Monthly Archives: June 2011

I don’t get it.

yeah I'm breastfed. so? do you care so much about my poop too?

Now, i’ve written before here and here about other people making innappropriate comments about my kid when he gets all screamy in public.  So no worries that this is going to be another volatile rant.  I mean, it could turn into one, but that isn’t my plan.

What i don’t get is that parenting for some folks seems to be some sort of competition.  An Olympic sport, if you will, with hidden judges behind every bush and mailbox waiting to enter their scores for both the technical and the creative.  Only i can never see these judges.   either a) they’re really wiley or b) THEY DON’T FUCKING EXIST.

oop, sorry.  almost got ranty there.

Now, i will admit i’m spared alot of this because i am anti social.  And i despise talking to other moms about anything other than how to mix the perfect gibson.  But sometimes you get stuck in that situation where you just have to hear about Billy’s new probiotics or the fact that Jasmine was NEVER put in a swing.  I swear i’m gonna start looking around more when they tell me these things to see if i can spy one of the judges lurking about.

Maybe it’s autism that has changed my view.  I mean–it’s NICE and all what you are doing with your typical kid, but 9 times out of ten, it involves something that wouldn’t apply/work/interest my kid.  Or, its something that would make him screamy, and i share that with you, only to see the look of absolute horror pass over you.  Which kinda gives me the giggles.

Why yes, this is pure sugar and food dye. And?

You know, i get that, as parents, people wanna share.  I do too. (hello, this is a BLOG) but i have never understood the, “well, WE do [fill in snooty activity here]“, as if doing this activity will grant you some sort of parenting badge.

That’s it.  They all must be girl scouts or something.  I never joined girl scouts because, well…I thought it was dumb so i never bugged my mom to join.  But that seems to be the mentality now that i think on it.  These women are working toward some sort of merit badge in parenting. That must be it.  Or in bitchy self-righteousness.  Or snooty white girl problems.    You get where i’m going here.

So imma go back to parenting my kid in my own style, sans badge.  It works for us.  And if it doesn’t, i add a triple salchow or a back flip with a halftwist.  That always impresses the russian judge.

Last weekend, i was driving the family to some damn event and my Old Man and i were blathering on about nothing in particular when the subject of feminism came up.  (i know, right?) I believe i was regaling him with some story about some sort of jackassery overheard a while back that is still in my craw.

You see, it has been the excuse of men through the centuries, to say that men are weak and women are good–therefore it is OUR responsibility, as women,  to maintain control because men can’t.  Men are pigs.  Stinky, rooting about, wallowing in filth, eating whatever is thrown at them, swine.

But what gets under my skin is that WE as women are somehow responsible for their lack of control–that it is for women to sacrifice for the sake of peace.

ANd i call bullshit.

As a student of religion, i have heard and reheard this argument over and over.  This is why we sit in a different part of the synagogue or mosque, why we are not necessarily members of the leadership–because (and i love this one) we are somehow CLOSER TO GOD because we give birth, blah blah blah.

Again, bullshit.

[now, before certain of you jump into my shit--yes, birth is miraculous and life changing/affirming.  I am in no way denying that.  Keep yer knickers on]

Now, i’m not gonna take to task the historical underlying messages here–and they are numerous, from trying to control female sexuality, assuring paternity, and keeping other cavemen off yer women .  I am simply going to take this one argument to task.  If men are pigs, why are we(as women) punished for it?

Now–to keep the possible rising testosterone at bay, let me point out a few things–or rather what i am NOT talking about.  I am NOT talking about dressing like a skank and going into a men’s lockeroom after a game and expecting men to act like complete gentlemen.  (even though i would expect my son to act like one ALWAYS, but that is a matter of upbriging and social acceptance, and i am not about to take on that turkey just yet).  I recognize the difference between being provocative and self-preservation.  That’s not feminism–that’s survival.

HOWEVER

For men to feel they have some sort of free pass to say inappropriate things to women they don’t know, and that we have to “accept” it becuase of previous swine references, is the most ludicrous things i’ve ever heard, and makes me kinda stabby.

