the cutest thing ever."  We don't really care for Peeps though so I decided we'd make our No Bake Cookies into birds nests . . . using jelly beans! 

Didn't they turn out adorable?



Here's how we made them.

First off, what you need:

1 stick margarine or butter
1/2 cup milk
2 cups sugar
3 tbsp cocoa
3 cups oats (quick cooking)
3/4 cup peanutbutter
1 tsp vanilla
Jelly beans (I bought the "speckled" bird eggs)

Then what you do:
Combine margarine, milk, sugar, and cocoa in a large saucepan.  Bring to a boil and allow to boil for two minutes.  Remove from heat and add the oats, peanutbutter, and vanilla.

Drop onto wax paper by the spoonfull.  Push 2-3 jelly beans into each cookie to represent bird eggs.

Wait for the cookies to harden and enjoy!


Yummy!

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

White Girl Enchiladas

This recipe comes from my friend Casey.

Casey is from California. She has the most amazing eyes ever. And she and I are going to be old grannies together one day. Oh, and Casey once made love to a po' boy sandwich in a restaurant in New Orleans. But we won't talk about that.

This recipe came from Casey. She gave it to me several years ago and it was an insta-hit with my family.

These are chicken enchiladas so the recipe, of course, calls for sour cream. I used to claim to hate sour cream. Truth is I do hate sour cream. When it's just heaped on a baked potato or taco or something of that sort. But used as a recipe ingredient? Yes, please, and I'll have more of that thankyaverymuch. A certain man I am married to, however, is a different story. He refuses to eat anything if he knows it has sour cream in it. The first time I made these for him, he practically licked his plate. The second time, he caught me shoveling sour cream into it and claimed to not like them. *Facepalm* Please hide the sour cream if you have one of those at your house.

Here is what you DON'T need to make these: Two little boys who refuse to just stay.outside.and.play.for.half.an.hour.so.I.can.get.dinner.in.the.effin.oven.

Here is what you DO need to make these:
 Chicken, cooked and shredded (how much depends on how chicken-y you want them. I usually use one very large breast)
One can cream of chicken soup
8 oz sour cream
One can green chilis (Mmmm . . . I love green chilis . . . the bigger the can, the better)
2 cups shredded Cheddar/ Monterrey Jack cheese
Flour tortillas (at least eight -- I usually make ten)

Here is how you make these:

Preheat oven to 350. Combine chicken, soup, sour cream, chilis, and one cup of cheese very well. Heat on the stove until cheese is melted. Spoon mixture into flour tortillas and place in a casserole dish. Remember: these are enchiladas so, when you place them in the dish, they need to be alllll up in each other's koolaid. Keep 'em close! Pour remaining chicken mixture over top of rolled enchiladas. Top with remaining cup of cheese. They'll look a little sumpin' like this:

** I know that pretty much every recipe blogger out there tells you to shred your own cheese. But, well, convenience, dude.

Cover with foil, pop them in the oven, and bake for 20 minutes.


These.are.so.good. In fact, they're approved by 2/3 of my children. The lone dissenter only likes pizza, hotdogs, and chocolate milk (yeah, he's going to be the child who grows up to be a nutritionist) so his opinion doesn't count.


These taste great served with refried beans -- especially if you spoon some of that yummy chickeny/ cheesey goodness into your beans. Wanna know a quick and easy way to make canned refried beans taste better? Because, let's be real, I have three - sometimes four - kids. I don't have time to actually refry refried beans. Mix salsa with a tiny bit of brown mustard and just a pinch of brown sugar. Stir into the beans as they're heating and also add some cheese - cause cheese makes everything better - and they'll give your beans more of a kick. Yum!

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Cake Mix Cookies

My mom made cake mix cookies a lot when my buttmunch brother and I were kids. I don't think I've ever made them for my kids though. Mostly because cookies we make are usually of the slice-n-bake variety.

Wait. That's a lie.

The cookies we usually make are already perfectly formed into little cookie shapes. You just have to plunk 'em on a cookie sheet, slide 'em in the oven, and wait 8-10 minutes for Nestle Tollhouse perfection.

But these cookies are (almost) as easy. And they're really yummy! Especially when you take them a step further and . . . dip them in white chocolate. Oh yes. White Chocolate. Come to Mama.


** I would say the sprinkles are only optional. BUT, if you have kids then you know that sprinkles are never, EVER merely an option.

Here is what you need to make these cookies:
Cake Mix -- Any flavor, any brand (I used a Betty Crocker Devil's Food. Because it's what I had. Because we found them on sale months ago. Because it's sat in my pantry, tempting me, since it was found on sale months ago. It was time to go)
2 eggs
1/2 cup oil
Chocolate (Please, please, please use white chocolate if you're making chocolate cookies. I used some almond bark left over from months ago when we found those cake mixes on sale . . . )

And here is what you do:
Preheat oven to 350. Combine all ingredients and put your little people to work mixing.

Mix together well and then drop by the spoonful onto a well greased cookie sheet. Bake for 12-14 minutes. Remove from baking sheet immediately. While cookies are cooling, melt chocolate in the microwave. After cookies have cooled, dip them in the chocolate. You can do half of each cookie:


Or go for the whole enchilada and cover the entire cookie:


They taste good both ways but if you love, love, love all things sweet then go ahead and cover the whole cookie. Your mouth will thank you. Your waist line might not but, hello, you're baking cookies. You're not thinking about your waist!

Oh, and don't forget those sprinkles!

Monday, March 14, 2011

How to be an Asshole on Facebook -- Part One

I don't know about all of you, but social media (and Facebook in particular) has really made me realize how many of family members and friends are assholes. I started writing this post a month ago and it got so long and I kept coming up with so many "asshole-isms." I decided to break it up into two (or possibly three?) posts. I'm publishing the first one today . . . while the family and I are on the way back from our tiny little spring vacation. Enjoy!


How to be an Asshole on Facebook
Part One


1. Make your profile picture that one of you in Mexico for Spring Break. In 1999.Okay, people, look. Your college friends? They know what you looked like in college. They want to know what you look like now so they can either gloat over the fact that you've put on a few pounds or hate on you because they have packed on a few pounds.

2. Tag yourself in your own photos.
Unless the photos are circa 1991, were taken at a masquerade party, or you've had, I dunno, a face transplant odds are the folks on your friends list are going to know who you are in them. Unless you're pimping yourself out as You-15-years-ago. Then and only then, you might need to tag yourself. But it's still annoying.

3. Post nothing but Bible verses, song lyrics, quotes, or updates on your child's bowel movements.Preferably rotate the four of these and you'll be in, like, Ultimate Asshole Status. Early morning Bible verse, mid-morning song lyrics, lunch time quote, and just in time for dinner give everyone an update on what Junior did on the pot.

4. Like your own status.Nothing says "douchebag" quite the same as "liking" something that you yourself said.

5. Make a "like" page for . . . yourself.
Okay, so maybe one thing says "douchebag" quite the same as liking something that you yourself said.

6. Send friend requests to random females. When the inquire as to why you requested them, respond with something like "cause I wanna hit dat, shawty."
See also: How to Not Use Facebook to Get Laid

7. Js b sure 2 mk all ur status updts sumpin lyk dis.Unless, you know, you don't want people to be able to read them.

8. "Check in." When you're at home.
I really hope you don't have any Jehova Witnesses, Mormon missionaries, or bill collectors on your friends list . . .

9. Complain about every single tiny change Facebook makes.
Unless you've been on Facebook, oh, FIVE MINUTES then you know they change stuff around. All.the.time. Go with it. It's not like you, you know, PAY for the service.

10. "It's I Love My Chinchilla Week! Put this in your status if you love your chinchilla!" <=== Replace "chinchilla" with whatever and post every time one of these starts making the rounds.
You do realize that pretty much every week is son/ daughter/ husband/ wife/ mother/ father/ puppy week right? Right?

