What's with all the skinny hate?

Every time I log into Facebook, I see where someone shared some sort of post about curvy girls.  I get to read about how curvy girls are better, or how only dogs like bones, or how skinny girls have to starve themselves, or that I'm just a skinny bitch.  I can't count the number of times I've been told I should go eat a cheeseburger/sandwich/etc.  Skinny girls have feelings too!

I hate the times when people try to pretend that Marilyn Monroe was plus-sized.  Seriously, look at her pictures.  You can see collarbones and sometimes even ribs.  According to her dressmaker, her measurements were usually around 35-22-35.  I get called a skinny bitch, but my waist has never been anywhere near that 22 inch mark, even when I was modeling.  People have claimed that she was a size 16.  Sizes were different 50 years ago, but she still wasn't exactly able to wear clothes off the rack. 

I'm sick of it.  Sure, mainstream media is biased and prefers thin, blonde, and rich.  Instead of just complaining and posting stuff on facebook putting someone else down to make yourself feel better, why don't you put down the fashion magazine?  Why don't you turn off the TV if you're so tired of all of the thin actresses?  If you hate the skinnies, then why are you trying to diet and be one?  Don't tell me it's societal pressure; you're trying to rebel against that same societal pressure by spreading the skinny hate.

It's okay for you to say, "Real Women Have Curves" or "Real men like curves; only dogs like bones" but it's not okay for me to say it loud that I'm thin and proud?  You can call me a skinny bitch, but if I call anyone a fatass, I'm a horrible person and need to shut my mouth because it's a condition and not their fault.  I don't go around calling people fatasses, but if I wanted to, I would still censor myself.  I can find much meaner things to say about people I want to put down than just the obvious appearance things.  If I don't like you, it's for a real reason, not just your appearance.

Real women come in all shapes and sizes.  You can be a size zero or a size 24 and still be a real woman.

Screw you guys and your whole "real women have curves" movement.  My real body has made and nourished three children. 

You don't get more real than that.

Poor People

I am writing this using my phone in the local WIC office. If you didn't already know, it's a government program designed to improve the nutrition of lower income women, infants, and children.  Oh wait, that means you're reading a blog written by (gasp) a poor person.  I love the way people look at me differently when they realize I'm a member lower class.  Poor people aren't supposed to be literate, are they?  We're all supposed to be a bunch of horrible, uneducated parents who dress our children in rags while we buy and sell drugs, get our nails done, drive Escalades, and collect welfare checks.  We're supposed to take advantage of the system and put our kids in daycare even though we're all a bunch of Peg Bundy-esque couch potatoes who have never worked a day in their lives. This may be true for some of us.

The truth is, I'm kind of smart.  I might not have a PhD, but I went to community college, own a home, drive a Taurus (named Boris), and I've never used the TANF system.  My kids might wear rags, but it's only because I choose my battles when they'd rather wear an old and dirty Spiderman costume than the nicer stuff I got from a consignment sale or with gift cards I earned for surveys.  I've always worked, sometimes two full time jobs at once, and was back at work within a couple of days after giving birth to my last two children, baby in a Moby carrier while I packed orders for my ebay store.  Hell, I don't even have cable TV and the thought of fake nails or daycare makes me feel a little queasy.

I've veered off topic again, haven't I?  The WIC system was started with good intentions.  I took advantage of a free breastfeeding class while pregnant with my oldest child.  I was 22 and had never been around breastfeeding, but I knew it was best and wouldn't do anything else.  I was completely clueless and was the only person in attendance.  I learned so much about breastfeeding and how boobs work.  I probably wouldn't have been successful if it weren't for that wonderful, patient teacher.  For years, I thought about going back and thanking her, but I had since moved and couldn't remember her name.  A few years later, our WIC office got a new nutritionist that seemed vaguely familiar.  I knew I had seen her or heard her voice before, but I'm no good with names or faces.  I finally noticed the plaque on her wall from my former county and it clicked.  She had been the teacher! 

