Passel of Brats

Poor, poor, pitiful Kate

2009-08-29T11:11:00.000-07:00

Stuck in line at the grocery store yesterday, I picked up People (or Us or whatever it was) Magazine, the one with Kate Gosselin's heavily made-up, perfectly coiffed face smiling out from it. I open the magazine and start reading.

The gist of the story is that Jon is such a bastard. Though of course Kate doesn't use that word. She was in poor-martyr-me-I'd-forgive-him-if-only-he'd-ask mode, not I-hate-that-son-of-a-bitch mode. Which I figure is pretty calculated to gain her sympathy. Everything about the Gosselins -- Kate anyway -- seems calculated.

Not Jon, of course. If Jon was calculating and clever like Kate, he wouldn't do and say all the asinine things he's been doing and saying since he cut loose and let his dick do all his thinking for him.

Everybody these days hates Kate Gosselin. They think it's abominable she's raising their kids in public. At this point, what's she supposed to do? Bow out of the TV series and get a jobs at Wal-Mart, for God's sake?

I have no child-rearing advice for Kate. I do have hairstyle advice: for the love of God, woman, who told you that asymmetrical rat's nest looked good? Is your hairdresser a biker lesbian?

Why do I ask stupid questions?

2009-03-20T10:53:00.000-07:00

Okay, so we're getting ready to go to a birthday party. I finally have all the kids dressed and ready. God forbid the bigger ones could get themselves ready without, "Mom, I can't find _____," and "Mom, where's my ______?" and "Mom, he hit me!" Well, you get the picture. Anyway, the little (and not so little) monsters were all ready, and I even had my own hair fixed and was just reaching for my purse when --

"MOM!!!!"

Yep. You guessed it. At least you guessed it if you have a passel of your own brats (which I say with all affection). One of them threw up. On the pale ivory Berber carpet we put in last year (WTF were we thinking????). After she'd had a glass of grape juice. Or two.

Deep breath. It's all right, darling. Let me get your dress (the one my mother-in-law probably paid fifty bucks for at Nordstrom and of course it's dry clean only) off and get you cleaned up. It's okay. We can wash your hair (which I spent half an hour putting up in hot rollers and spraying). I'm so sorry you have to miss the party, my sweet angel. Please don't cry.

Why don't kids ever throw up outside or in the toilet? Why don't they throw up when they're wearing ratty old clothes or better yet naked and about to get into the bathtub so they're right there and have no excuse for not using the toilet instead of the carpet or couch or down comforter?

Why do I ask stupid questions?

Love and gratitude

2009-03-19T13:40:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I am absolutely overcome with love for my children. I look at one of them, feel their little arms around me and I just melt. They are so little, so fragile, and rely on me for so much. I worry whether I am capable of giving them everything they need. What I can and do give them is all my love.

Other times, well, let's not talk about that. Today isn't one of the "other times." Today I am just filled with gratitude at what God has given me. I am the luckiest of women.

See, I'm not a sarcastic bitch all the time.

Calm before the storm?

2009-03-19T13:34:00.001-07:00

My kids are playing nicely with each other for once. I probably jinxed it by writing it, and there will be screaming and mayhem in the other room at any moment.

Shaken, not stirred

2009-02-26T19:11:00.000-08:00

In case you were wondering, I opted for the martini, and made it a double.

Decisions, decisions

2009-02-26T19:08:00.000-08:00

The kids are in bed. Fighting. As usual. Shall I go in there and slap them silly, or just fix myself a martini and put on headphones so I can't hear them?

The Novel: Tool of the Patriarchy

2009-02-04T22:16:00.000-08:00

Novels oppress women. How? By making it impossible for us to get anything done once we start reading one. Am I ever going to learn not to pick up those stupid chick lit books like the one by Sophie Kinsella I just finished? Contrived plot. Predictable ending. Love interest the kind of amazing guy who doesn't exist in real life and only makes women dissatisfied with the imperfect guys they're married to.

So why did I let my house disintegrate into a pigsty while I wasted all that time reading it? She is an engaging writer, and it was fun escapist fantasy. But I'm finished now, and am going back to reading nice, safe non-fiction I can put down when I need to do something important like, say, vacuum the floor.

Fat lot I care

2008-12-28T13:29:00.001-08:00

Can somebody please tell me why I should give a shit whether Oprah is fat or not? It's her business if she's fat. I'm not interested in how much she weighs, or why she thinks she weighs so much, or how her diet plan can help me not be a lardass myself.

Nothing against Oprah, btw. I don't give a shit why or whether Rachael Ray is fat either. I just know I'm sick to death of hearing my girlfriends who do give a shit talk about it. And sick of seeing ads for Oprah's and Rachael's diet plans on my Facebook sidebar. Like I'm going to pay money for a diet that can't keep these two rich broads from getting fat. They can afford personal trainers and chefs and whatnot, and they still can't stop stuffing their faces? Sorry, dude, but that's not the diet for me.

For the record, I am not fat, and though I watch what I eat more or less, I don't obsess about it, and I stay reasonably normal sized anyway. Maybe that's why I get so fucking bored hearing other women talk about diets and fat broads trying to sell me diets.

I can't stand your kid

2008-12-16T15:46:00.001-08:00

It stinks when you can't stand your friends' kids. Most of my friends, I like their kids just fine. Some I like a lot, and some I feel just a sort of generalized benevolence towards, since they're kids, and you cut kids slack about things. But with two of them, it's another story. One's a girl and one's a boy, and both are 6-ish. One of them I'm friends with the mom, and the other I'm friends with the grandma. In the latter case, the mom's a bitch on wheels, so I see where the little brat gets it. But with the other one, the mom's nice, the dad's nice, the brother's nice, the grandparents are nice, so WTF? Is the kid just a bad seed? I don't like to think anybody's a bad seed, but really, don't judge me until you have this little monster in your house for a couple of hours.

Feeding your kids as a competitive sport

2008-12-14T09:01:00.000-08:00

If one more old lady says to me, "When I was a child, we ate whatever we were served," I will absolutely fucking kill her. Okay, I'm just being dramatic. I'd never really kill an old lady, but by God I'd want to slap her face. That smug remark is always made after the old lady in question has seen one of my kids turn his or her nose up at something on his or her plate. Like it's any of her goddamned business.

Occasionally it's a woman my own age who provokes my rage in this way, not by telling me how it was "in my day" (since it's "her day" now) but by telling me how her kids (as opposed to my passel of spoiled brats) eat whatever they're served. What is it with moms competing with each other? Will somebody please explain to me why we have to make each other feel inadequate by bragging about how smart our kids are, how talented, how well they mind us, how early they started walking or talking or shitting on the toilet, or how they eat whatever disgusting crap we feed them without any backtalk.

Oh yeah, baby!

2008-12-14T08:31:00.000-08:00

Orgasms during childbirth. Sorry, guys, but I call bullshit. Dr. Melissa tells it true right here:

I recognize that the birth canal has multifaceted uses, still, I can’t help but to think that this orgasm business is just one more way to sexualize, well, everything. The birthing isn’t about having a healthy baby or a woman surrendering to the primal forces of motherhood. Oh no! It’s selfish and all about a peak experience, man. It’s the narcissism-part of the hippie thing that bugs me.

Amen, sister.

Hat tip to Fausta.

Not so hot topic

2008-12-12T09:19:00.000-08:00

Okay, enough with the pubic hair already. I am so sick of hearing about bikini waxing. Bad enough I had to have people messing with my nether regions when I delivered my babies, but paying someone to inflict pain on me down there just so my husband can pretend he's screwing a 12-year-old? Um, I don't think so.

I see why men want women to engage in this barbaric custom, but I don't see why so many women journalists want to write about it. Theres's this chick at Salon, this one at Jezebel, and I'm sure plenty of others I'm not half interested enough to find and link to.

Is this where feminism has brought us? We get to be journalists just like the boys, and what do we choose to write about? Our pussies.

I could cry.

Here goes

2008-12-12T07:38:00.000-08:00

A lot of people will be offended by this blog name, but since it's an anonymous blog, I don't really care. The blog is a place for me to say the things I desperately want to say but can't because I'm a coward who gives a shit what people think of her. Obviously, this means swearing sometimes, which I can't do in front of the kids. It feels good. Damn good.

Is it narcissistic to write a blog just for me? Well, yeah. But so what? You don't have to read it if you don't want to. And there are worse hobbies I could have -- shoplifting, smoking crack, cheating on my husband.

For privacy's sake, I won't tell you where I live or how many kids I have, though I suppose that'll come out in dribs and drabs eventually. Maybe I'll make up those cutesy code names other anonymous bloggers have for their loved ones later. I haven't decided yet. I will make the blog available to search engines, because I might meet some interesting people that way.

So here goes.