Monday, February 7, 2011

How to be an Asshole Parent

My first ever how-to post was all about getting pregnant*. So it's only natural that my next post be about parenting. Right? Well, I guess it would be more natural if my post was about labor and delivery but that would have to begin with something like, "go to the doctor and schedule your c-section" which would just piss people off. So maybe it's best that post waits for a little while.


How to be an Asshole Parent

** Please know that this is not a completely comprehensive list. It's a good starter on being an asshole as a parent but there are still many, many other ways to accomplish the job.

1) Claim to be or try to be an expert on anything.
Okay, here's the deal. You have a kid. That means the only thing you really know is how to make a baby. And, folks, most people learn that from either seventh grade Biology or a few good Judy Blume books. I don't care if you have one child or you have 20 of 'em, YOU.KNOW.NOTHING. (If you don't believe me then please feel free to spend a day with my two-year-old).

2) Make a statement like this one: "My kid will never ___________."The best way to raise a meth addict? Claim your kid will never be one.

3) Have a conversation like this one:
Other Parent: Potty training little Artie is SUCH A NIGHTMARE.
You: Really? Potty training my sweet, adorable, never does anything wrong princess Matilda was an absolute JOY. In fact, she was trained at eight months. We just made her go sit on the potty every time she finished her Math lesson. At that point, she was just on a third grade level but, you know, now . . . "
This is also a great way to never have friends with children.

4) Act like your children never, ever get on your nerves.
Look, your kids? They're people. They are people who spend a lot of time with you. They will get on your nerves. Remember that BFF you had the summer between fifth and sixth grade? Remember how you spent every waking moment together and you if you weren't sleeping over at her house then she was sleeping over at yours? Then sometime around the Fourth of July you realized how annoying it was that she took a deep breath every time after she laughed. Or you felt like if she mentioned Jimmy Clayton's name one more time you were going to effin' scream. And you discovered that a majority of the time she kinda smelled like dirty feet. Remember that? That is now who your child is to you. You love them. Adore them. Enjoy spending time with them. But, at some point, something they do is going to make you wonder why you ever had them in the first place.
If you claim that your children never get on your nerves then you're either a liar, an absentee parent, or you need to share some of the happy pills.

5) Have a perfect child.Hey, maybe your kid really is perfect. Wonderful for you. The rest of us don't want to hear about it. Or be around you and your sweet little Dumplin' who always says "yes ma'am" and never tells the neighbor that Mommy can't come to the door because she's in the shower with Daddy.

6) When a Facebook friend posts pictures of her kid in a car seat, send her a message stating that you're not sure her child was properly restrained. Include links to websites about car seat safety. Also send links on breastfeeding to a mom who says she wasn't able to . . . even though she now has a preschooler. Anytime someone online EVER says anything about an epidural, send them a link to every natural birthing website known to man.
If you combine this one with #3 then you'll just not have friends with children at all -- in real life OR online. Awesome if you're aiming to be a social outcast.

7) Pick a "Mommy Wars" platform, perch yourself on top of it, and scream at everyone with a different opinion that they aren't doing what's BEST for their child.
Because, you know, every loves being told that they way they care for their child is somehow inferior. See above on "social outcast."

8) Have a toddler who doesn't get into everything, doesn't throw tantrums, and always eats their vegetables. Brag about said toddler.
Then come and borrow my two-year-old for a few hours.

9) Take your children into public and let them do whatever they want. Don't repremend them. Instead, stay glued to your cell phone. Every few minutes put the phone down long enough to laugh when your kid calls someone a "shit head."
The louder, noisier, meaner, and more obnoxious your children are the more asshole-ish you'll come off. This is also a perfect way to ensure that not only will you not have any friends but your children will be social outcasts as well.

10) Glare menacingly at the parent whose 6-month old is throwing a fit in the middle of Wal-Mart. Stay loudly, "MY babies never did anything like that" or "Can't they take that kid out of here?"
You might as well go ahead and start pissing off strangers since you won't have any friends left.