'Merica

*Note:  I am well aware that I have not written a post on my son's birthday this year.  I assure you that this is not because I have forgotten.  In fact, I have not and the only reason I got out of bed that day was because Alexis had dance (Nationals, baby!  Though by the end of this week I was so done and wished that her team sucked so we didn't have to go to the invite-only Big Show at the end of the week...), and in case you missed it, I am apparently a dance mom.  In keeping with the spirit of last year, I have decided to again write a post with the usual inanity and bluntness and propensity to offend as I usually do.  Enjoy!


It's Independence Day Weekend, bitchez!  Let's celebrate 'Merica!  For those of you not from the U.S.A, this is the weekend that we celebrate the mistaken notion that the Declaration of Independence was signed on July 4, 1776 (it was actually just officially adopted on this day, thus showing that U.S'ians aren't bothered by things like historical accuracy or fact checking.)  There are a lot of traditions that go along with this, and most of them are as fucked up as all get out, so of course I am going to dissect them here.

First, let's start off with a tradition that is not necessarily limited to the Fourth (capital F, bitchez, cause it's a goddamned government sanctioned holiday and we don't get mail that day.  It's THAT important.).  Catching lightning bugs.  You may know these as fireflies.  Who thought up the good idea of releasing small children out into a yard to catch these poor mothafuckers who are just trying to get laid, to either be squeezed to death in a toddler's hand and smearing their yellow glow shit all over the fucking place, or they go into the jar of death and torture.  There are a lot of variations on this jar of death and torture, FYI.  When we were little, it was a margarine tub with fork holes stabbed in the top.  Some people perpetuate the whole American consumerism thing ('Merica!) and purchase a special receptacle to capture those things.  My kids get a mason jar with holes stabbed into the lid, which I then superglued to the ring.  Cause nothing says 'Merica like being inventive.  But seriously, once those little guys are in the jar, they are desperately trying to climb out to get their freak on, and the kids are pounding on the lid to get them to fall to the bottom...and let's not even talk about the ones who inadvertently get smooshed a'la that scene in Scream where the girl gets all tangled up in the garage door.

Then there are the sparklers.  Let's give children hot pieces of wire that shoot sparks and let them run free, in the dark.  Cause nothing says Independence Day like being branded by your five year old after sundown.  Plus all that smoke inhalation and fumes from the sparklers, year after year after year, surely can't be healthy for you.  But hey, this is America, land of the free!  Health care is not seen as a right, yo, so no need to treat the lung cancer from the smoke inhalation!

Fireworks.  OK, in Ohio, they are illegal to shoot off in your backyard.  People do it all the fucking time.  Which is great until the cops show up, or someone loses an eye.  Plus, does no one see the irony in firing off something that is going to remind the combat veterans of this country of combat in celebration of the freedom that we have, that was earned through combat?  Be respectful of the vets, bitchez.  They are the reason your dumb asses can shoot that shit off.  And the dogs, too.  I imagine that more Valium is consumed by the canine population this week than any other.  And there are the stupid "fireworks" too, like the snakes and those popper things that you throw at people's feet, while screaming "Dance, mothafucker!  Dance!"  (At least that's how I do it...)  We had some pretty interesting ones tonight, like a pooping dog and a chicken blowing up a balloon.  Cause, 'Merica!

Nothing says Independence from Oppression like sparks blowing out your ass.

Parades are also kinda fucked up if you think about it.  First of all, let's take the emergency response vehicles and have them drive at 5 MPH down the road with their sirens blaring.  Cause hearing is just an extra sense to have, doncha know?  And who cares if there is an actual emergency.  There's a parade, dammit, deal with it your own fucking self.  Then let's let the perpetuation of misogyny come with the princesses being paraded down in sports cars.  And of course it's the middle of July so it's usually like 90* with 99% humidity in Ohio, so their make up is slowly melting and I am sure that they are silently cursing whatever possessed them to run for Little Miss whatever.  Then there are the floats, wherein people throw candy into crowds for children to get.  This usually involves them having to run into the streets, because by god if the obesity won't get them, modeling running into the street surely will.  If, that is, they did not get an eye taken out, either during the parade from the errant Tootsie Roll or from the fireworks and/or sparklers from the night before.

Apple Pie...ok this is one thing that we got right (is it American?  IDK, to be honest, because like most Americans I am unconcerned with things like fact checking or historical accuracy.  At least about my baked goods, that is.).  Sweetened apples, baked into a flaky crust, served warm with ice cream on it.  Great huh?  No, we have to fuck things up royally here in 'Merica and even the innocence of apple pie was corrupted by an infamous movie scene where a young boy let himself loose on a poor unsuspecting pie.  That is just a bacterial infection waiting to happen there, folks.

And now I want pie.  The innocent kind, not the corrupted movie kind.

Random X

Conversation that may or may not have been had at my house while I was watching a video of a dog dancing the salsa with its owner:

Me:  Lookit, honey!  A salsa dancing dog!  Can I do this with Maximus?

Charles: Uh, I want to see you be able to pick him up and flip him like that guy did...

Me:  That's not a no...

Charles:  Well, he's not allowed to jump up on people.  And he has to do that for this.  So that might be a problem.

Me: (because I am a PROBLEM SOLVER, bitchez...) Well, just don't play salsa music then.  PROBLEM SOLVED.

Charles:  Nope.  It's all I listen to all day long at work.


As a documented dance mom, I feel that I have some leeway when it comes to watching my child dance and getting all emotional and shit.  Mostly because its so fucking nice to see that all that money I am paying for dance is not getting wasted.  I will say, though, that I also feel that I then have the leeway to go home and drink a margarita because Mama earned that, mothafuckers.


So my husband is totally gimped out right now from a torn bicep muscle.  He had to have surgery to repair it (technically it was a ligament, but torn bicep ligament for some reason does not sound as bad ass) and now he is off work for four months and has this brace on his arm that probably cost more than my van.  It's totally not a bad ass story, though.   There was a dead baby skunk in the back yard.  He scooped it up with a shovel to fling into the field behind our house.  That's it.  He's lucky, though, because my sister and I have a rule that you don't go to the ER if you are doing something stupid.  My personal belief, though, is that he did it to avoid having to set up for Elizabeth's graduation party.  Because you know, it would TOTALLY make sense to go to those lengths to avoid having to set up for a party.  TOTALLY realistic and very similar to the set up in the movie Anger Management (one of the few movies I have actually seen, for the record.  I'm lucky I can sit through a 50 minute therapy session...and even then I'm totally fidgeting the whole time.)

Because of the above, he had his arm in a cast for two weeks. This meant I literally had to tie his shoes.  I was teasing him about this one day and told him he was going to forget all of his big boy skills.  As soon as the words left my mouth, I wished I could take them back because I totally knew where he was going to take that.  And he did.  I'm not going into details, because honestly if you can't figure it out on your own why the fuck are you reading this blog, of all the blogs to read?



I get very annoyed by salads you buy from a restaurant.  They have them all prettily arranged in the bowl, all the veggies nicely separated and the meat all artfully splayed across the bed of crisp greens.  Look here, mothafuckers...I'm already cranky by having to buy a salad from you because all of your other food has gluten in it which my body has decided is the devil.  I sure as fuck don't want to have to mix that shit up myself.  I came to this restaurant for you to prepare my food for me.  I expect it to be ready to eat.  Having to mix my own salad is too much like work.  What's next, having me do my own dishes at this place?

Recital

It pains me to have to write this post.

Mostly because it makes me feel like the equivalent of the old timers in a barber shop lamenting the state of today's youth.  However, in this case, I am sitting in a theatre watching in disbelief as entire families, like literally dozens of people, got up to leave after their child's performance.  In some cases, before intermission.

What. The. Fuck.

Why do I have to write a "how not to be an asshole at a dance recital" post?

I am sorry, your child ain't that special.  It's not like they had a solo, because NO ONE had a solo.  The solos did not perform at this recital.  None of the competition families, who's children ARE that special (and also put hours of work in WEEKLY vs your one little 45 min class), got up and left.  They might have cheered very loudly, but they stayed seated unless it was to go do a costume change.  And even if they did have to go help backstage, they returned...leaving after your kid performs takes douche-baggery to a whole new level.

You go to a recital, you sit through the whole entire thing.  You may or may not make fun of all of the other children who aren't yours (*ahem* not that I've ever been privy to this happening...) but you sit there the whole time and you clap after each number and laugh at the kids who stand there and stare terrified out at the audience in a moment they are sure to re-live with their therapist as an adult.

You sure as fuck don't get up and leave and then stand out in the lobby and laugh and talk and ooh and aah over your preschooler while ignoring the fact that every other child in that recital worked just as fucking hard as your kid.  In the case of the competition kids, EVEN harder than your kid.  And that is not including all of the time and effort put forth by the teachers, and the support staff, and the staff of the theatre.

Your child is not the only one performing.  What a big "fuck you" to all of those other kids when you get up and leave.  The idea of being able to go get your kid after they performed was to bring them back into the audience...TO SUPPORT THEIR PEERS.  Not to be a douche bag like you clearly are.

It is a sad reflection on our society that people feel the need to make their little special snowflakes feel super duper special at the expense of other kids.  What does that sound like?  Bullying.  That is what that sounds like.  I no longer want to hear people wondering about where this comes from because they are the people who are leaving recitals early.  You learn this shit from home, bitchez.  And if you can't be arsed to sit through a fucking children's dance recital, you certainly can't be arsed to make sure you aren't modelling other bullying behaviors.

Take a good hard look at yourself here.  Children mimic what they see.  Would you be ok with another child treating your special snowflake like you are treating other kids?

If you are leaving that recital early...I doubt it.

Felonies

One of the things that I like about the private practice work that I do is there is a bit of a drive home.  This can be a good thing as I decompress a bit after work and prepare myself for the onslaught of children, husband, and animals when I get home.  It can also be a bad thing as, well, anyone who has read my blog knows how my mind works.  And just think, this is the stuff that I feel is fit for public consumption...imagine what I keep to myself...

Anyways. (*side note...I  had someone say to me today that I use that as a segue a lot.  So of course, being the asshole that I am, I deliberately made it a point to use it as much as possible.) This particular day that I am thinking of, I was thinking about the whole idea of criminal thinking and the thought processes that must go behind the decision to commit a felony.  I mean, when does one cross the line and think, yep.  This is worth losing my right to vote and own a gun and I strongly feel I have a future working at McDonald's as a fry cook for the rest of my life (*another side note...I just Googled "does McDonald's hire felons" because I was honestly second guessing myself as to if they do.  They do, sometimes.  They are a franchise, so it depends on the store.  This may or may not be need to know info for you.  I don't judge.)

I suppose, however, that one is not considering the consequences here because one is supposing that one will not get caught.  Hence why there are probably a lot of really common felonies, like trafficking in black tar heroin and murder and rape.

I then made the decision, that if I was ever going to commit a felony, I didn't want it to be the ordinary, run of the mill felony.  No siree, I was going to commit one of the exotic ones.  Only problem was, I couldn't exactly remember what those were.  I vaguely remembered the mnemonic MRS & MRS LAMB for remembering felonies, but obviously I either did not pay attention or it's not a very good one because I did not remember what all of them were.  I mean, like the biggies, like murder, robbery, manslaughter, and rape, sure.  But what about the rest?  Again, Google to the rescue.

Murder
Rape

Manslaughter
Robbery
Sodomy

Larceny
Arson
Mayhem
Burglary

Again, might be need to know info for you, and again, no judgment here.

So upon perusing the list, I eliminated the ones you commonly hear of, the murder, manslaughter, rape, robbery, and burglary.  Arson is one that's sorta common, but I really am not into fire starting unless it's to get drunk next to one and watch a neighbor burn her cheek on a s'more (true story.  In her defense, there were a lot of margaritas involved...)  I wasn't going to go with sodomy because, well, I just wasn't and if I have to explain it to you then you need to utilize Google yourself (says the woman who is actively considering which felony, hypothetically speaking, of course, she would be likely to commit.)  That leaves larceny and mayhem.  I wasn't completely comfortable with the whole larceny thing either, so that left mayhem.  Again, not entirely sure what that was, so a quick Google search again indicated that it was "the crime of maliciously injuring or maiming someone, originally so as to render the victim defenseless"  I really didn't want to go there, either, cause deep down inside I'm not mean.  So I was a bit bummed that my brainstorming was not working out, until I had an idea.

Racketeering.

Sounds exotic, and I would make it so I only impacted the super rich somehow.  Like convinced them that their puppies needed this special water to keep them from getting sick, and then sold them water from their hoses or something, because saving dogs (and hobos) is what I do.  However, I wasn't completely sure if it was a felony.

I was tired of Googling at this point, so I texted my older brother who is a police officer.  Luckily, he's known me all of my life and I often text him really random questions, so me texting him "Is racketeering a felony?" was not something that made him bat an eye.  Not only did he answer the question, but he expanded on it as well and went into it usually being a collection of crimes and against RICO and whatnot.

So there you have it, bitchez.  If I were ever to make the evening news, it is totally going to be for running some kind of a racket.  Anyone need some water for their puppies?

Trucks

I am horribly confused by the whole food truck thing.

Since when has it become socially acceptable to consume anything other than hot dogs or soft pretzels, perhaps cotton candy, from a vehicle?  Who the fuck thought it would be a good idea to pack an entire restaurant kitchen into a vehicle so you can serve food from it? Not only that...but who the fuck thought that this would be a good idea to do in Ohio?  You know, land of all four seasons in one day...where it is not uncommon to have to wear snow boots, a rain coat, and a cardigan you could take off if needed over a short sleeved shirt all in the same work day?

Does the fumes from the gasoline or diesel add some kind of exotic flavor to the food?  Is THAT why carnival food tastes so good?  (I'm still asserting that it is because they never ever clean those kitchens, and you can't get that kind of seasoning with having served funnel cakes and Italian sausage for 30 years straight  from a kitchen with a good scrub down on a regular basis, I tell you what...)

How the fuck do they get their deliveries?  Like, truck to truck?  And I'm a little skeptical that there is enough storage in those bad boys for a full week's worth of cooking...therefore necessitating a brick and mortar building, and also therefore negating the need for the fucking truck to begin with.  Why do Americans think that we need to consume food that is basically gypsy in nature.  I mean, I have nothing against gypsies per se...but I don't want to have to chase my food.  I leave my hunting to my husband and just go to the fucking grocery store.

And even if the truck never moves...WHAT IS THE POINT?  Why not just get a building?  Why do you have to confuse and vex me so, food trucks?  Why do you have to go and give me an existential crisis?  Why am I so horribly confused by this concept?

WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?

Reggie II

This hamster is making me increasingly paranoid.

First off, she's hoarding food in her cage.  Like she has it stored strategically around under her bedding.  What the fuck for?  It figures that I would get the hamster that is some sort of a crazy prepper.  She's probably going to vote for Trump and is a fan of Ted Nugent, too.  If I find out that she's hoarding ammo too the next time I change her bedding, I'm moving out of the house.

Second, she's got some kind of intricate tunnel system set up underneath her bedding.  Three fourths of the time, she is not above ground; rather she is doing who the fuck knows what in her bunker under the bedding.  Seriously, they are tunnels like the Viet Cong or something.  She even has them leading up to her little house thing, so she does not have to come above ground to even go into her  home.

I fully expect to hear the banjos from Deliverance every time I check this fucker's food and water.  Look at those suspicious, beady eyes...

Third, she seems to be perfecting her Matrix-like ninja skills.  She is getting increasingly adept at avoiding anyone handling her...it's like she has some fear of being contaminated or something if she is touched by us Human Infidels.  It appears that biological warfare is the only thing that she is not prepared for, so I guess that makes sense as it is her only vulnerability.

WHAT THE FUCK AM I EVEN TALKING ABOUT???  Her only vulnerability?  This fucking midget rodent has ME plotting HER downfall!  The psychological torture here is almost unbearable!  

I used to think that it would be the children that sent me to the insane asylum.  It appears that the hamster is a close contender to be the reason as well.  

Enough

I've been a bad blogger again, bitchez.

I've got all kinds of excuses.  Two jobs.  Three children who consistently demand things like nutrition, healthcare, and education. (Assholes.)  A house that, let's face it, is not going to be as clean as I would like it until we move out of it and into another bigger one we can trash. Just maybe a little more spread out will the trashing be. (And Yoda I am channeling.)  And of course, I'm constantly looking for new things to occupy my time stress myself out over, such as contemplating opening my Etsy store for business and expanding my gardens and training for a marathon.

Ha ha.  I can't even find time to read a goddamned book.  Or even a fucking short story or poem.  A marathon is totally out of the question.  I'm lucky to find time to exercise at all (as evidenced by all of the weight I have gained back...:/ )  Everything just keeps getting pushed off to the future.  When I have only one job.  When the kids are in school full time.  When we finally move out to the country.

Everything seems like it has been getting postponed lately.  I wanted to have a bigger house for Elizabeth's grad party.  She graduates this June, and we are still in the same house.  I wanted to start running again.  I still have not gone out to buy new running shoes.  I wanted to have Alexis take violin lessons.  Her violin has not been touched in forever.  I signed Charlie up for 1,000 books before kindergarden.  She's probably read that many already, but we don't get to the library to turn her papers in.  Hell, I've been wanting to go on a date with my husband.  It's been way too long.

I feel like I have been such a failure in so many ways.  I judge myself way more harshly than anyone else.  The perfectionism that I lecture my clients about runs rampant in myself, and I always seem to be slacking.

But yet...our house feels like home and Elizabeth is having fun planning her graduation party with me.  Alexis has found her true love in dance.  Charlie is as smart as a whip.  My husband puts up with my crazy.  It just never feels like I am doing enough.

Not pretty enough.  Not skinny enough.  Not smart enough.  Not enough money.  Not taking the kids to enough activities.  Not spending enough quality time with them.  Not spending enough time on my career.  Not spending enough time on housework.  On reading.  On hobbies.  On exercise, fitness, and/or health.  On beauty.  On pop culture.  On learning about social media.

When does it become enough?  When you are too old to remember?  When you die?  When you wake up one day and realize that all the voices that were on the outside, or so you thought, were really coming from within, but with help from external sources?  When you realize perfection is an unrealistic standard sold by marketing companies to promote products for the almighty dollar?

I know most of  that logically.  Yet I can understand why most people don't feel it in their hearts.  I tell people,  "Today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday."  But you can't rationalize with anxiety (believe me, I've tried.)

I just have to hope that it is enough.  And keep contributing to the children's therapy funds in case it is not.

Suburbia

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Random IX

Charles and I were pretending to be adults last night and were talking about our wishes after we died.  I told him that in no way was I to be cremated because if there is a zombie apocalypse, I fully intend to participate to the best of my abilities.  Charles then remarked that he limps around anyways due to his knees, so really it was not going to be too much of a stretch for him to be a zombie anyways, at least movement-wise.  I then also told him to be sure to part me out as well, though given my health it is unlikely that they would use any of my spare parts unless the doctor really hated the patient and wanted to kill them.  And if that is the case, I'm pretty sure you have bigger problems than just needing my organs.  Like probably you should find a new doctor.


Getting a new iPhone: Well, it was free since I traded my old one in and this was when Verizon still let you get one for fairly cheap.

Downloading the Amazon Music app:  Also free, though if you want to get technical I do pay for Amazon Prime, so maybe the app really cost like $99 but I'm deluding myself that it is free.

Downloading Air Supply's "I'm All Out of Love":  Well....also free, but possibly $99.  See above.

Rocking out to "I'm All Out of Love" at the top of your lungs and totally embarrassing your 9 year old even though you were alone in the house:  Priceless, bitchez.  Isn't that why we had kids?


I've been hiding at work lately.  Mostly because of our accrediting body doing their visit and everyone being all cranky.  And because we have to have all of the doors shut in the hallways, so now I am firmly convinced that someone is going to jump out and murder me.  And because I am in a back hallway pretty much by myself since my supervisor is on maternity leave, no one would hear me getting murdered.  I've got too much stuff to do at home, people, for me to get murdered at work.  So I will stay in my office, thankyouverymuch.

Dresses

One thing that no one mentions when you sign up for this thing called parenting is that the pain does not stop after the child has exited the vagina (or, as in the case of Charlie, the abdominal incision).  No one tells you about things like molars.  Orthodontia.  Caillou and Dora.  Prom.

That's right, bitchez.  Your child, will, at some point, be statistically likely to go to a formal dance.  And if your kid does not, PLEASE share your secrets with me so I can put them into play for the next two.  Unless it involves things such as bullying or severe social anxiety.  I'm pretty much not a fan of those kinds of things.

When your child goes to said formal dance, they will  need clothes for it as it is generally frowned upon to go in your birthday suit.  And not just any clothes...dear sweet mother of God, it has to be a dress.  And one usually finds dresses in a store, which is in a mall.  I fucking hate the mall with all the fiery passion I usually reserve for such things as Katy Perry's singing, food touching, and spring.  This is where having boys would come in handy, cause I could just totally punt that off to Charles as being in his domain.  I'm pretty sure, though, that as tolerant as that man is and despite the number of tea parties he has attended, wearing a crown no less, prom dress shopping is where he draws the line.

You know how I shopped for my prom dress?  I put Elizabeth in her stroller, walked into JC Penny's, and found a cream colored plain dress within 10 minutes.  It fit, was simple, and I did not have to venture any further into the mall for it.  Plus it was like $30.  The entire ordeal took me less than 45 minutes.

I'm not what you would call a girly girl.

It has never been that simple with Elizabeth.  Now mind you, she has attended prom every year of high school so far.  I try not to think about that fact too hard, but I figure her prom dresses are cheaper than the dance I pay for for her sisters, so it's really hard to complain.  (Word of advice...encourage your child to play the less expensive sports.)  That and I tend to be a sucker for my children...not that they are spoiled, as they most definitely are not, but I do try to make special occasions, well, special for them.  So I begrudgingly get in the car and take her dress shopping.

She has learned from past experiences, I think, and did not attempt to drag me to the mall.  For which I am eternally grateful because I don't think I could have handled that today as I had dress rehearsal for competition with the little girls and I was already high on the fumes from hairspray and whatever chemicals sequins and feathers emit.  I would have put this off, but a.) I work 7 days/week, and b.) I completely get the anxiety she would have had because prom is almost two months away and dear GOD, what if she did not find a dress?  I can appreciate that kind of anxiety cause I live it myself daily.  However, she did drag me to a store 2 hours away.  That had literally thousands of dresses.

Holy fucking shit, my ADHD kicked in big time.  I was like a 10 month old baby who was completely overstimulated and just did not know what to do and was running on fumes and completely unable to be soothed.  There were so many dresses.  They started looking alike after a while.  Thankfully, we brought her date, a friend, and my sister with us because had it just been the two of us, this might have been a disaster rivaling the decision to allow me to be on the Internet unsupervised.

We decided against the $700 dress.  Seven.  Hundred.   Fucking. Dollars.  For a prom dress.  My wedding dress cost half that.  That's almost my fucking mortgage.  Just...FUCK.  That being said, we did not spend anywhere near that amount.  But it was still painful.  Maybe not to the point of requiring an epidural, but damn.  Some Xanax would have been nice.  Or a shot at least.  A bullet to bite on perhaps?