That blame is placed on women most of the time in any sort of “scandal” involving a celebrity, makes me wanna cut a bitch. (yes–i agree, some of them are skanks.  But what BUGS me is that that title is given before evidence is produced)

That somehow it shows a woman’s good breeding if she silently supports her philadering husband instead of getting pissed–which she has every right to do–makes me wanna write angry letters.  Ok–that might be understating it a bit–but you understand me here.

Everytime it falls on women to make the sacrifice, or show control or be held back because men lack self control.  And it gets under my skin like chiggers.

So while i was ranting on about this travesty–this injustice–my husband (a man’s man in every detail) came up with the perfect solution:  If men cannot control themselves, then they are not allowed to carry guns.  Only women can.

The simplicity of this plan almost made me weep.

For a man to use a gun, he had to have permission from the female keeper of guns in his life.  THat means in the heat of an argument or fight, he has to ask his wife/girlfriend/mama to get her gun out of her purse in order to use it.

it would be the end of war.

Now, of course, i’m not denying that there are some crazy bitches out there that would take this too far and go on a shooting rampage at the local Piggly Wiggly, but for the most part, this seems like a solid plan.

Except for the part where Sarah Palin would still have a gun, but no plan is without flaws…

So, Ben’s “end of the school year” torture fest was last week–an event in which he flatly refused to participate.  He hates those things.  All the people and change in routine send him into a meltdown frenzy.  He did sing with a few of the songs–sitting next to us of course–but refused to join his compadres on stage.

But this isn’t what i am writing about.  Sure the kids were cute in their costumes, singing their little songs, dancing their little dance.  I mean, you’d have to be a douchbag to not find them adorable.

But since my son wasn’t participating, it gave me an opportunity to make some other observations.  I knew walking in that this event would give me blog material in some form.  As a large percentage of the parents in this class are of latin american descent, I thought i would write about how these things always turn into some sort of regional tamale cook-off (there’s always three different kinds–including one from the teacher herself, that you’d BETTER try lest she beat your child when you’re not looking)  have i mentioned (and yes, i know i’m going to hell for this) that i don’t even LIKE tamales?  So yeah, i was prepared to take pics of the different dishes and have some sort of snarky food network challenge spoof.

Except noone made tamales this time.  WHA?

So what’s a girl to write about?

I’ll tell you what she’s gonna write about.  Shoes.  I began to notice that with all the different kind of moms there, there were subsequently different kinds of shoes that defined those moms.

These were my shoes that day:

I think they say what needs to be said.  Comfy, retro, hipster (yeah right) maybe a little more nerdy than imagined.

There were a few of these (which had been my first choice, but it was rainy, and i’m in desperate need of a pedicure)

I feel these moms.  We speak the same language.  This shoe says, “look, i’ve got shit to do and no time to be tying shoelaces.  And my feet hurt.”

There was the put together yuppie/hipster mom sporting these nice sandles with a nice skirt and a nice top.  I have to say she seemed a little “uncomfortable” with all the non-english speakers around her.  She must be new to LA.  Or the Valley.  Or Life.

And then there was the photographer mom with the very expensive digital SLR who was chronicling the whole event.  Really–she was taking pictures for the teacher.  Her kid is adorable, and one of the ladies in my sons corral, so i can’t hate much here.  Except that she does the “walking on her pants” situation with the heels of these boots that make me wanna smack her to ruining those jeans that barely cover her butt in the first place.

And then there were these:

um…you do KNOW this is a pre school event, yeah?  Because while i am confident about my walking/running in heels ability, I KNOW i couldn’t tear after Ben in these:

What is this?  Club Play-doh? You gonna wait at the bar for the barkeep to get you a caprisun?  Hey honeys, check out my sweet new ride–THREE wheels with spinning rims.

Don’t mind me. I’m just jealous, because i don’t even think i could squeeze my gargantuan flat feet into anything remotely resembling these.  And if they can wear these, make tamales and still chase their kids?  well, they win.

you know what i hate?  food poisoning.

(urp)

now, for those of you concerned that you are coming to my dinner party tonight–it’s not that serious, and the party is still on.  This is more of the, “wow i shouldn’t have eaten that”  moment that leaves you on the verge of urping with a splitting headache and various intestinal issues, and fucks up your entire morning. yay me.

(urp)

so, i hope you don’t mind if i go lay down for a moment.  it IS 5 in the morning.

(urp)

I’ll admit.  Father’s day never really meant much to me.

Back story:  I’ve never met my father.  Long story short–he was 18, my mom 20, and he was obviously ill prepared for fatherhood and the responsibilities that lay therein.  So my mom left when i was a wee larvae, and later, when given the chance, my father decided it would be better to not know me and broke all ties.

Sure–i thought about finding him from time to time–usually around major moments in life–but eventually that curiosity kinda wore off.  I mean, whatever his reasoning, i just know that if i had a friend who made the same decision my father made, I’d lose all respect for him.  COnsider him spineless.  QUestion his ownership of testicles.

Now this isn’t to say i sit about and just hate on the man.  I mean, I don’t even know him.  Hating him would be a waste of energy.  (and trust me–it too a LOOOOOOOONG time to come to that realization.)  Forgiveness has a way of sneaking up on you–but you are always the better for it.

But no–this post still isn’t about him.  I’m sure he has a family somewhere, gifiting him with ugly ties or ratchet sets, and g-d bless them all for it.  But my concern today isn’t about him.

It’s about this guy.  Father of my child.  The one who is teaching me daily what it means to be a father.  It isn’t perfect (unlike my own motherhood! HAH!) but he has shown my son the tenderness, patience, excitement, generosity of spirit that i never knew from a man as a child.  (Yes, i had a grandpa, and yes he was wonderful, but he wasn’t my father, and i never saw him as such)  Sure, there are times when i think–what the fuck is he doing?  But i’ve learned to let it go, because Ben’s relationship with him is different than Ben’s relationship with me, and having never known what it’s like to have a dad, i have to stop and remember that sometimes daddy’s gonna do things different.  and its ok.  And that we are a partnership.  And that i have to learn how that works every day.

I suppose in some ways it’s good i never had a dad.  Because then i have nothing to compare him to, and that leaves him free to just be a dad–the way he wants to.  And we’re all the better for it.

Happy Father’s day Petey.  Love you.

in honor of my blogoversary, which just snuck up on me like the golem, I’m over at Musings of a Sarcastic Mind in her Blogger face-off.  A good match, i think.

http://musingsofasarcasticmind.blogspot.com/2011/06/blogger-face-off-round-5.html

“it writes in its preciouses, it writes and keeps Smeagle company”

A few nights ago I got the chace to actually LEAVE the house WITHOUT any of the males in my household in attendance.  That’s right.  Girl’s night.

We are “industry” folk, (that’s LA speak for the TV/movie industry), as are most of our friends, so my girl Krista, as a member of the Academy (yes, THAT academy) had invites to free screenings of Bridesmaids.  And since I seem to be the most irreverent, foul-mouthed chick she knows, she figured I would be the perfect companion.

I’m not gonna waste your time reviewing the movie–there are plenty of reviews out there–90% of the good or better.  The other 10%?  Utah.

But i will say, it was the funniest fuckin movie I have seen in FOREVER–and I’ve seen a lot of movies (remember–industry folk).  At the end of the movie, as credits were rolling, Krista and I were simply trying to stop crying and BREATHE we were laughing so hard.

[aside--another girlfriend of mine introduced me to a German word that summed up a lot of what I felt during this movie:  fremdschamen.  It's the embarrassment you feel for the characters on the screen--so uncomfortable you would think it's your own. It's the reason I can't watch Curb Your Enthusiasm.  But I was able to muddle through.]

But not only was it a great flick, it was a reminder of the importance of sorority in your life–and no I do NOT mean anything with a greek letter or keg parties–although I’m sure Krista and i could still hold our own.  While Krista is a mommy-friend, we were also friends before babies.  And her presence in my life at key moments has been very important.  And while we don’t get to hang out all the time, when we do we are reminded of this weird sister-bond that we’ve had for some time.

Now I will say, I’ve never had many female friends.  Honestly, I don’t know why.  Oh, I could give some excuse about being too beautiful and the bitches are just jealous of my tremendous cans, or whatevs–but who knows.  It’s not because I am a manly girl–I only have a few male friends too.  All I know is that I have little patience for drama or scheming, and anyone who brings that into my life usually departs from it shortly thereafter.  Women just tend to fall into this category more often I guess)

Over sushi we bitched about our husbands’ little quirks and idiosyncrasies, how little we see of them sometimes (again–industry) and taking a moment to long for the pre-baby relationships we once had with them, and to admit what wonderful fathers they have become.  We talked about household budgets and making ends meet, of going back to work, (her) and staying home to work (me).  But mostly, we just talked.  TALKED.  As in sharing conversation with one another over food and beverage. Merriment.  Communication.

And I came home relaxed (and no we didn’t even drink!) and grounded.  As important as it is to have that connection time with your old man, it’s equally important to connect with your sistas–in person or on the interwebs. you with me girls? holla!

ahem.

We weren’t that close when my Old Man asked me to marry him, so she wasn’t in my bridal party at the time. But if i had it to do over again, she would be right there, in some god-awful taffeta creation, arranging my train, and making faces behind my back–’cause that’s how we roll.

Its time for another installment of Hater Humpday.  This week’s episode is brought to you by celebrity hate.

I Hate:

1.  That people take Gweneth Paltrow seriously.

2.  Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack Sparrow.  Seriously with the flappy hand and apparantly drunken lisp?

3.  Sarah Jessica Parker.  No reason.  I just hate her face.

4.  That gay actors have to hide their identity if they want to land good roles.  Although i suppose that says something for their acting ability.  OR not.  ex: tom cruise.  Who does he think he’s fooling?  really?

5.  That Snookie is published.  And that people actually read it.  Or is it a picture book?

6.  That Christopher Walken doesn’t make more movies.

7.  That Network television doesn’t give the good shows a chance, but yet lets the crappy ones go on forever.

8.  That i’m no longer a part of the prime demographic.  (no, it is NOT time for me to watch CBS on a more regular basis.  SHUT IT Andy Rooney!)

9.  That some celebrity children grow up to be household names for no reason other than their vapid existence.  NOT hot.

10. That anyone would think spending a day with Nicole Richie would be a grand prize and NOT a day of sheer torture.

Ok, i’ve hated on enough skinny bitches for one day…

[UPDATE]–my husband informed me that  i am still part of the prime demographic–18-49.  So, as a 40yo i’m supposed to *like* One Tree Hill or Gossip Girl?

So Sunday, i grabbed the squirt and went to Disney with his BFF and his BFF’s  mom(who just started her own blog!–hi Yas!). Since we dwell in Los Angeles, having a season pass to Disney just makes sense. And with the Guest Assistance Pass–it really IS the happiest place on earth.

Aside from my sore tootsies and aching hips (seriously, when did i turn into an old woman?) Sunday was an AMAZING day–and its not often you can say that about an amusement park. Usually we all bring back horror stories of rude folks, bad corn dogs and rabid plush characters. NO? Just me then. But sunday was good. We were able to park hop, ride new rides for both Ben and myself, laugh, eat churros and walk away from the day without a sunburn.

We had to wait in some lines–we were not the ONLY ones with Guest assistance passes that day–but Ben was a real trooper and waited them out without one fuss. Ok, some minor fuss–but he *IS * 4. And he greeted people, talked A LOT, and seemed to have a genuinely good time. My phone unfortunately went dead before the day was out, so some of the best pics didn’t get taken (except in my heart—awwwww *gag*), but i can vouch for a happy child come the end of the day. Even without a nap.

But i must say, the thing that really struck me about the day was the number of similar parents we met that day.

Benji's BFF & Ben peeking over the rail

Background–if you have a special needs child, or the inability to stand in line for hours at a time (say, because of a broken ankle or chronic but necessary inebriation), you can go to City Hall at Disney and request a Guest Assisstance Pass. You don’t need their diagnosis or IEP–although you do need your kid if its for him/her. You tell them your issue and boom, they fill out the pass. This pass then gives you the right to use the handicapped entrance–or (as we found out) the fastpass entrance. It doesn’t mean immediate access–but it DOES mean not standing in a crowded stinky line with an autistic toddler. Yes–you CAN get looks from folks. Fuck them.