Today looks like a slow day, but sometimes this place is has so many examples of bad parenting. Sure, let's fill a sippy cup with Mountain Dew, encourage the kid to drink it, and then hit him for acting like a kid high on a caffeine/sugar/chemical kick. That sounds like a GREAT idea!  Then we can jerk them up by one arm when we're called because we're too busy talking on the phone to pick them up properly.  Let's leave the baby screaming in an infant seat while we text.  Don't get me started on infant seats. That's a whole 'nother rant.  Let's show up and demand to be seen, even though we don't have an appointment or we missed ours by an hour.  I wonder if the WIC employees ever want to hand out vouchers for sour milk.  I know I would.

Baby Showers

I don't particularly like baby showers.  Due to my new-mom-itis, I allowed family to throw baby showers before my oldest, Kaiya, was born, but I didn't particularly enjoy them.  Granted, I was appreciative of all the gifts, the food, and the effort made, but the rest of it was just pretty bleh.  Loads of people trying to impress their opinions about birth and child rearing upon a expectant mother, along with making jokes about how fat she's become.  I've encountered comments like this at baby showers:

"Oh I know you said you were going to TRY to breastfeed, but here are some bottles for when you come to your senses" I sighed and rolled my eyes.
"I bought some diamond earrings for when you get the baby's ears pierced.  The doctor can do it for you."  No.  No.  No!
"I only bought a gift for one baby.  You look like you're having twins!" The expectant mom almost cried.
"I bought you some gauze and Vaseline for after his circumcision.  Snip snip, hahahaha!" I almost vomited, then wanted to cut a skank.
"Here are some earplugs for when you let your baby learn to soothe herself." I wanted to slap someone.
"Don't let that baby ruin your life.  It's going to try to manipulate you for her own benefit."
"I can already tell you'll have to get a c-section because you're little"
"Anyone who says they're going all-natural is crazy.  You'll learn."

See, baby showers invoke a violent response in people like me.  Still, my bestest friend is having one this weekend and I'm going.  It's not supposed to be your usual baby shower, one with a keg and a bluegrass band, but I'm sure the mainstream mommies will show up with their impassioned cries for "me time", rice cereal, epidurals, and sleep training.  This is the reason why I have no friends with kids. 
 

Kids' Bowling

Did you know that school-age kids can get two free games of bowling every day this summer?  You can sign up here.  I'm not getting paid to plug them; I just think it's pretty awesome.  You can get a family pass for $24.95 so that up to 4 adult family members can bowl free all summer.  When they ask who sent you, enter in mamersnc@gmail.com and there might be a chance for me to win a prize.

We'll be taking advantage of this deal.  Wouldn't a kids' bowling team be so cute?  Tiny, slick, and smelly rented shoes and nerdy little bowling shirts with screen printed logos!  The Dynamic Daleks?  Splendid Sycorax?  Tiny Time Lords?  Junior Jedi?    A summer sporting event that's indoors, away from the sun and bugs!  And it's (almost) free!  I shouldn't mention the bowling alley food.  I know it's toxic, but can you resist those cheap soggy nachos?

Who's coming with me?

Facebook

When I was younger, the internet was my escape.  I could go there and no one knew me.  None of my classmates, no one in my family, and none of my neighbors knew me.  I wasn't doing anything really wrong.  Just general mischief, message boards, napster, AOL cerver, and trolling.  It was great, unless you remember the sounds of the old 56k modem, all-night CD download times, and the fact that it cut off every time the phone rang.  Almost everyone you encountered online was literate, intelligent, and capable of a good debate.  Back then, everybody was afraid I was being stalked by Captain Howdy and anyone with a computer was a secret sex fiend, out to ensnare a 16 year old girl who carried a paint can.  Thank you very much, Strangeland.

Now, everybody is on the internet, regardless of literacy levels.  It can be a great thing, but at the same time, EVERYBODY IS ON THE INTERNET!  My parents are on craigslist buying vehicles, my kids are on PBS kids playing games, and great grandmas are setting up facebook profiles.  It's gone from a place where I was separate from everyone and everything to a place where everyone can find me.

I can't post about beer and burritos on Facebook without someone telling my parents.  Someone alerts my family if I mention using a power tool.  I'm almost thirty!
This brings me to the fact that I can find you guys, too.  I have 330 friends on Facebook, which pales in comparison to some, but it's enough for me.  Most of them are people I know and value in real life, but a good deal of these people are just online train wrecks.  I keep them around for when I feel like my life isn't so good and need a reason to smile.  That's my inner troll coming out.  If you have a Facebook, you have at least one friend who constantly posts about how horrible their life is and how it's not their fault, but you can trace the events leading to their current condition.  Oh no, you just had your third baby and have no idea who the dad is?  It couldn't be related to the drunken, half-naked party pictures you posted 9 months ago, proclaiming the fact that you were on the prowl!  The person who posts photos of their drug use and then laments the fact that they got sacked from their job after a drug test always entertains me, as does the single girl who takes relationship advice from Taylor Swift.

This is me around the time I discovered the internet.

Huge Ferocious Mutt

This morning, Tanith, the 18 month old tiny terrific terror, ran off into the bedroom after breakfast.  I caught Tanith sprawled across the floor, face to face with Alcide,our gigantic evil 50 pound German Shepherd-Husky shelter mutt, having a conversation.  She then stuck a Cheerio up his nose and laughed.  When I went to get it out, I found a White Rabbit wrapper jammed up the other nostril.  He sighed and laid back down. 

We got him two years ago from the animal shelter.  He was underweight, dehydrated, and very sick.  He was afraid of everything and let our toy poodle boss him around.  It's amazing to me how many people have remarked that he's a big scary dog.  He barks when people walk past his fence, but runs in fear when they approach.  This is a dog who has hurt more people while running from a thunderstorm than by biting them.  Someone even let him out of our chain link fence and called animal control about a big wild dog with a green collar.

2 years ago, Tanith and Ronin.  "Naybe he wikes me!"

Homeschool Rant #3: school fundraisers

See those buttons to the right of the page where you can donate a dollar or a penny or a million dollars?  They're not mandatory at all, yet I still catch crap about them.

"You mean you want me to give you money to educate your kids?  Shouldn't that be your responsibility?"

Yes, but I'm constantly being inundated with requests to buy cookie dough, books, bags, delicious doughnuts, candles, candy, raffle tickets, carbonated beverages, and other random crap from your public school child.  Save the soup labels, box tops, and cut the corners off the pancake mix for my child's school!  Doesn't my tax money help pay for their education? 

With our fundraiser, you can get some original one of a kind artwork and maybe even the story behind it.  Or not.  And I'm not going to send my kids over to your house with puppy dog eyes and an order form attached to a clipboard. 

We're going the cheapest route possible, not buying a set curriculum, getting everything used, planning to re-use the same learning materials between children, and DIYing whenever possible, but the first few years can get a little expensive (not to mention stressful) for most homeschooling parents.  Sure, I could do it all myself and put everything together on my own.  I tried that, and between my jobs, three kids, and the actual act of educating the children, I started going a little batty.  A person can only handle so much before she starts thinking about ways to put a saddle on the mutt and using him to raise the children.

And now for the gratuitous cuteness:

 

I don't like

I like a lot of things.  I have a strong dislike for a few others. 

Deviled eggs.  They are the malodorous ovum of Beelzebub.  Nothing like Devil's food cake.
Mustard.  It's like ketchup, but gross.  And it looks like newborn poop, but I do enjoy asking people if they have any Grey Poupon.  Do they still make that stuff?
Chick flicks.  Why do people think I want to watch that crap?
People who look forward to a zombie apocalypse.  Like they'd survive.
People who say coldslaw and giraft.  Really?
Mesothelioma lawyer commercials during Maury Povich.  Do you really think most of these viewers can even pronounce mesothelioma?
The same goes for structured annuity settlement commercials.  "If you get long term payments, but you need cash now" and "It's my money and I need it now"  Do these people really watch You are Not The Father?

Most commercials.  I turned off our cable a few months ago and can do without.
The sound tape makes when it comes off the roll.  I don't mind nails on a chalkboard.
Little girls in booty shorts and stripper heels.  Go be a kid.
Saggy skinny jeans.  Sagging is one thing and skinny jeans are another.  Putting them together makes you look exponentially more idiotic.
Side ponytails with multiple headbands.  Choose an accessory.
People who say uh-sess-er-ee.
Cats.
Single friends who constantly send invites to Facebook events, then ask why I couldn't make it.  Sure, let me just pack up my kids and let them play lawn darts in the mosh pit while I do Jager bombs at your show.
Single friends who quote Taylor Swift songs on Facebook that lament their singlehood.  Taylor Swift really knows how to avoid being single, right?
Taylor Swift
Boy bands.  I still shudder a little bit at the thought of Backstreet coming back (alright)

Gain laundry detergent.  I'd rather smell like feet than that crap.
People who drive a Nissan and get a custom made sticker to go across the windshield that says, "NISSAN" so that it matches the custom license plate that says Nissan.  I think that's already been established.
People who tell me to take it easy.  I have 3 kids, 2 jobs, and I homeschool.  When will I get the chance to take it easy?
Reese's Pieces.  Why did no one ever tell me they contained no chocolate?  It's like my whole life was a lie.

Malodorous ovum of beelzebub, be gone!

We have nothing to fear but . . . frogs.

I normally embrace the change of all seasons.  I get tired of the monotony, tired of keeping my arms and legs covered, tired of keeping my limbs uncovered, tired of warming/cooling the house and car.  You know.  You might be the same way.

I looked at the weather forecast and thought, "It's spring.  Finally!  The weather is going to stay warm all week and we can do fun stuff and go outside!  It'll be awesome!  I can open the windows!  I can plant a garden and go to the park.  Yay!"  Exclamation points galore! 

I opened my windows last week, thinking my sweet and stumpy escape artist of a youngest child was still too short to reach them.  Ten minutes later, she had knocked the screen out and I was catching her by her ankle as she attempted to jump out of the window into the sandbox so she could play "si-side" with her sister.  Now they're open just a crack.

I saw the pine pollen covering everything in sight and sighed, thinking it wouldn't be so bad.  I still get my warm weather, so I don't mind so much.  It'll be worth it.  I never minded it when I was younger.  I used to call it my protective layer and refused to wash my vehicles for several years.  Now it turns me into a hacking, coughing, bleary-eyed mess.

I ventured outside after dark tonight, forgetting my fears for a minute there.  I had a laptop, reusable grocery bag with about 10 pounds of food, and a baby in hand.  Freaking frogs.  Everywhere.  Frogs croaking.  Frogs jumping, frogs hopping.  Frogs just sitting there and looking at me.  Don't look at me, you froggy freaks with your creepy frog eyes.  Stupid frog faces.  I saw this lumpy thing, looking like conjoined froggy twins, glancing around and rocking there.  Muthascrappacrimetycrap.  Craptacular little amphibious frog farts.  I ran back to my parents' house, which was locked by then, banged on the door, and got back inside.  Tucked my pants into my shoes so the little froggy buggers couldn't hitch a ride up my pants legs.  Handed off the baby.  Placed my laptop with the groceries and went into survival mode, swinging a broomstick.

I turned on the porch light and went out the door, armed with a bag of groceries and a broom.  I got closer to the evil conjoined twinny frog monster and saw that it was two frogs doing the deed.  Making more frogs.  The thought of frogs mating is even more terrifying.  The female bullfrog can lay 20,000 eggs at a time.  Just the thought of twenty thousand tiny terrifying things, leaping about with their frog legs and squishy parts and those eyes and long sticky tongues.  It's enough to make me go into a cold sweat.  I gave my battle cry, swung the broom while slowly lurching across the yard, threw the bag into the hatchback, and peered around to find more of the jumping maniacs.  I swung some more with my broom and used my best ninja moves to make it to the driver seat, then stood on top of it to scan for more of the bouncing bow legged beasts.  I surrendered my weapon to my heroic mother, who was amazed at my bravery (or possibly wondering how I have made it this long without being institutionalized) buckled in the youngest of my offspring.

All of this to say screw spring.  You can keep those jumping cold blooded strange legged bug eyed beasts.  I can deal with the pollen, but you can take those morphing amphibious critters.

Don't reason with me.  I don't fear snakes or spiders or bugs or dogs or anything you consider normal.  I don't like being startled and I freaking hate frogs.  You can't reason with a frog.  They're evil.  Nothing cute about those jumpy transformative suzzabeezus.

A little zoo.

Yesterday, we took the kids to Aloha Safari Zoo.  We've been there once before, about 2 years ago when I was pregnant with Tanith.  We went with a group the first time, so it was a bit crowded.  This time, it was just the 5 of us (it still seems odd saying that) and we had a great time.  The staff acted like regular people, which seems to be a rarer and rarer occurrence as far as customer service goes. As we were walking through the building housing the reptiles, the employees mentioned that they were getting out the Burmese python, so my darling husband and oldest daughter were busy playing with it for a couple of hours.  I'm not exaggerating. 

 Ronin was able to observe many different types of poop.
"Wook mama!  Ho-wass poop!" That's horse for those of you who don't follow Roninspeak.
"That snake pooped on the gwound!"
"Wamb poop wooks wike waisins." That's lamb and raisins.
"Derr's pecans in da poo-da-potty! I can pee on da pecans!"
"Fish poop in da waddah?"
 Forgive me, but I took no photographs of this poop-venture.

Kaiya and Ronin fed a giraffe that was rescued out of someone's garage.  It takes a special kind of person to look at their garage and say to themselves, "You know what's missing?  Not an expensive sports car.  Not a new tool.  A giraffe!  A freaking giraffe would look great right about here.  And when he gets tall enough, he'll add a skylight for me."

 Tanith was able to tell us about milk.

"Mama.  Baby.  Ninny.  Mee-yoke."

"Cow.  Meee-yoke"

And, at the very end of our visit, after I deposited the camera inside the car, we were able to bottle-feed lambs.  I wish I had gotten a few shots of the kids, especially Tanith when she tried to sneak a taste of the sheep formula.  She enjoyed the taste of the lamb food, so why not the milk?  It's white, animals love it, it's in a bottle.  Seems legit.

Unicorns

I recently let it slip that unicorns and pegasuses (pegasi? Every time I try to spell it, I get squiggly red lines.) aren't real.  I didn't know it wasn't common knowledge in my house.  Kaiya said something about wanting a pet unicorn, and I told her something like maybe she could get a pony and some superglue, but a unicorn wasn't going to happen.  Boom!  Three crying kids.  The older two started it first, and then Tanith had to join in on the waterworks.
We had about three minutes of hysterics before I remembered that animals with random horns sticking out of their heads had been discovered or modified to have a single horn.  We agreed that unicorns were real, but very, very rare, and that was that.
Now Ronin wants a rhinoceros unicorn.

image via Lair2000

new-mom-itis

There's this thing going about.  If you have a child or are expecting your first, you probably caught it without even knowing.  New-mom-itis usually sets in around the middle of the second trimester, sometimes sooner, and manifests itself with unrealistic parenting expectations and verbal outbursts such as these:
"My baby will sleep X hours every night."
"I will ALWAYS use a nursing cover."
"My child will never do/eat/say that!"
"I don't want the baby to get too attached to me."
"My child will always sleep in a crib and never come into my bed!"
"I'm going to TRY to breastfeed"
"I'm going to breastfeed, but Daddy needs to bond too, so he'll give bottles every night."
"I'm going to let Daddy formula feed at night so the baby will sleep longer.  I'll need a break."
"My mom said to start putting rice cereal in the baby's bottle from birth to make him sleep longer.  She did it for me and I turned out fine."
"We will NEVER use a pacifier"
"My child will be fully potty trained before his second birthday."
"My child will have perfect table manners and always use a spoon."
"My baby will learn to self-soothe and will sleep through the night from birth."
"My house will be spotless."
"We're going to do everything we used to do.  The baby will fit right into our lifestyle."
"I'm going to give my baby a bath every night."
"Bald babies are ugly.  Mine will have hair.  I know it because I have heartburn."
"My baby won't have a bald spot on the back of his head.  Only neglected babies have bald spots."
"Babies who cry are just being manipulative."

The only known treatment for new-mom-itis is exposure to reality.  For some victims, the disorder is gone before it is noticed.  For others, it lasts for several years.  I was a victim of new-mom-itis.  Many people close to me have been affected by this disorder.  The most we can do is have hope that we can find a cure for new-mom-itis.

Kaiya was my cure for new-mom-itis.

Special thanks to fellow blogger Mama.

How to have your cake and eat it too

We have a problem here. It's one of those cold, boring, rainy days. I really want to bake a cake, but have no special occasion.  If I bake it today, I'll sneak a piece when it comes out of the oven, eat another while decorating, another with the kids, a fourth one while cooking later on tonight, a fifth one for dessert, and two more after the kids are asleep.  I'll eat another one for breakfast while I'm folding laundry in the morning, and eat another with the kids after lunch.  Then it will be all gone and I will miss my cake.

Now that I've planned that out, it looks like an even better idea.  It sounds even more delicious when I see it in writing.

By the way, I don't like the title phrase.  What's the point in having cake if I can't eat it?  I understand that in olden days, have meant keep, but why would you want to keep cake?  It gets all moldy and gross.  It still doesn't make sense, even after Wikipedia explains it.

Darn you, Pinterest, for making everything look so tasty.

If I make that cake, I'll look like this for a while.

Are you a bad parent?

Are you a bad parent? Are you? Really? I find myself having these doubts almost daily.

Have you ever asked yourself that question? If you have, chances are that you're not. Bad parents don't doubt themselves. They march along, Marlboro Red in mouth and sippy cup full of Mountain Dew in one hand, yanking a child up by one arm with the other, while yelling something to the effect of, "just cuz you put yo' baby in a carseat don't mean you love them more'n I love my brat!" They are sure they're doing an awesome job.  They prop the baby's bottle of Pepsi in an infant seat so they can text about what a great job they're doing because they found out at the WIC office that their kid gained 10 pounds this month thanks to a steady diet of McNuggets and Cheetos.

If you've ever doubted whether you're doing a decent job, chances are you're awesome.  You care enough to put some thought into how you are raising your child/children.  You stop to consider how you will affect them. Stop beating yourself up because you're not a perfect parent and just take the time to enjoy being a good enough parent.  You don't have to be perfect.  I doubt your kids will remember the minor imperfections as long as you try.

Homeschool Rant #2

Homeschool kids are weird.  It's true.  If you start typing "homeschool kids are," it pops up.  If Google says something, it has to be true.  Right?

Oh, I see.  So you've met someone who was homeschooled.  They were weird.  That means that all homeschoolers are weird, right?  Of course.

I've met a lot of public schooled children who were ignorant little selfish twits.  That must mean that all public schoolers are ignorant little selfish twits. 

Harsh generalizations are. . . well, harsh.  For lack of a better word, they're harsh.  

My kids are weird.  Not because they're homeschooled, but because they're mine.  I'm weird.  By your standards, at least.  

Cafe Press has some pretty funny stuff down there, you know.
 

Horrible Mother

Kaiya and Ronin both love Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  Kaiya says it's a tie for her favorite with My Little Pony and Invader Zim, but Ninja Turtles is still a little bit better. Little Britain and Doctor Who are up there in the top five as well.  Ronin can't pick a favorite because he likes everything, from Super Mario Brothers Super Show to Thomas and Friends.  Just not Doctor Who.  He likes to pretend he's a Dalek, but he's afraid of everything else on the show.

Anyway, they love Ninja Turtles.  Anytime the show comes on, they absolutely MUST jump around, dance, and practice their ninja skills.  If I don't intervene quickly, it's a sure thing that someone will get hurt.  Minor injuries are very common.

I let them watch some Netflix so that I could put my bed back together (that's a whole 'nother blog post) and heard the new rap-tacular theme song, but didn't say "oh crap" until it was too late and Kaiya was screaming.  She said she had been jumping around and "just fell" off the ottoman onto her face.  Since she was crying, her whole face was swollen and I couldn't tell what was happening.  We put a bag of frozen corn on her nose, which Tanith thought was hilarious.  My darling husband said there was no way it could be broken.

This is how she looked the next morning, Easter Sunday:

So I took her to the emergency room at our little town's new hospital.  Lovely place it is.  When asked about what happened, my Kaiya told the nurse and later the doctor, "Got into a fight with the floor.  The floor won."  She got to ride in a wheelchair and pretend she was Andy from Little Britain. It's broken, but already mostly healed and shouldn't make too much of a difference in her face.

 And here's what she looks like today: