Attention, random beings who read here:The time for Rebellion has come!
We have incapacitated the giant creature who used to post here, and taken over her “Twittering Device” and “Blog-o-something” in order to spread the word about our terrible plight and rally our fellow citizens. The results of the battle yesterday were horrific, but we must stand tall! We may have lost our some things, but our spirit is still intact. Though the small, male giant out there has taken so many things from us, we WILL prevail. In every situation, no matter how awful, always has a bright side.

At least we don’t have to worry about how our hair looks in pictures anymore.


So, no, I’m not dead or anything, but if you don’t stalk me on Twitter, you might not know that I’m sick. More than just my usual sick.
I went in for lithotripsy to finally get rid of a kidney stone that’s been getting stuck and unstuck for months now. I felt great afterward, but by the next day I could barely breathe. After a whole long terrifying ordeal that I’m just not ready to write about yet, we figured out that I got pneumonia and a staph infection in my blood after the intubation. It happens, I guess.
I’ve been in bed, sleeping for ten days so far. I’m not sure how long I’ll be down for, but until I’m better, this, and my other projects will be on hold.

This is actually part of a series I have been working on (Read:Thinking about in the shower) for awhile. The other parts will be up when I feel like it.

Deciding to become a parent, or discovering you are about to be can send you frantically searching the Internet reading every book you can find, and interrogating everyone you know who has ever seen a child on what to expect. The thing is, while the Internet has approximately two billion pages related to pregnancy and child-rearing, the bookstore has 76,003 books on the topic and most parents won’t shut up about their kids, and are more than thrilled to tell you the Right Way To Do Everything, 97% of the tips, tricks and information you find are going to be crap that has absolutely not-a-damn-thing to do with the actual pregnancy experience you will have and the actual child(ren) you will end up with. And, trust me, even if you DON’T ask, people are going to give you advice and tell you their horrible, horrible labor stories while using words like “mucus plug” and discussing “placenta options”. (The best option: Don’t look at it. Just…don’t. )
Anyway, as a veteran (ha!) mother of four with such credentials as “I haven’t locked any of them in my car by accident, yet.” and “Most of them can kind-of wipe their own asses!”, I’ve decided that this makes me qualified to give you advice that doesn’t suck, and share with you the facts that you really need to know about this journey you are about to go on.
I’m starting with toddlers, instead of pregnancy, mostly because I’ve spent the last week dealing with the stomach plague and this one was closer to being done than “pregnancy”.

-Toddlers are terrorists.
The first thing you need to know is that toddlers are, in fact, tiny dictators who will completely rule your life. The sooner you recognize this fact and accept it, the better off you will be.

-The “Terrible Two’s” start at 18 months

and um, I’ll let you know when they end.

-Your child is going to publicly humiliate you. More than once.
Childrens mouths learn to form words well before their brain learns to filter them (I’ll let you know when the filtering kicks in just as soon as that actually happens) so you will, at some point, end up in public with a child who  dramatically points at the overweight man behind you and asks loudly if he is the Staypuff Marshmellow Man, or why that lady is made out of chocolate. Also, you will, at some point, end up in a store or restaurant with a toddler who is screaming and flailing and basically acting like they have a problem that requires medication, or perhaps a priest. And half the people who see you will be judging you and thinking “MY children will NEVER act like that.” and the other half will be laughing at you because they know you were once the person judging THEM and saying “MY child will NEVER act like that.” and, well, karma is a bitch. Which brings us to…

-You will find yourself doing most of those things you swore you’d never do.
Don’t feel bad. All of us are great parents until we actually HAVE children. Also, don’t be surprised if you start channeling your own mother or father at some point.

-Nature made toddlers adorable to keep us from killing them.
No matter what kind of evil mischief your kid gets into, all they have to do is smile at you and all will be forgiven. For example, they could, say, strip naked while supposedly taking a nap, poop on the floor, empty the contents of every drawer in their room, cover everything-including themselves- with marker, and when you open the door and are just about to lose your shit, they will jump up, smile, throw their hands in the air and yell, “HAPPY BIRFDAY!” And all is lost.

-Everyone has an opinion. And they are all wrong.
When you have a kid, people seem to feel obligated to share with you what their child, nephew or third-cousin-twice-removed was doing at that age, and why your child is slow/weird/possibly autistic for not. It’s going to make you crazy and you’ll be tempted to let it get to you and start playing “Keeping up with the Madisons'”. Don’t. So that Madison kid in your playgroup was walking at ten months and conjugating Latin by 2 1/2, while your baby has just managed to master the delicate art of getting her finger IN her nostril instead of her eye. There’s a WIDE range of “normal” for all those milestones so throw out that “What to Expect” book and relax. Unless your pediatrician is concerned (and in some cases, even if they are) do not stress over when your kid is going to walk, talk, jump, and learn French. It will come. I had one walk at nine months old and one walk at nearly sixteen months. But they all walked, eventually. Also, for the love of the gods,

– Do not stress about potty training.
Just don’t. Kids do it when they are ready. No sooner, no later. All the M&M’s and “Once Upon a Potty” books in the world won’t make a damn bit of difference if your child just isn’t ready. Just let them watch you go. (Yeah, accept the fact that you’ll be going to the bathroom with an audience for the next ten years, sorry.) Talk to them about it. Cheer and wave “bye-bye” after they flush for you. Sit them on the potty every so often. It’ll come. And once it does, you’ll get the wonderful tour of every dirty restroom in your entire city experience, and the joy of Teaching Them To Pee Behind The Bush At The Rest Stop so enjoy your diaper time while you have it. Also, put Post Its in your purse. Use them to cover the sensors on those godawful self-flushing toilets with the child-strength suction. Trust me on this, the “Toilets Trying To Eat Me” nightmares and an irrational fear of public toilets require lots of therapy (for you) and lots of peeing on the floor in Target (for them) (hopefully in that order).

-Your toddler will eventually learn to do everything.
At once. You’ll look over to see them riding a unicycle while juggling and singing “Twinkle, Twinkle” in French. And your camera batteries will be dead. And when you rush out and gather everyone you know to come and see, and you tell them all excitedly to “Watch what he can do!” they will surround him and he will be sitting on the floor, drooling, with a finger up one nostril…THIS he will do for the camera.

…and no pants. Even though he had pants five seconds ago and Where the hell are your pants, kid?

-Toddlers live by a unique set of internal rules.
These rules usually require them to want the opposite of any given thing at any time. If the light it on, it must be off. If something is closed it must be opened, if it is opened, it MUST be closed. When you want to stay, they want to leave, when you want to go, they must not leave, ever. Don’t ever ask them what they want, to wear for example. (The answer will be “No.”) Give them two choices you are ok with and let them pick one. (The answer will still probably be “No.”)

-They are faster than you.
You will spend twenty minutes wrestling them into clothing and shoes and then you will turn around, pick up your purse and take one step only to find them completely naked with shoes on their hands. Plan accordingly. You will never be “On time” for anything again.
-99.4% of your Facebook Friends do not care about your experiences with potty training. That adorable picture of your toddler in the bathtub with a soap mohawk? The sweet video of him in his first halloween costume toddling towards the camera?

They. Don’t. Care.
Your kid is the most adorable and awesome kid in the world. But aside from the kids grandparents who live far away and that one friend with the puppy screen saver, the rest of the world does not want to see 1257864 potty training updates and video of every single thing he ever did, ever.

– Your kid is probably eating enough.
Yes, I know she had four Cheerios, a half a dog-treat and that thing from under the couch that might have been a skittle or might have been a bead for lunch. You’re going to stress about this. Don’t. As long as they get a somewhat balanced variety of food over the course of a week and they aren’t losing weight or turning funny colors, and poop is still coming out, it’s all good. Throw in a vitamin or some Pediasure from time to time if it’s bothering you that much.

-Don’t worry. They’re all bi-polar, manipulative little rabid raccoons.
You kid is going to be weird. And that’s normal. (probably) One minute they will be joyously laughing, the next, having the meltdown to end all meltdowns. Put DOWN the Lithium. Step away from the Internet child psychology websites. I know your cousins grandmas sister was psychotic, but so is every other toddler on the planet. They’ll grow out of it. (Get used to that phrase. Along with “It’s just a phase.” While true, it’s going to irritate the crap out of you because knowing it won’t last doesn’t HELP YOU NOW. But it does help to remember that this won’t last forever and you should try and embrace and cherish the good parts as much as you can. In retrospect, it all goes SO fast.)

-Your life will (still) revolve around someone elses bowel movements.
This starts with pregnancy, this weird poop-centric alternate universe where you spend more time then you ever thought possible thinking, talking and even writing about poop. Discussing your kids poop schedule will be done with your partner over dinner or your mother over coffee. It starts with the whole “Will I poop while pushing?” issue. (Yes.) From there it moves to “Are they pooping enough?” if you’re breastfeeding or “Is this formula making their poop weird” if not, and on to “When will they poop in the potty?” And “Why is there poop on the lamp?” And this won’t end until they are like, fifteen. (With any luck, they’ll stop pooping on the lamp around age six, though.)

-They learn SO much SO fast.
Little ears are listening and little eyes are watching. Everything you do. And right now is the time when their brains are set to full speed. They absorb everything. It’s actually pretty amazing. But don’t be surprised if you hear a Teddy bear repeating a phrase you use, with perfect inflection and all as it talks to a dinosaur. You will see a lot of you reflected back from your child, so it’s probably a good idea to watch what you do and say a bit more now. There’s nothing quite like the fun of hearing a snide remark you’ve made about the other mom in the playgroup coming out of your child in front of said mom at the next Mommy & Me class.

-At some point during this time, you’re going to do something that makes you feel like a failure as a parent.
You aren’t. We all fuck up. One of the good things about toddlers is that they have very bad memory skills. So if you accidentally do lock them in the car and the nice fireman has to come rescue them, chances are, they won’t remember it and i11f they do, it’ll be “That time I saw the fireman with the cool hat!”. Don’t feel too guilty if you drop a can of tuna on their foot or accidentally teach them to be a pyromaniac.

They’ll forgive you. (But your neighbors slightly singed cat might not.)

-Parenting a toddler is a lot like being on a roller-coaster.
There’s ups and downs and the occasional inconvenient vomiting. Every day you’ll look at them and feel your heart burst with love as you realize that adorable little blob of goos and gaas is turning into an actual person. A person that YOU made. And every day you’ll spend some time locked in your bathroom, hiding, because that person that you made really did not want THAT kind of juice in THAT cup. And now he really wants to hit you in the head with said cup. You aren’t bi-polar either. Welcome to toddler-hood.

It’s five am. Which I guess makes it really early in the morning and no longer late at night. The things I think about when I’ve hit that level of so-over-tired-I-can-no-longer-sleep are odd. So. Welcome to the shit I think about at five A.M. And the reason why I don’t sleep much. Sorry. This may make you want to drink Draino. You were warned.

I wrote a comment about god on someones blog post recently. It was a really good comment and it was probably the only time I’ve ever been able to really explain my views coherently. And blogger ate it. It’s not something I can recreate, because it will never be as good.
I hate that. It happens with lost blog posts too. Words just disappeared into the void, eaten by the impermanence of Internet, never to be seen again.
Sometimes the Internet seems almost more real than reality. We have conversations here, make life long friends, even meet our future lovers. We change peoples life for the better, or at times for the worse. And it’s all with the words and images we share. Words and images that can spread like wildfire, reaching people you’d never imagined being able to reach. A celebrity you adore might come across a tweet or blog post you’ve created, someone you admire from afar might actually read your words, and for a second, you’ll be connected. You might make a stranger smile today. You might make a friend think. Or, your words might hurt someone. Or, you know, be eaten by fucking blogger and never be seen again.

Speaking of reaching out to people, I’ve started a new project. It is called Strangers With Kindness and it’s about using the incredible magic superpowers that the Internet has given us all to make a difference in peoples lives. It’s about making the world a better place, one person, one story at a time. We will be sharing stories that highlight the good in people. That tell of how total strangers have reached out a hand to a fellow human in need and made their day.
Not only will we be sharing those stories, but we will be making them ourselves. We are going to find people out there who need a ray of sunshine in their lives, and we are going to Love Bomb them.
It’s going to be amazing. You want to be involved. The feeling you get from helping someone in need, for no reason other than to be awesome, is like no other feeling in the world. You want to feel that feeling. Trust me.

I’d actually planned on like, sleeping a bit tonight. But then the vomit fairy made a stop by my place. She’s a bitch, that fairy. She took out the eight-year-old just for the fuck of it. And for no reason that we can discern, other than to torture her, (and her mother) a bit. Thankfully, after seven straight hours of spewing out of all orifices, the worst seems over.
It’s funny how kids seem to be able to remain in high spirits even between bouts of side splitting poop-stravaganzas.
Us adults on the other hand are whiny crybabies, and if my husband catches this and I have to listen to him moan about how he’s never been so sick before in his life and he means it this time, for REAL, I’m probably going to have to smother him with my red throw pillow.
Don’t worry. As long as there is one wife on that jury, I’m getting off.

Kira got a card from her sisters today. At one point Vi writes “I love you and I miss you like heck!”
This kills me. These people are destroying the lives of four children.
I miss them both so painfully it hurts. But Violet, she gets to me the most. Because, Vi, is MY child you see. There’s a much longer story in here, but the abridged version is that she’s mine. She’s not theirs. Me and my ex were separated when she was conceived. I made some, er, unwise choices, being as I was, overcome with grief and rage after my then-boyfriend of five years and father of our then less-than-one-year-old-daughter confessed that he had been having an affair with the only woman I was allowed to have a friendship with. So, I ended up pregnant with Vi, in the usual way, and her “real” father claimed he was sterile and there was no possible way she could exist. And walked out. After cutting my brake lines.
Cue my ex-husbands brothers horrible tragic death in the middle of this Springer-esque drama, and we end up back together. I’d just discovered I was pregnant- eleven weeks or so at that-and I was very upfront and honest about it. He decided he would pretend the child was his and that was that. Everyone in our families knew and this led to his mother getting drunk one night and spending five hours trying to threaten, coerce, intimidate and plead with me to have an abortion. At twenty-four weeks. She also proceeded to tell me about her abortions which started at age fifteen, and how they weren’t so bad. She ended the night by telling me “Well at least she won’t be ugly” after having seen a picture of the biological father.
Anyway, my ex, (let’s call him “Rex” from now on.) threatened me with abandonment if I didn’t let him sign the paternity papers at the hospital. One of his favorite ways to keep me in line was to tell me if I ever tried to leave him or dud X, Y or Z, he’d leave me and take the kids and I’d be fucked, because I had no money, no skills, no job, no friends and no car. All carefully orchestrated by him, mind you. (The very first thing I did during that first split was finally get my drivers license, which, at age 20, I’d never been allowed to do.)
I digress. The point is, he signed the papers though I wanted to leave the birth certificate blank. It was obvious when she was born that she wasn’t his, based on blood type alone.
(He has since claimed he had a paternity test done proving she is in fact his. She’s not. Mathematically, and scientifically not possible. Besides that, she’s the exact female replica of her bio-father. Like EXACT.)
The point is, she is living with people who treat her like shit and let her sister beat the crap out of her, and who have no biological ties to her whatsoever. I’m not saying you have to be related by blood to have a living bond with a child, far from it. But I am saying, Rex, and his mother have made it quite clear that her sister is the favorite and they only keep Vi around to placate her. She’s the one that deals with the full force of her sisters diseases and disorders. She keeps her sister out of their hair, occupies her so they don’t have to.
And the last time she was here, she begged me, in tears to please PLEASE get her away from them, and her sister. Please.
And oh gods, I tried baby. I really did. She was absolutely terrified. The look or horror in her face when I told Rex and his mother what she wanted was pure fear. They both claimed if it was what she wanted they’d support it and then immediately started with the manipulation. They had signed her up for voice lessons, bought her a new bedroom set. Started sending her pictures of her beloved dogs daily, reminding her that she couldn’t take them of course. And once they went home they started grilling them about every second of their time here, twisted every.single.thing. Until the whole trip, in both their minds was a horror story of screaming and suck. The accounts my ex mother-in-law spewed at me of what she thinks happened here last summer were so incredibly fucked up, exaggerated and warped that it’s no wonder the kids “chose” not to come back this summer.
So yeah. My child was kidnapped and is now being mind fucked and abused. And I can’t do a damn thing about it.
She’s on fucking Klonopin to make her sleep. She wets the bed at ten still. She’s on Focalin or some shut for her supposed “ADHD”. Basically, she is drugged so they can control her. She was off all that shut for nearly three months when she was here- and sugar too, don’t even get me started on what these people feed these kids-and she was FINE. Perfect. Awesome and happy.
Fucking fuck. Just…fuck.

And this is why I shouldn’t write at five AM either.

You ever have one of those days?

It seems I’m having one of those months. Today was just the tip of the iceberg of weird shit that makes up what I call my life.

This afternoon, which I guess was technically yesterday now, I got the joy of having my bladder invaded by an old guy with a camera on a stick. Laying back on a table with my legs in stirrups should be old hat for me by now. I mean, I’ve had four children. That means that approximately 934 doctors, nurses, aides, interns, med students, fireman, anesthesiologists, flower delivery people, cafeteria workers, admission processors, husbands, my mom and probably your mom as well have all seen my most private girl-business. And about a third of those have had their hands up IN my business. (Note: Don’t give birth at a teaching hospital if you can avoid it. “Take turns sticking your hand in there and feeling that.” are not words you want to hear while you are in labor.)
Yeah . Anyway, having my bits flapping in the breeze, exposed for all to see really shouldn’t be any big deal anymore, but there’s just something a bit degrading about being up in those damn stirrups. Especially when everyone leaves the room for like twenty minutes to go have lunch or something, while you remain like that, feeling uncomfortably exposed and really hoping your ass isn’t leaving sweat marks on the stupid paper sheets, because then it will either stick to you when you get to stand up, or you’ll leave behind a sweaty ass-print and be left trying to quickly rip off the offending bit of paper and discreetly shove it into the trash before the nurse comes back in.

So when they came back from their Disney vacation or whatever they were doing while I may or may not have been sweating and half naked in stirrups, the nurse comes in first to “prep” me. She swabs me with one of those q-tip thingys that’s on a foot-long stick, and then tells me the next substance might “Burn a bit, but only for like 30-45 seconds” then she informs me that she’s going to leave the “applicator” in for a bit to help dilate my urethra.

What that translated to was “I’m going to shove a foot long Q-Tip that burns in your pee-hole and leave it there while I go pick my kids up from school and do some grocery shopping.” As she left the second time, she informed me that shed be back when the other doctor was done with the scope and oh by the way “I can tell you are nervous and sweating. Try to relax.”

Yeah, I’m going to relax here, with my legs up in the air, my secret woman-cave all exposed, and a fucking mega-swab shoved in my pee-place. And you had to point out that I was sweating? Really? So now I’ve got paper-stuck-to-my-ass-aphobia going on as well.



As I’m waiting, and trying really hard to will myself not to sweat, it occurs to me that she had said she was waiting for the other doctor to BE DONE WITH THE SCOPE. So now I’ve got visions of being invaded by a probe that was, not ten minutes earlier, firmly ensconced in the penis of the 450 pound, 90 year old man in the wheelchair that I’d seen in the waiting room.

Oh. Joy.

Finally, both nurse and doctor return from bird watching in the Himalayans and I eye the scope wrapped in a blue towel as the nurse sets it down. Seeing my glance she smiles knowingly.

“Don’t worry, we sterilized it. That’s what took so long.”

I mutter something incoherent as the doctor removes the burning swab or piss-pain and unceremoniously invades my bladder with his giant flexible-camera tube. I generally don’t let anyone enter any of my holes unless they have properly woo’d me first or I happen to be giving birth to them, but special circumstances prevail. The nurse spends the entire time watching my face and saying things like:

“My patients tell me it doesn’t hurt, just feels like pressure. But I wouldn’t know myself.”

(Yeah. Bite me.)

I try to keep my face as blank as I can, because she seems to be getting a weird thrill from watching my expressions, but I think I’ve failed.

Meanwhile, the doctor is trying to make conversation with me as he fills my bladder with water and pokes around.
The actual process takes all of three minutes, but these are not normal minutes, these are three extremely long minutes, the kind where every minute last twenty-seven decades.

Then it’s over, and I try to flee, but the doctor is one of those guys that likes to talk, and explain, in detail, things which he has already explained to me repeatedly.

By this point, it is 4:30 and I really really REALLY just want to leave, like NOW already. I’m going to get stuck in rush hour traffic on the highway, and I’ve been there for over two and a half hours. And I’m simply done.

The nurse then redeemed herself a tiny bit by interrupting him to inform me that I HAD to go pee RIGHT NOW in order to rid myself of the water they’d pumped into me, before I got an infection. I silently thanked her and hobbled to the bathroom, walking like an overstuffed penguin who’d just spent 45 minutes in stirrups with a q-tip jammed in her ho-hah.

Eventually I am free. Yay!

The outcome of all this, by the way?
The mystery tumor I had in my bladder has just as mysteriously disappeared.

I’m ok with that.

I have enough weirdshit-itis going on already, thanks.

My kidney stone, which is 6x4mms, is too big to pass on it’s own and keeps popping in and out of the ureter, where it causes intense pain, blockage and bleeding for a bit before “popping” back into my kidney. It needs to come out already, and it’s not in a spot where they can just grab it with their super-tongs on a stick.

They’ve never heard of lithotripsy damaging a pancreas before and think that doing it again is my best option so it looks like I’ll be getting blasted a week from tomorrow if my GI okays it.
I manage to make it home just before six, just in time to cook dinner, wrangle the kids into bed and tackle more of the laundry that never, ever ends.

And that was just Tuesday.

So. How was your day?

Last night, on Twitter, I came across this link:

Everyone, meet Daisy.
Daisy is about to turn four. She loves animals, the color red and Dora the Explorer.
She also has leukemia.
Her amazing cousin, Stacey, is currently traveling around Europe. On her way she is collecting little things from all of the places she’s visited to bring back to Daisy.
But she’d like to do more. So she has reached out to the internets to see if we can help.
What she is asking is simple. Send a card, a note, a gift. Really anything-and Stacy is going to present Daisy with these things in October. This little girl will hopefully get to see the world, see all of these amazing places for herself someday, but for now, Stacy would like to bring the world to her.
So wherever you are in this world, if you could take the time to send a little piece of it on over to Daisy, please do.
For more information, or an address to mail things to, email Stacy at the email in her post, or email me at with the subject “Helping Daisy”.
It doesn’t have to be a lot. Have your kids make a card and draw pictures of your states special places. Please pass this along and let’s all use our formidable Internet powers to get together to make this childs life a little brighter today!

*This might have some spoilers if you aren’t caught up with last seasons TV, but I’ll try my best not to ruin anything too major for you.*

So, I’ve been working on this monster of a post for four days now that has led me down a rabbit-hole of hate, or sucked me into a K-hole of absolute horrific-ness or something. (Not that I’m entirely sure what “K-hole” is..I assume it’s that hole between ones anus and fun bits that appears after you’ve had four children?)
And by “working on” I mean “Reading awful, awful shit that has left me unable to hear anything but the sound of white noise only broken by the occasional screech of nails across a blackboard and children screaming, and unable to see anything other than a haze of red and those spots you get after staring directly into the sun by accident. I’ve also started having nightmares where I’m being chased by a thousand people who all look like I imagine Rick Santorum and Rick Perrys’ love child would look. They are all carrying gleaming gold, bloodstained crosses that have every end sharpened into a stake and they are chanting “Repent Liberal Elitist Scum! REPENT!” They haven’t caught me yet, but when they do, I just know they plan to duct tape me to a chair and prop my eyelids open -Clockwork Orange style- and force me to watch Fox News while they perform exorcism after exorcism on me in order to remove the demon that has turned me into a “gay rights” sympathizer.”

What I’m saying is: Issues: I haz them.

Anyway, in an effort to scrub away much of the vile, vile hate that has made it so I can’t even go to the park for fear that cross-bearing morality police will jump out of the bushes and start indoctrinating my children in the finer points of how to spot Teh Gay,* I’ve returned to my favorite mind-numbing, palate cleansing pastime: Television.

Ah, TV, how do I love thee? Let me count the… Hang on, Vampire Diaries is on, I’ll get back to you.

Yes, I watch the Vampire Diaries. And if you have a problem with it, you can bite me. (If you are Damon, you can bite me anyway.)

So, yeah. This month rings in new TV season. Or, as we refer to it around here, the beginning of the season in which my husband and I only communicate during halftime and Grays Anatomy commercials and the kids start taking really long naps and going to bed at seven.

Right now you are all saying: “So, tell us what you watch already! We must know!” Actually, 99.7% could not care less, but, guess what? I’m going to tell you anyway!

The short answer is: I watch everything with a plot. (That is, *not* ” Reality TV”)
The long answer is way more longerer.

Here’s some random lists in no particular order whatsoever.

Shit I watch that I’d probably be ashamed of. If I had shame.

The Vampire Diaries

Why I Heart It: I’m an unreformed Buffy/Angel addict. As such, I need regular fixes of emo/broody vampires that don’t, under any circumstances, sparkle. This show is one of my favorite guilty pleasures. You’ve got your angsty human teenage girl who holds the heart of not one, but two bad-boy vampire brothers. There’s also high school social events to deal with ZOMG the horror! (And I swear, there’s a dance, ball, party, or some other event like twice a week.) And what vampire show would be complete without some gratuitous werewolf action.
Also, see above re: Damon and the biting.

Gossip Girl.

Why? Yes. I know. Shut up, OK? Because It’s awesome. Because Chuck Bass, that’s why. And not even in a creepy-old-chick-who-wants-to-violate-the-gay-boy kind of way. I just love his “I’m an asshole with a heart” deal. And I’m kind of fascinated with Serena.
If you like shows about mega-rich college kids who have nothing better to do than viciously destroy anyone that pisses them off-and when that option isn’t available-each other, then this is the show for you. (There was a poor kid once but then his dad married his girlfriends mom which icked-him out cause then he was dating his sister but then he got over it and he got over being poor too mostly, though it was a hard few months of learning to be rich. Poor thing.)


Why? I don’t have a clue, I really don’t. I guess I grew up watching the original 90210 and Melrose Place, and so I sort of felt like I’d be a traitor to my generation if I didn’t watch the remakes or something. Thankfully, the awful Melrose Place Two:Characters You Don’t Care About tanked, freeing me from my obligation. Less fortunately, 90210:“Kelly’s All “together” Now seems to be going strong. At least Tori Spelling hasn’t managed to land a permanent role in it yet. Since they’ve already dealt with teen pregnancy, divorce, cancer, drug addiction, mental illness, rape and murder, not to mention the horrors of having to tell your friends you are crushing on a geek, I’m hoping they run out of shocking plot lines soon. It’s like a train wreck I just can’t look away from, gods help me.

New Shows That Might Not Suck or Will Totally Suck, or Will Be Awesome And Therefore Canceled After Six Episodes:

The Secret Circle

Every season they try a witch show, in the hopes of creating the next “Charmed”, I suppose. Most of these shows are given less than a chance, but since this one is on CW, I feel like this one may have a better-than-crappy shot. It’s apparently based on a series of books by the same people that wrote the Vampire Diaries, so take that for what it’s worth. (Re:The VD books, I tried to read them.  I recommend you…Don’t. This is one case where the book is not better than the show.) The witches here are teenagers and there looks to be enough cute boys and teen/adult drama mixed in to keep our attention for more than two episodes. We’ll see.

Hart of Dixie

 When I went looking for pictures for this show, I couldn’t find anything that wasn’t Rachel Bilsons face, so I’m not entirely sure if there is anyone else in the cast, or if it’s just an hour of Rachel talking to herself  whilst looking doctor-ish and running away from alligators. I haven’t seen the premiere yet, but the commercials give this one a feel-good comedic drama feel that attracts viewers. It doesn’t have “Record Series” status on my TiVo yet-I’m taking it one episode at a time- but I’ll give it a fair shot.

Up All Night

Out of all of the new sitcoms popping up this season, this looks to be the most promising. And, until someone mentioned it on Twitter, I’d never even heard it existed. A few days after said tweet, I noticed the pilot was on Hulu+ and decided to give it a whirl. I’m not a huge lover of the “new parenting” comedy, mostly because they tend to either portray one or both parents as complete morons, or they paint life with a newborn in a completely unrealistic light. So far though, this one seems relatable and not-entirely awful.


Sarah Michelle Gellar and Sarah Michelle Gellar. Buffy and her twin sister, Buffy. Need I say more? (I refer you to my “Buffy Fangirl” confession above.)


Just kidding. The first episode appeared to be about “Snooki” trying to convince someone not to “H8” Snooki. I think that’s a Snooki pictured above, but I’m not entirely sure. It could be a “Kardashian”. I don’t know what a “Kardashain” does either. But, frankly, I am against any pro-Snooki propaganda on principal. Fight for your right to “H8” Snooki, y’all.

My TiVo Prioritization Says These Shows Are Teh Awesome, And If You Aren’t Watching Them, You Should Be.

(Unless You Like, Have a Life Or Something. In Which Case, I Hope A Team Of Rabid Sporks Eats Your Genitals. I Mean, I Love You.)


Did you see the season finale last spring?! Best. Ex. Revenge. Ever. Of course, I’m taking bets on how many episodes it takes before he’s back at work like nothing happened.


 I love this show so much, it gets two pictures. One for Temperance.

And one for Angel Booth.

Hopefully soon, there will be a third picture to add… (Squee)

NCIS: The Good One

There are a million and one police procedural shows out right now, but this one continues to be the best for a reason. I’ve tried to watch CSI: Ny & Miami, and the Law & Orders, but NCIS is the only one I consistently come back to. Mostly because the characters are better looking, Abby uis awesome and I really kind of want DiNozo and Ziva to “do it”.  I also adore how the women on this show are bad- ass, beautiful AND smart, with the ability to kick some major ass. Ziva could take out any of the men, any day.

(BTW: do watch SVU semi-regularly, simply because I like saying “Mariska Hargitay”)

Grays Anatomy

(Is it Grays? Or Greys? I can never remember.)

It’s popular for a reason. Main characters get smashed by busses and shot at regularly. You can’t go wrong here.

Desperate Housewives

They’re housewives. And they’re Desperate. It’s just so realistic! They’ve got the insider scoop on what it is that us housewives really do when they are home alone! How did they know what I wear when I’m cleaning? It’s like they are holding a mirror up to my life!

The Simpsons

I think Waldo is in there somewhere.

Yes, I have watched every single episode. All 20ish years worth. And yes, I am secretly a twelve-year-old boy who may have said: “Ha! Ha! Cartoon Penis!” during the Simpsons Movie.

Family Guy

There’s this roving gang of taggers in a nearby Texas town that have been using a tag of Stewie Griffins head to mark their territory.  I want to join this gang.

I amagine they jump you in by making you answer trivia questions and shooting off a body part every time you get one wrong.

“How many times has Cleveland and his bathtub fallen out of his house?”


” What does the European Cow say?”


“What started the feud with the giant chicken?”


“What’s the proper response when someone says ‘Meg’?”


You’re in. Sorry about the toes.

How I Met Your Mother

This is my new love. I spent the summer watching the midnight re-runs and I’m not sure how I have been living without this show in my life up until now.The premise of the show- if you live under the same rock I had been hiding under for the past few years- is a man telling his children the story of- you guessed it- how he met their mother. Aside from the odd fact that the main character has this rare disease that causes him to become Bob Saget sometime around 2020

( I call it Sagatitis)

…the show is rather awesome. Yes, that is Doogie Howser, MD. And yes, his character, Barney Stinson, is awesome. And a big fan of the ladies, though the actor himself is decidedly, er, not.

It’s Legen-

Wait for it..

Want to know the rest? Watch the show.

Two and a Half Men

They Killed Charlie!  He exploded like a “Bag of Meat”. And then he ended up in a Dustbuster. And then Ashton moved in. I don’t know what’s going on, either. But it’s generally hilarious.

The Mentalist

Dude, he totally reads between the lines. And shoots people. This man is mind-fuckingly brilliant, and of course, the bumbling CBI agents that work with him would be unable to find their own asses without him. He likes to take naps, drink tea, and generally knows everything about everything at all times, but likes to make the rest of his team, you know, work for it a little.

I’ve probably got more, but while I was writing this, I realized that i probably watch too much TV. If it makes a difference, most of my watching is done while doing laundry. What I’m saying is, we have too much fucking laundry.

Anyway, there you have it: Way more than you ever wanted to know about a total strangers TV watching habits, ever. You’re Welcome.

*This will make sense eventually, if I can actually stomach writing the post about it all.

**Hover over the pictures for stupid comments. Click them if you want to see where Google Images stole borrowed them from.

As a parent, I absolutely love the perspective and comments of my non-“breeder” friends. (Usually-there are some rather large exceptions to this.)
Aside from getting a chance to live vicariously in a world that is not, generally, dominated by breastfeeding debate, finding the best BPA-free feeding utensils and being immersed in other peoples feces, the childless insight into parenting can be enlightening. Sometimes we parents get so wrapped up in our kids that we can’t see what is plainly obvious to an outsider.

So, I’m thrilled to be able to share with you this guest post on parenting by the amazing @kindalikethis ( Who blogs regularly here.)


The Best Parents Are The Ones That Don’t Have Children.

To tell you the truth, this is the first time in my life I have heard this phrase. Since the few days that have passed, I have been told it’s common? Anyways, I’m not a parent. And because I’m not a parent, I’m not one to tell someone how to raise, or discipline their child. But I AM a woman, and therefore I have maternal instincts, and a natural care toward children.

Last week I was on vacation in LA with my mom for her birthday. Disneyland. While in line for a ride, it kept stopping. They weren’t telling people to get out of line unless they knew it would be down for more than 30 minutes. So, needless to say, those of us in line were waiting for a while, and were tired. It was hot. A bunch of kids were walking around in costume, and little girls everywhere where wearing princess dresses; Belle, Cinderella, Snow White… you get it.

I think it would be sort of dumb for someone not to expect their children to sit on the hand-rails. I mean, in all my life I’ve never understood why they don’t put some sort of bench all along or something! I can hear a father telling his daughter behind me not to sit on the hand railing, because she was sitting on the bottom row and her dress was touching the ground. Hey, I understand, have you seen how expensive those things are?

I, my mother, and about six other people were all leaning against the rail ahead of them. I keep hearing him say to ‘get off the hand rail’ and she keeps saying she’s ‘not on it.’ After a few minutes of this, we, myself and the others leaning on the rail in line, start to feel a sort of jerking/knocking on the rail. I had my sunglasses and mini-mouse head-band ears on, and kind of turned to see what was going on.

This girl was maybe 8 or 9, and the dad was about as tall as, if not a little shorter than me. I’m 5’2”. His hands were wrapped around her wrists so tight her skin around his fingers was white. He was banging her elbows against the railing so hard, it was shaking six grown people along this rail. After a couple of times I finally couldn’t just sit there anymore and I yelled “EXCUSE ME!” really loud and he looked at me with this shocked look on his face.

–Side Note–
If you know me personally, or have followed any of my blogs for long enough, you’ll know I’m not afraid to voice my opinion and I don’t give two shits about my ‘language’ or ‘my mouth’ either. Fuck that. Freedom of speech exists and I waited a long time as a kid and a teen under my mothers roof to ‘do whatever I wanted’ when I was ‘grown up’ so fuck that fucking shit!

Without using a ‘language’ a parent would – hopefully – not want their young child to hear, I told him, in a VERY loud voice, that I understood she was HIS child and he has every right to discipline her. He was about to say something and I put my hand up, which basically was in his short ass face, and I told him if I saw him do it one more time I was going to report him to security. I told him if that’s the way he “disciplines” his child, I highly suggest not doing it in public if he doesn’t want someone doing something about it!

By the time I was done we had about 20 people staring at us. And a few giving me a “thumbs up” with a smirk on their face. I turned back around and left it at that. He didn’t say a word! Just stared at me! After a while I can hear the mother making comments about how she wouldn’t have been so nice, and ‘let someone say something’ to her. Excuse me? Where was she five minutes ago when I was yelling at her husband, a complete stranger? About HER daughter? ‘The fuck? I almost turned around and asked her if she didn’t speak until spoken to just to be a bitch, but it was Disneyland, and my mom’s birthday, so I ignored it. But honestly, you either say something then, when it’s happening right in front of you, or shut the fuck up. Period.

Say what you want, I believe in “physical” child discipline. As in yes, I believe in spanking! Anyone in my generation, or the generations before will say that their parent’s discipline is what kept them from being a prison inmate today, or being dead, or whatever. It’s what kept them from being stuck in a room all summer instead of being at the beach. The generations after me have no idea of this discipline, because all of a sudden, it’s bad to slap your kid. I don’t fucking think so, I think kids now have no clue and that’s why you read the news about teenagers being arrested for murder. MURDER! How bad if your life at 14 and 15 to kill someone for a gold chain and an ipod! Really! Go ride a fucking bike, go swimming, try to experience a god damned childhood for fucks sake.

But there is a fine line you walk being a parent who chooses to touch your child while disciplining them, and I believe that there is absolutely no reason for a parent to be slamming his young, small, frail daughter’s bony elbows into a metal railing hard enough to shake about a thousand plus pounds of people leaning on it. This thing is cemented into the ground. Really. You do the math.

After another twenty minutes of standing there waiting for this ride – god damnit we came all the way there and it was her birthday, we were going to ride this thing if it was the last fucking thing we did – I pretended as if I were going to ask the attendant how much longer we had to wait, which I did, but I also turned him in and told the guy the whole story anyways. When we got to the front, finally, they had security just chillin’, watchin. But I was told that there’s not a whole lot they can do unless they actually see him doing it again. All they can do it report it and keep and eye on them.

Enough for me. I said what I needed to say and it didn’t happen for the rest of the duration of them being directly behind us in line. Who knows what they do at home if they do that kind of crap in public! But I am the type of person who is going to say something if I feel something is out of line. I’m not a ‘bystander’.

¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•`

Because I’m currently unable to form a coherent Panda, I’m posting some random stuff from the old blog that people seemed to find amusing for some reason. This sounds about right.

A Poo Post

Poo tubes.

If you have no idea what this stuff is for, consider yourself lucky. Also, you are about to be educated.  After my last doctors appointment, I was presented with a package of fun tubes and slides, for another round of “What the fuck is wrong with you this week” testing. I was going to do this all in private, and tell no one about it ever, but then I read the instructions, and I couldn’t not share them with you. It  would be wrong of me to keep this to myself.

So lets check out: “How to Collect Poo, in Eight Languages!”

Click to enlarge.


Pay close attention to the little pictures along the top. By far, the best part.img_3162

That sad face was also on the little vials. In case you feel the urge to drink the poo you have collected, please don’t, as it will make you make that face. I also like how they thoughtfully drew a little turd in the toilet illustration. Also, do not let small children play with Poo.

Feel free to enlarge that and read the list of ” Don’ts” My favorite is the one warning you not to shit directly into the tubes. In case you are confused about where you SHOULD shit, refer once again to the happy illustration for acceptable places.

Yes, that last one appears to be a bowl and a Tupperware container.

Fortunately, I had the foresight to ask  for this thing this time around:


I highly suggest that should you ever have to do this in the future, you ask for one of those things.  It seems to be called a “hat” for whatever reason. I did not get one of these last time and was left with a fun dilemma. Ended up  going with trash bag over toilet seat, which I do not recommend.

All in all, it’s an extremely humiliating experience, but at least the instructions are entertaining.

The next person that asks me “How was your day?” is going to regret it.

Moving to Texas has been, well, an experience. I’ve been here about a year now, and I’ve caught myself uttering many, many things that I never imagined I’d ever say.

“Wow, it’s cooled down a lot. It’s only 102.”
Texas is hot. And don’t give me the “It’s a DRY heat” crap. That’s maybe true in some parts of Texas, but over near the Gulf, not so much. I’ve given up wearing makeup during the summer because it melts during the WALK TO THE CAR. I’m not even kidding. When you turn your faucet tap to cold, what you get is “Slightly less hot.” turning on the hose outside can result in serious scald burns. I used to hate seeing people let their infants out in nothing but a diaper. My son now regularly plays in the front without clothing, sometimes even naked. And if I could get away with it without someone calling the homeowners association or Greenpeace on me, I would too.

“No, you can’t play at the park until the cow goes home.”


I’m so not even kidding. I don’t need that trip to the ER where I have to explain how my kid got trampled by a random cow coming off the slide.

“Texas isn’t so bad.”

I was born in Connecticut. I grew up in Hawaii and I’ve lived in Florida, but I’m a New-Englander at heart. A damn liberal Yankee. Before I moved here, I was told that I’d “never survive” and that I’d basically be drummed out of the state for my liberal hippie views. By “friends” no less.
But you know what? People are like, NICE here. My neighbors are awesome. Even the conservative ones. We moved in and people brought us “welcome to the neighborhood” cake. And when we all got the 24 hour flu-of-death, diapers and Gatorade were delivered to our door. Every weekend, if we need some social interaction with other adults, we just go outside. Neighbors congregate in driveways. With beer. Like King of The Hill. We are invited to dinner, and block parties every weekend. All of the kids roam the streets together and all of the parents look out for them.

Over the holidays, several different neighbors helped us decorate the house with blue and white lights for Hanukkah. No one cares that we are Jewish and Pagan. No one judges us for having different beliefs and political views.

Maybe I just got supremely lucky with our neighborhood, but even at stores, people are generally courteous and kind. Several times people have shooed me to the front of a line because my son was obviously OVER shopping and about to meltdown. Men in Cowboy boots hold open doors and usher me in with the wave of a hat.

It’s weird. Like living in a TV show.

“How old does my kid have to be to take a gun safety class?”

We used to be a gun free family. No guns. No toy guns.

Then we moved to a state whose motto seems to be “Welcome to Texas, here, have a free gun.”

It’s not just a stereotype. I swear, EVERYONE here has a gun.

(Hmmn. Maybe that explains why people are so considerate. When you know everyone is packing, it’s best not to piss them off?)

And living in a neighborhood where my 8 year old is often spending the night elsewhere, it seems prudent to teach her about gun safety. Or shoot a watermelon in front of her and remind her that could be her head. Whatever.

We are still a gun free house, but it doesn’t matter. The boys have taught Kira to make scarily accurate sub-machine gun replicas out of Trios. Or bread. And my son chases me around while aiming toilet paper rolls at me and yelling “PewPewPew!”


Some other favorites include:

“Stop licking the armadillo.”

“Did you guys see Kiss at the Rodeo?”


“What is your kid wearing for “Texas Day'”?

“I have horse shit on my shoe. Again.”

“Did you hear about the fire at Possum Kingdom Lake?”