Anyway, standing in the alternate accces lines sometimes allows you to meet other autie parents. Sunday i discussed alternate entrances (sometimes they’re tricky and hidden) noise canceling headphones–and try them!–and how many times we’ve steamed aroudn the park on the disney railroad. (what IS it about Auties and trains?) I even got to educate a lady who was not having a good day. I was waiting by the exit of the bumper car ride at CA adventure–this is the one downfall to the pass–sometimes you really have to holler at the operators to get them to notice you. And i will say the operators over at a Bugs Life tend to be a little…blind and kinda snooty. Anyhell, after i got his attention, this lady eyed the pass and asked me for the 411. Her eyes widened as i told her what was up and she said– “i always send him in with his brothers and make him wait. And we NEVER get to go on the bigger rides.” See, her boy has Aspergers and a day at Disney could be a real trial for him, and the family. So i gave her the complete lowdown, then we spent a good 5 minutes disparaging the LAUSD school district, and talked about trains before Ben & I were off to wreak havoc in the bumper car ring. I may have made that lady’s day. And that boy’s brothers no doubt.

Of course we are not the only ones in the alternate access line. There are also the poor saps that broke their leg/ankle/funnybone a few days ago but still decided to come to disney. I didnt’ say much to them because either they were just miserable, or they were coked up on painkillers and didn’t need my satire.

And then there were the scooter people.

I know–some people need those damn motorized demon trolleys.  They’ve got the monkeypox or what-have-you and really cannot be on their feet for more than a few minutes.  But they just had to watch their darling grandgoblins get horked up on sugar and chronic mousey choreography. Isn’t Piper just adorable. Look how she’s getting everyone attention by refusing to sit down and protesting violently?

Yeah–imma go there. there was ONE negative about sunday. ONE. Ben and another little girl IN A WHEELCHAIR damn near got ran over by one of these “too *cough* diet challenged *cough* to walk around” scooter-jocks because he wanted to get around me. One of those situations that I haven’t decided if it was good ro bad that my husband wasn’t with us. Ok, maybe he had some sort of condition that doesn’t allow him to walk which lead to the weight gain. Sure. That doesn’t explain the utter disregard for people around him, the elitist attitude that it was OUR job to get out of HIS way, or the fact that he didn’t even stop to apologize.

little Suzie Lou in a WHEELCHAIR, dude.

those scooter jocks are rude mother fuckers. yeah? I said it. And maybe it WAS your grandma i cussed out over by space mountain. What?

But anyway, that was one moment out of a million. There were plenty of moments that MORE than made up for it. example: We got into Star Tours in 10 minutes. 15 tops. Yeah, some people never got on yesterday, and other poor bastards had to wait in the line. But then they go home to their typical lives where their only worry is keeping Ginger off the pole and Darwood off the neighbor’s daughter. So, no. I don’t feel guilty. Ok, maybe a little.

Scooter grannies aside, we had our share of awesome memories. And churros. Ok, maybe more than our share. Its ok–the 11 hours of walking MORE than made up for the calories. At least enough to keep me from renting a scooter.

In keeping with my slothful, non creative week, this entry should prove to be a little pathetic

i hate:

1. having to capitalize the letter I–seriously, shouldn’t that be auto correct in EVERY word processor around?
2. tapioca
3. getting ill right when you’ve caught up on all housework, knowing that as you lay in bed, NOTHING will get done, and you will have 3x the work waiting for you when you are well enough to push the start button on the washing machine again.
4. being sick.
5. passive aggressive BULLSHIT
6. having to wonder if what you just read/heard was passive aggressive.
7. small keyboards
8. mouthbreathers
9. the fact that getting ANY kind of service in this state–at least through the Regional center–seems to take up to 6 months.  I started the ABA process in JANUARY.  i am STILL waiting to get a therapist in this house.
10. that piece of shit computer of mine that keeps breaking down