Monthly Archives: March 2012

Kids These Days….

This is a topic that’s close to my motherfuckin’ heart.  I love it because it begs repeating generation after generation.  It’s a little bit “Poor me” and a little bit “Poor you” and although there’s a timelessness to it, it has modern day dickery plugged in to all the right places.  It’s basically a free pass to be a crabby bastard just because someone’s considered “old”.  Now when I say “old”, I’m really referring to someone who’s at an age where a bunch of shit they grew up with is obsolete.   Fortunately, and UNfortunately for me, technology is moving so fast, I can actually claim “Old Lady Status” at the tender age of thirty-go-fuck-yourself-it’s-none-of-your-goddamn-business.

So without further adieu, I shall stop wanking words around and get the fuck to it.
Hand me my rocking chair.

Thanks, Sonny.

Let me start by taking y’all on a trip to the late 70’s early 80’s, the era of my childhood, and probably yours too….

Come, hop on the Great Space Coaster and pop open a Tab, ’cause we’re off to the times of cassette singles and brown corduroy Alll. Day. Long.  When the streets were sleazy and the shoplifting’ was easy.  When kids were scrappy and didn’t take pills to be happy.  
Oh snap, yeah, I just said that.

Either you know it… or you don’t.

This was a time when the biggest “class” was straight up the middle.  There were no labels on clothes and Converse had laces. At the age of 7 you ran with a pack of kids whose names you didn’t all know, and like a feral cat, you climbed any tree you could find and dangled your knobby legs over limbs Too. Damn. High.  You knew you’d better be ready to take on any fucking dare chucked your way, lest look like a pussy and be eaten alive.  The camaraderie with your fellow feral friends was simple;  it balanced on a sharp stake of which only pussies were impaled.  (bonus points to anyone who caught that Lord of the Flies reference…)  You’d come home each day with blackened fingernails, bloody knees, and always, ALWAYS rocked a motherfuckin’ dirt mustache.

Aww, what’sa matter Piggy? Broke yer glasses??

If you were late to come home, your mother would beat your ass before sending you out for a carton of cigarettes or maybe something alcoholic.  Dinners were from a family pack of drumsticks, or a tin foil covered TV dinner.  You ate it off your metal Dukes of Hazard TV tray, targeting the little compartment of the peach cobbler FIRST.  OJ came sliding out of frozen cans in orange fucking cylinders.  The word McDonald’s was synonymous with fancy, and you’d get real glass Star Wars tumblers with every Happy Meal.

‘Member these?  I do.

Both boy’s and girl’s hair was winged, styled by the goddamn wind itself, because no matter where you were, or who you were with, you were RUNNING.

Running from those bastards on the other team in “Capture the Flag.”
Running so you weren’t the “Rotten Egg”.
Running from the dude in the candy store where you just shoved a bunch of Bazookas in your motherfucking pocket…. 

Damn, I LOVED those mini-comics…

How fucking weird.

You watched TV on Saturday mornings because that’s pretty much the only time cartoons were on.  You dug for decoder rings in cereal boxes.  Even in all this ‘wildness’, you still read books, made intricate Lite Brite and Etch-A-Sketch masterpieces, and wove potholders for everyfuckingbody on little plastic looms.

You had focus and didn’t even know it.  You were driven by outdoor play and so the worst punishments were the ones that kept you
.  It was the same as being chained to a radiator, or getting stuck in a bear trap… you’d chew off your goddamn foot just to play until dusk.
Call of the motherfucking Wild  (bonus points to anyone who caught that Jack London reference).

Even still.. like a BOSS! This is mine. True Story.

NOW, fast forward to today.  Instead of running around, kids just wander around with their noses shoved into handheld gaming devices like dogs with each other’s asses.  Bragging to their friends about “Leveling Up”  but can’t for the life of them “Put ‘Em Up” even if their Pokemon cards depended on it.

They run through war zones, defeating opponents with hand to hand combat in the virtual world of video games like a fucking BOSS, yet whine helplessly if they have to get their asses off the couch to find the remote.  If they ever do run, it’s to GameStop to preorder the newest version of ‘World of Whateverthefuck’.

Little girls are duped by marketers to worship stupid ass pop stars and configure their painted-nailed fingers into heart signs and peace signs but have no clue how many sides are on a fucking STOP SIGN.  Raised by Disney, and dressed by Sketchers, they know a million and one abbreviations for words and phrases they can’t even fucking spell.

‘Peace!… and texting…and doing shit like this shit with my fingers.

