joys of motherhood

Get Your Mommy War On

Hold onto your bonnets, ladies–the Mommy Wars are back.

Your first question might be: What if I don’t wear a bonnet?

Good question. In the case of non-bonnet-wearing, grab the nearest lady item like a box of Massengill or a DVD of Sex and the City II. Now hold tight because the Mommy Wars are back.

What are the Mommy Wars? you ask.

Oh, you sweet, sweet little woman bird or you precious man bird, if you’re a guy and have continued reading past the Massengill reference. Let’s get educated!

Um…okay, I should admit that I know dick about the Mommy Wars. But I am a librarian, which means I can shush with the best of them, and I had a baby cut out of my uterus, which means I can classify myself as a mommy. Still you might want to head to some Mommy blog or to your actual mommy or watch Mama’s Family to learn the rich history.

You’re still here? Fine, let me search the databases, archives and primary documents (this sounds so librarian-y™ but really I’m just looking at Wikipedia), and let’s take the wheels off this bus. They ain’t goin’ round ‘n round no more. And if that driver tells me to “Move on back!” Mommy’s gonna cut a bitch. I hate that goddamn song.

Okay so the Mommy Wars began when a stay-at-home mom and working mom got into a cat fight over which type of Bounty cleans up spills better. It was vicious, and by the end, over 200 rolls of Bounty quicker picker uppers were needed to soak up the bile.

Blogs and books were written, mainly about rich women’s struggles to have it all or to have it all–while giant corporations continue to put shit in our food that will eventually cause our total zombification.

Things seemed to die down until in February, Gwyneth Paltrow told a magazine “I’m rich and successful, and I told someone you have to compromise to be a wife. Now I’m going to jet off to Italy.” Many people said “I didn’t read that, what did she say? Yeah sorry, wasn’t listening even now.”

Okay so the Mommy Wars flared up yesterday when some rich lady threw a verbal grenade at some super rich lady. The rich lady was like “bitch doesn’t work ever” and the super rich lady said “Butler, hold my calls because I’m gonna push the nuclear button and destroy all humanity. Or I’m going to tweet I’m a stay-at-home mom to five boys, that’s hard work. . . oh and my Mittens is doing kind of shitty with women in the polls because of the shitty things his political party does and says so thanks for turning the focus on this issue.”

This caused mass hysteria. The #IWantToEatJustinBiebersHairpiece was knocked from its number one trending perch. Some person hyperventilated on TV. Another Republican said we need to respect a woman’s choice and then laughed hysterically.  Someone made this travel mug:

The country quickly divided into two camps: Those who make millions in politics and media, and those who don’t give a shit. I am in the latter. That’s why this post ends now.

Advertisements

Easter Egg Funk

Now that I have a two-year-old, I have been hounded with questions about whether I’m taking my son to an Easter egg hunt.

(Full disclosure: No one has asked me this)

The short answer is no.

The long answer is F*** no.

I might have mentioned I once worked as a newspaper reporter. Thank you. Oh, wait you weren’t applauding. I thought maybe you were applauding.

I was a serious journalist, and that is why I covered the annual Easter egg hunt at the local park. I asked some tough questions like “Why are you here?” “Do you think you’ll find an egg?” and “Is there a bridge nearby? I’d like to jump off it.”

It begins all nice and egg-free. The kids appear human as do the parents.

But as soon as the air horn sounds, it quickly devolves into something resembling a Black Friday stampede for the cheapest electric egg cooker.

Eggvidence:

"Screw the conch, I want me some eggs!"

Parents, who have already staked a position by an easily visible egg, pounce upon it like a pack of jackals, spraying their urine and feces freely to ward off intruders.

Okay, maybe not that, but they yell really loud and basically push two-year-olds out of the way. Once their grubby snot-nosed child picks it up (always snot-nosed, always dripping, always the child I end up having to interview at the end of the 3-second bloodbath, always manages to get snot on me), they move onto the next egg, bawking orders like chickens if chickens could bawk orders, and just generally making the Easter Bunny weep hot tears.

There should be a limit to how many eggs one can grab (correct amount is 1) and how many times one can bellow “C’mon! C’mon! C’mon! Right here!!! Right here!!! Get it!!!!  GET IT!!!!!” (correct amount is never)

Even after reading this, you feel you must subject your offspring to an early taste of dashed hopes and despondency, please follow these tips:

  • Bring eggs with you. At the start of the hunt, put them in your child’s basket and say “Let’s go home.”
  • Watch or read something uplifting to restore your faith in humanity.
  • Enter a profession that will never make you cover an Easter egg hunt. One day you will find yourself writing sentences like these: “Thousands of children and parents packed the park. Many held plastic bags and baskets to load with eggs.”
  • Weep hot tears.

Politicians Say the Darndest Things.

Occasionally a kernel of truth rises above all the noise and overload in our media-saturated society, and it makes you tear out your ear buds, log out of Facebook, turn off your TV, pause your Xbox, switch your ringer to vibrate and deflate your blow-up doll so you can let that truth wash over you as if you were in a truth carwash.

Bob Marshall, an actual elected representative in Virginia, called for an end to state funding of Planned Parenthood because nature takes its vengeance on women who abort fetuses by giving them defective babies.

Now some are in a tizzy over this remark claiming it’s batshit crazy (I’m paraphrasing), but I applaud Bob Marshall for being so upfront about the numerous abortions his mother clearly had that left him with the traumatic brain damage he suffers from today.

Mothers should breathe easy that while nature may be throwing tsunamis into their damaged-by-abortion birth canals, their handicapped children could someday be elected to public office and say the most abhorrent statements imaginable.

Now Bob is a little upset that his remarks were being posted on social networking sites leading to online petitions calling for his resignation when usually he could say this crazy shit without anyone batting an eye misconstrued by journalists whose moms clearly had abortions causing them to have the taking-out-of-context handicap and write that a elected representative actually felt it appropriate to say God punished women for abortions. He never said God was punishing women for their sinful ways. He said nature. And really, it’s punishing the kids.

Whew! Thank Nature that was cleared up. I’m sure the millions of children with disabilities feel better too.

Please welcome the newsfeed baby!

Not only do I get to sift through friends’ platitudes– “Don’t Look Back. You’re Not Going That Way”–on my Facebook newsfeed, but now I can see what news articles they read on other websites.

This is great. I really wanted to know that people I know on the most superficial of levels are reading articles like “Michelle and Jim Bob Duggar are expecting their 20th child” and “SeaWorld Orlando announces new attraction” (Apparently Shamu and Jim Bob Duggar are expecting their 20th hybrid whale-baby)

Facebook has hooked up with Yahoo! and created a newsfeed baby that is a half-brother to the baby created by Yahoo! and Jim Bob Duggar.

I don’t read Yahoo! News because the name itself invalidates everything placed on that page, but it’s basically the sign of the times to come. At some point, Facebook will intertwine directly with our brains and be able to post status updates  like:

I really don’t want random people…excuse me, my besties knowing what I search for and read on the Internet. I look up some weird sh*t on the Internet. For research, thank you very much Mr. FBI agent or Mrs. FBI Agent because I’m not sexist or Ms. FBI agent because you don’t have to be married. I have looked up adult baby syndrome several times. I also searched for information on Richard Simmons and his pom-pom tank top, which incidentally led to many sites on adult baby syndrome. I use search engines when I don’t know how to spell something like gonorrhea or Kim Kardashian. All for this blog.

All for you, readers.

Now the U.S. Supreme Court is hearing a case on whether it’s a-okay for the coppers to track your every move (unbeknownst to you, of course) through GPS. I read about this on Goofball! News. That GPS thing-a-mabob is not good. It touches on the Orvillian (coined for Orville Redenbacher who experimented with hybrid popcorn kernels). I really don’t want the local police to know that I stop at the local Rite-Aid several times to pick up adult diapers for the diaper parties I attend. For research. 

We are one step away from looking as bad as Bruce Willis did wearing that hair piece in Surrogates, a movie I’ve never seen due to spending time in active pursuits like searching adult baby syndrome on the Internet.

How do I know?

I read about it on Facebook.