Images are fast, fads are fast, and food is fast.  Mix all that shit up with the quick fix pill mentality of today and what do we see?  Skyrocketing diagnoses of such afflictions as ADD, ADHD, and Diabetes.  I’m NOT discounting such conditions, nor am I calling them illegitimate…. I’m simply begging the question: When is the last time Johnny climbed a tree?  Played a sport?  Dug a hole in the dirt with a stick…?  A REAL hole, with a REAL stick??

I’m not judging, I’m just pointing some shit out.  Like I said in the beginning, the same children I’m calling “soft” today may be like the motherfucking Rambos compared to the generation coming up.  And in turn, I bet my Granny would like to punch me in the fucking face if she read all the shit I just said here!  She’s probably spit in my eye and ask me if I knew what is was like to live through a World War AND be a goddamn immigrant.

and then.. I felt like a dick.

To Granny, even in my brown corduroy glory, dirt mustache and all……
I’m still just One. Big Pussy.

I’ll gladly pay you tomorrow, for a hamburger today.



Desired, despised, too small, too big, envied, painful, sexual, natural, fake, amazing, disrespected, revered, glorified and mourned….  

What the fuck is up with these yellow, fatty piles of flesh on our chest?  

If men knew what was really goin’ on in there would they be as appealing??

Like snowflakes, farts, and fingerprints, each set are unique, and within each set, they are unique to each other.  

Sometimes wrapped in a silky skin facade with a cherry on top….and at other times, a 
not so silky facade, with a cherry… well, let’s say…… 
on the bottom-ish?  For many of us, in the span of our lifetime, both.

I remember when my flat nipples suddenly popped out like a couple of  goddamn turkey timers.  
I was 10? 11?  No idea.  

What I DO remember is that not only was it a really weird occurrence, but an extremely painful one! 

Somehow, creepily enough..the boys in my grade knew this fact.  I realize now, this wasn’t just MY first fascination with mammaries. It seemed the boys wanted to know what all the hubbub was about too.

After many a training-bra-strap-*SNAP*,  I learned to shield my tender buds with a fierce veracity… It fucked me up a little. 

“I didn’t ask for this. “ 

I was happy as a scrappy little tomboy.  My hair was short and my legs were long… knobby too. I played 
“Boys Catch Girls” and always won.  
(Don’t even ask what constituted as winning.) 

I wasn’t about to accept this psychical disadvantage… 

I wasn’t ready.

Turkey timers don’t really give a shit whether or not YOU’RE ready.

I would NOT let these inferior boy bastards know that I gave a shit about all the attention I got from such a shitty disfigurement. That’s exactly how I saw them then.  One big fucking hindrance…..Well more like two tiny ones…

“Hello.. confused here!”  

What was going on???? 

I wasn’t ashamed of my mother’s boobies! 
In fact, they felt quite comforting to me.  
Somehow though, I was being made to feel ashamed of MINE….?  

Fuck YOU fuckers.

It took some very rough years of puberty for me to start realizing just what the hell I had here… The more I grew to understand that there was not much about men to understand, the more I became aware of the power that lie beneath thine shirt.

What started out as annoying bug bites blossomed in to some Princess of Power type shit.  

Except I didn’t need a sword or a fucking steed. 

“By The Power Of This Tight Grey Sweater!!!”

The funny thing is,  is that there’s almost a hypnotic appeal to boobs.  Perhaps it’s the pendulous quality, the sway back and forth like a magician’s stopwatch…

“You are getting sleeepy…. very sleeeeeepyyyy….” 

I’m almost certain I’ve had men act like chickens without them remembering it…

Maybe it’s an oedipal thing.  It brings men back unconsciously to their babydom, of being nestled in their mother’s bosom… 

EW.. great, now I’m thinking of my husband as a baby with my Mother-In-Law all fucking exposed like twisted Rococo painting…*GAK*!!

Even the swan is all “Da Fuuuuuq???”

Well whatever it is about titties, I’m rollin’ with it.  Hey, if a dude wants to give me a free Starbucks because he’s entranced by some cleavage, fuck it!  

“Thank boob very much.”  

If the suave Manager Dickhead at the restaurant can be reduced to a bumbling butthead because of some breastesessss cutting my wait time for a table in half…… BOOYA for me!

Listen, I’m aware that this world is a sexist, whirling ball of shit that clings like a dingleberry stiffly to it’s misogynistic idealologies (PENIS) but I’m also aware that these knockers of mine will one day lose their magical powers…  

So I say this, if you got it, flaunt it, use it or lose it, and that it’s okay sometimes, to use what you got to get what you want.

Dear Margaret, 

I may not be God, but I’m here for you, and I can tell you that whatever bullshit you’re dealing with as a youngen, in the end, the last laugh will be yours.

Another Bitch Whose Been There.

Don’t sweat it girl, you’re good.


What do we want for our kids?  

Why do we stand thigh high in this parental tar pit of shit and trudge forward with children held high on our shoulders, above all the evils of the world that wrap themselves around our ankles?
We would give our lives, become fossilized in sludge, just to see our children tread safely on dry land.

Ask most parents and they’ll tell you —

“I struggle so that I can give my kid the very best.”
“I want to be able to give my kid more then I had.”
“I want my kid to DO more, HAVE more, BE more then I was…”

Why do we say this?  
What the fuck is so bad about US that we strive, struggle, scrimp, and pray for our own children to be more than who WE are? … 

To be better….?  

Is it a hindsight thing?  
I mean, as children ourselves, did we feel like we had shit so bad, or do we only feel that way now as adults looking back?  

Do we really even feel that way AT ALL??

I’m sure many of us had less then perfect childhoods (is there such a thing as a perfect childhood?) fraught with divorce or money problems perhaps, but even so, I always remember assuming that things like this were just a part of life

Resilience was not just desirable, it was innate — it meant strength and wasn’t questioned.

I knew others had more than I of course, but I never remember wishing for it.  
My birthday wishes, behind tightly shut eyes and a scrunched nose, were never something I had to think about.  
I always just allowed them to wish themselves.
They were their own, and I never disagreed.  
I treasured them as much as the gifts I got on that day and NEVER revealed them to ANYONE in fear that they may not come true…. until right now….

They were always the same.
There were two:

“I wish everything is going to be okay and everyone will be happy” or
“I wish I was a good singer.”

I know now, that about 50% of birthday wishes come true…. 
Fuck it, I’ll still get up for Karaoke if drunk enough so kiss my ass.

The point is, I’m happy with who I am because of where I came from.  
My kids come from a different time, a different place and are different people.  
Comparing their lives to mine is pointless, and so, what exactly is this “MORE” that I want for them?
There’s plenty of people that have “MORE” things and are far LESS happy — so that’s out….  

“MORE” knowledge?  Well her education is great and wisdom’s only real teacher is experience — so I guess that’s out too.  

“MORE” confidence?  Well I know I was always praised for my achievements and encouraged to try whatever interested me, as long as I gave it my all.   

I didn’t get a prize for fourth place and so, never settled for it.  
I was and still am strong and confident because I had to earn it 
as do my daughters — so I guess as far as that “MORE” goes, it’s a ball that rests in their court.

You know what I really want for my kids?  
I want to give them LESS comparisons to myself and MY childhood.

I want them to be able to take what they have, add it to whatever I can give, and make it their own.  
I want them to strive, I want them to persevere — to make their lives better through their own achievements and to build their lives using their own strength.

I’ve given them a foundation, and I’m happy with that.

I guess the only thing I could EVER hope my kids have “MORE” of than I had as a child?

There are two things:

Hugs, although that’ll be really hard to beat.
Wet Willys… ok, ok, that’s totally just for my fucking benefit… 

What can I say? 
Maybe there’s still a little “MORE” childhood left in me I’m not quite done with.

I’m The Bitch Of The World!!!

Remember that movie “Titanic”?  Well, even if you were doing something more important with your life in the year 1997, like mourning the death of Biggie Smalls, or perfecting the art of collar poppin’, and you missed the boat on that movie, I’m sure, at the very least, you’re familiar with that famous scene.  

You know… THE SCENE…..   Let me remind you: 

It’s the part when that “Home Alone” kid is hella excited to first be on the dumb boat.  He runs up to the front and starts squealing so pre-pubescently high that dolphins jump in to goddamn tunafish cans just to escape it.  He then steps on to the very front part of the boat and spreads his arms out super wide (like how you wish your kid did when you asked them how much they love you but they never fucking do)  and then… he does it… 

With a grin that would make the Kool Aid Pitcher Dude kick rocks, and wind-feathered hair so flaxen gold, it put Farrah Fawcett to shame, he shouts the now iconic phrase: 


And there it is…..

Now, I don’t know if that “Saved By The Bell” kid won an Oscar for his part in that movie, and I don’t really give a shit, all I DO know is that THAT MOMENT for me, was contagious.  

There was this EXPLOSION of self-confidence, and joy so abundantly flowing from the splayed fingertips of that “Full House” kid that I found myself flinging MY ARMS out too!** 

**This led me to accidentally smash the girl’s face seated next to me, which unfortunately resulted in a buttered popcorn brawl, subsequently getting my ass kicked out of the theater altogether and thus preventing me from ever finding out what happened to that stupid boat… 

My point is, I didn’t NEED to see anymore of that film because for the five bones I spent on the movie ticket, I walked around with three days worth of dolphin-ear-errupting confidence, periodically shouting “I’M THE BITCH OF THE WORLD!!!” and smashing random folks’ faces with flung out arms!  Now, you can’t buy THAT kind of happiness even with a million dollars!! 

I tell you, if that “Silver Spoons” kid were here right now, I’d probably make out with him for gifting me with such a spectacular moment…. and then ask to ride that really cool fucking train he’s got in his house… that little rich snot nosed shit.

Yeah, like you really need more presents you spoiled bastard.

Since that movie, or the first part at least, I’ve been trying to figure out ways to recreate the same energy and joy I felt pulse through me fifteen long years ago, and so far I’ve discovered that although being covered in baby shit is NOT one of them, certain other aspects of babies as well as kids themselves ARE!  

Below is a list of 
Shit That Kids Do, Which Makes My Ass Go ALL TITANIC:

1.  Being born.  What else makes you feel like a Super Hero more then exuding a whole other human body out of your own?!?  You can keep your useless clear jet, Wonder Woman, I have people to create!!!  Guess what Dr. Frankenstein, you didn’t actually make anyone dipshit, you just sewed together a bunch of body parts from some preexisting dead people and even THEN you couldn’t “make” a person nearly as cute as my fucking creation!!  Yeah, that moment, right after having a baby….. TITANIC.

Aww, he looks just like… like… well, like that fucking dude that died last week….! Not. Cute.

2.  First REAL”I Love You” Hug.  Let’s face it.  Babies for the most part, are ungrateful little turds.  Their EXTREME neediness tends to accentuate this, complied with the fact that they’re fucking MUTE for quite a while.  Sleepless nights, backbreaking days and more spilled body fluids than a public bathroom.  These times, when you’re soaking in sweat and tit milk feel ENDLESS…. even at times useless.
“Why why WHY am I doing this?!?!” you shudder… 
“WHAT FOR?!?!” you cry…

Well, that moment when your toddler, oozing with snot and bumbling around bumping in to shit, scales the couch, plops down next to you, wraps their mini-arms 1/4 way around your still baby-weighted body, and in a true Mickey Mouse style voice says loudly: 


I’m sure you’re remembering this moment right now… and smiling… because you know you were all…

Even a hug and “I love you” from THIS is a TITANIC moment.

3.  Kick Ass Parent/Teacher Meeting.  This is about as far as I got on the list because my kids are still fairly young.  I’m sure more will be added as I trudge through this journey of shit stains, pissed beds and BFFs but for now, this is the last but by far NOT the least of the list.  

Just as #2 is payback for all the baby torture we endure, THIS moment is payback for toddler torture.  You know all those “Please”s and “Thank You”s and “May I”s and “Alphabet Song”s and “Counting Fingers” and “You Have To SHARE!”s and “Clean-Up Song”s and “Wait For Your Turn”s and “Follow Direction”s you repeated so many fucking times you’ve lost count? Your toddler barely heeds you as they Tasmanian Devil right past your ass destroying room after room.  
You are the ‘Rainman of Manners’ — they are your opponent in the ring.  
You are the referee of the playground — they are in UFC mode.  
You wonder if serial killers are just born that way, or if you are somehow fucking something up… and you just don’t know it yet.
They grow a bit, they start school, they challenge you differently.  Not less, just differently…  
You walk in to your first parent/teacher meeting with a hockey mask on ready to deflect insults spit like fucking pucks at your face and then…

“Oh, she’s SO GREAT with the other kids!”  
“He’s really gotten in to the spirit of helping!”  
“Your child is a wonderful addition to the class!” 
“Whatever you’re doing at home, keep it up!”

You cannot BELIEVE it but something you’ve done must’ve stuck!

First three thoughts?  
1. You know who I am right??
2. Am I being Punk’d right now?
3. Fucking TITANIC.

For many, this is what we feel like upon entering our first Parent/Teacher conference….

Annnnnnd there you have it folks!  So do some shoulder rolls, because even though they don’t happen often, when they do, you wanna be prepared to NOT tear a rotator cuff as you fling out your arms while shouting: