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November, 2012

  • My Little Spirit Animal

    Supposedly everyone has a spirit animal.  You know, like an animal that your spirit embodies.  Most people talk about having a hawk, buffalo, panther, or bear as theirs.  Something badass.  I always wanted to know what my spirit animal was, so one day went to this guided meditation to find out.

    A priestess with blond hair the color of destiny, eyes as effervescent as champagne, and the skin of eternal youth, hosted this holy event.  She only ate raw food, so when she walked her feet didn’t touch the ground.  She just kind of glided from place to place lighting candles and setting up crystals to help us better connect to the universal oneness of all things.  After the eagle feathers were strategically placed, the sage sufficiently burnt, and the dragon fly wings properly dusted, we were ready to get started.

    This earthly goddess had us go through a ritual of cleansing our auras and opening our hearts so our spirit animals could reveal themselves.  I went in and out of trying to stay attuned to what this spritely being was saying, and thinking about how hungry I was, if I should cut my hair, what type earrings make me look the skinniest, and then of course my connection to the infinite unity of parallel dimensions.

    Finally in this guided meditation we were told to picture ourselves in a field.  Wearing white flowing robes stitched with the golden thread of leprechaun mustache.  It was there, in this endless field, that our spirit animal would find us.  And there it was my friends.  In my minds eye I saw my spirit animal walking towards me, proud and confident.  A brontosaurus.

    “Really?  Seriously? A brontosaurus?  You are my spirit animal?”

    “You better believe it honey.”

    November 30, 2012 • 2 years old, Adventures, Musings • Views: 2108

  • Holy Crap My Fur Burger Needs Plastic Surgery!!!

    According to plastic surgeons all over the world my vagina is an unholy mess and needs to be fixed with plastic surgery!  I had no idea!!?? I always thought a warm gooey hole to put your penis in was sufficient… but au contraire.  Forget the fact that my clam sandwich was burly enough for a human head to slide out of it, because the real purpose of the pussy is form not function baby.

    Plastic surgery is one of those things that people do out of fear.  They fear their own inevitable mortality.  Why look like you are aging only to remind yourself that you are in fact dying.  Every day that passes you are closer to your own demise, and contemplating that in a real way is a waste of time right?  Like if you thought about death you might actually try to appreciate life.  Isn’t that so silly?

    So lets run from it ladies!!! The more we focus on vanity and cultural beauty standards the happier we will be!  Why care about stupid stuff like your mind and personality when you can pay a plastic surgeon to give you porn star tits and the cunt of an alien 12 year old — void of any hair or folds.  I find so much comfort and meaning in this don’t you?

    You are probably wondering, “wait, what is wrong with my vagina?”  Uhhhhhh probably everything! For one, if you have had a kid, your poontang is toast. Like literally.  It is a flat floppy mess.  Whoever is fucking you is lost in your flabby vag.  Don’t even think about doing kegel’s because nothing can fix the damage your child has inflicted.  The only thing that will help is stitches, and lots of them!

    Even if you haven’t spurted a spawn your vulva, your beaver may still be all jacked up… lips flapping everywhere… hanging like beef curtains.  How dare you?  Your twat is not supposed to resemble a flower with soft petals.  Georgia O’Keeffe was an idiot! Your fish taco is supposed to be smooth and devoid of all pleats.  Haven’t you ever seen Barbie’s crotch?  It is just skin and space.  Your genitals are supposed to be like that.  Duh?!

    And get this… your shriveled wrinkly front bottom can look old.  It is just so old looking.  Fix that quick!! It looks so old down there.

    I guess in some cultures it is important to be a virgin when you get married, so you can also get your hymen repaired to make sure you bleed all over the place when he enters you.  Boy if there is anything I would like to relive its losing my virginity!  But I am actually pro hymenplasty.  Slut it up as much as you like and then lie to your new husband about your past.  This may not be a great recipe for intimacy, trust, or accepting someone for who they are… but it’s better than only sleeping with one man for your entire life.

    Although I am almost convinced of the urgent need to fix my deformed female body, I have to say… getting plastic surgery on your pink velvet sausage wallet still seems ridiculous.  Especially considering that men are not that picky when it comes to aesthetics.  Have you ever seen a guy’s house that he decorated himself??  Like without a “woman’s touch?”  There usually isn’t attention paid to details as long as he has a place to come home to.  So you see ladies… A man is not seriously judging the beauty of your poonanie as long as you let him come inside of it.  But if you are a lesbian and dating a woman, that’s a different story.  You better get that vertical smile looking nice.















    November 29, 2012 • 2 years old, Current Events, Mommy Body, Musings • Views: 8403

  • Life Observations Inspired By Raising The Munch

    1)    Baby wipes can work as impromptu armpit cleaner when deodorant wears off.

    2)    If you have to really pee and are stuck in traffic, having a diaper around is mighty handy.  Warning: you will probably get some pee on the seat, but considerably less pee than if you had peed your pants.

    3)    Speaking of pee, while potty training your kid, if they are going to pee in their underwear, encourage them to pee on the floor and not the couch.

    4)    Having an audience in the bathroom asking questions and narrating your every move makes you realize how amazing it is to defecate in silence.

    5)    To a toddler, a sanitary pad is very confusing and might make them think mommy also wears a diaper.

    6)    Someone else’s backwash in your drink really is gross.

    7)    Someone else’s half chewed food actually isn’t that bad.

    8)    Seeing the sunrise if overrated.

    9)    If you pee in the bath, and then drink the water, there are no obvious consequences.

    10)  Only one person on a seesaw is pretty anti-climatic.


    November 28, 2012 • 2 years old, Musings • Views: 1091

  • Diary Of The Munch

    Dear Diary,

    Woke up again in this primordial cage, the bars just high enough where I can’t catapult myself over.  This crib of my slumber confining not only my dreams, but also my physical self; I can’t decipher if it is saving me from myself, or the world from me.  Sigh… but hey check this out… my stuffed kitty.  I love this thing.  His nose is so cute.

    My mother figure keeps insisting that I change my diaper.  Doesn’t she understand that change is constant? That this barbaric ritual is meaningless in a world where my poops will end up in a landfill defiling this planet, further perpetuating the earth’s own fecal demise. The ineffectuality is however less significant than the discomfort of these cold temperature wipies against my tushie. Hey she is blowing on my tummy. That is so funny.  Silly mommy.

    I want to go out side and play.  But I don’t want to wear my socks.  Only my party shoes! Why do I have to wear socks just because of so-called winter?  What kind of rational is the changing of the seasons?  More like the oppression of my soul.  I do want to be cold.  No body believes me.  It is my Buddhist practice of heating my core temperature despite the weather, but Mamma keeps making me wear a hat.  Is it too complicated for her to comprehend that my spiritual self is only accessed through the extremism of my commitment?  At least it is a pumpkin hat. And I get to wear my monkey vest.  I love monkeys; they make that “ooo ooo ooo ahh ahh ahh” sound and scratch their armpits.  Delightful.

    There is no justice in the world.  I have to eat my pasta and vegetables before I can have any bunny shaped cookies.  What kind of regime is this woman running?  A totalitarian dictatorship of all that is delicious?  Bitch.

    I do want to put salt and pepper in my milk!!!

    I don’t want to do bath.  It not time for night night.  No! Oh shit you are going to put bubbles in my bath? Okay that sounds fun.

    Brushing my teeth seems so futile.  Aren’t they all going to fall out anyway?  Fine, I guess I will do it if I can eat some of the strawberry toothpaste.

    Another day has come and gone.  I may not have been able to do all that I wanted.  I had to draw only on the paper and not the table, which seems very small minded and inartistic if you ask me.  I wasn’t allowed to eat my Popsicle in the living room because of something about my gross sticky hands on the couch… I don’t know I wasn’t really listening.  But at least my Mamma chased me around the kitchen table until I smacked my head against the refrigerator because of my slippery socks.  I knew socks were bad news.










    November 27, 2012 • 2 years old, Baby Brain, Musings • Views: 1219

  • Party Time, EXCELLENT!

    I don’t mean to brag, but I know how to party.  Now I do mean to brag, I look really good in hats.  Now I don’t mean to brag again, I know how to shake a tail feather on the dance floor.

    I started clubbing when I was 15 years old.  My friend and I did not have fake ID’s, so we would wear the sluttiest outfits possible in the hopes that the doorman would care more about our whore-factor than underage-ness.  We knew it was bad when one night while walking to the club a guy said to us “Uhhh girls, the beach is that way.”  Whatever dude.  We would get to the door and beg to come in, showing our already exposed tattoos as proof we were old enough. Come on, how can you reject two girls with a Tinkerbell and Winnie the Pooh tattoo for being too immature to go to a bar?

    When I moved to NYC at 19, going out dancing became my part time job.  For the 12 years I lived in NY, I shook my ass and wiggled around to music so many times I should have gotten an award.  Part of the appeal was the party aspect.  The drinking, the losing yourself, the escapism, the grinding, the looks, the dressing up… But I also think I was searching for meaning.  Looking for some primal connection to my ancient ancestors who danced under the starlight gazing towards Godliness.

    I think there is something significant to be said about the concept of collective dance.  Since the dawn of time humans stomped around and moved their bodies to a rhythmic sound.  There are obviously many cultures where dance is a major part of their community, culture, and spiritual practice.  Dance isn’t something they do, it is part of who they are as people, a piece of their collective identity.

    I think in many ways dance is rooted in our humanity.  Showing the ecstatic appreciation of music through the language of our bodies.  Granted, I can’t say that was exactly what I was doing while in a dark dingy place drinking cranberry vodka’s as “Shake That Ass” boomed through the speakers.  But maybe this whole club culture is an expression of need for a very real element that is missing in our lives.

    But this issue with clubs and musical festivals as the only outlets for communal dance, is that it is not exactly the most conducive atmosphere to bring your child.  I know there are hippy mom’s who bring their kids to Burning Man or Moon Bark Rainbow Tribe Gatherings, and maybe I will figure out how that works at some point… but as it stands right now I am too attached to things like water to wash her shitty ass at night.  But I still would like to experience adult fun with my child.

    So this weekend we went to my cousin’s wedding and had the best time! Weddings are this controlled environment where there are an abundance of people to look out for your kid while you can have fun and feel like a grown up.  So often it is parents entering into their child’s world, but this was an experience where The Munch and her young cousin’s were entering into an adult world.  Everyone was laughing and dancing and having the time of their lives, only the kids didn’t have to be drunk to lose their inhibitions… but I do think maybe they were taking ecstasy.


    November 26, 2012 • 2 years old, Adventures, Mommy Body • Views: 1688

  • Am I Pretty?

    I am sick of trying to look pretty in pictures…

    November 23, 2012 • 2 years old, Musings • Views: 1119

  • The Darker Meat

    Thanksgiving makes me think of genocide.  I kind of feel it is demented to celebrate the initial symbolic meal where Native American’s embraced the white man to their land, and then those same white men later killed everyone at the table.  Even though I wasn’t there in the pilgrim days, murdering native peoples with my small pox and greed, I still feel slightly responsible… considering.

    This is what I don’t get.  Why couldn’t the white man come to America and realize, “Wow, you have a pretty good thing going over here.  Living off the land… all these buffalo and wild horses.  That pretty hair of yours.  Can we be a part of this?”  Why couldn’t the whites assimilate to the native way of living rather than re-creating the exact homeland they had just fled?  Or why couldn’t there have been true cooperation and collaboration? Like the white man could still have worn their bonnets and powdered wigs, just not destroyed an entire race of people in the process.

    Fine.  I am obviously not a historian, and I am sure there are justifications out there   But can I take a guess?  The rational of this mass slaughter is $ and resources.  Just masked by a lot of rhetoric and gobbledygook. (By the way, that is a real word.  Spell check just corrected my previous more phonetic spelling).

    I love the concept of Thanksgiving.  Getting together with family and eating until you feel sick.  Lovely.  But I don’t think there is enough emphasis of the massive suffering that is also represented by this emblematic holiday.  It is meaningful to be thankful for your blessings, but that is ignoring the fact that these same blessings are bathed in the blood of the massacred.  And maybe I am sounding like a Debbie Downer… and maybe that is because I am sick… with the stomach flu… and cannot eat… and feel really sorry for myself… and resent everyone out there stuffing their faces with delicious stuffing.  But whatever…

    November 22, 2012 • 2 years old, Current Events, Musings, Political Banter • Views: 1130

  • The Other “F” Word

    A woman saying she is not a feminist is like a man saying he doesn’t masturbate.  It just isn’t right.  In a recent interview, global super star Taylor Swift says while she believes in equality between men and women, she does not identify as a feminist.

    I am confused?  Isn’t that what a feminist is?  Like seriously… that is exactly what it means.

    Why do so many women avoid labeling themselves feminist? Is it because they fear guys will think its unsexy and assume they have *gasp* pubic hair?  What is the trepidation of honoring your gender and publically decreeing the value of being respected as a human?

    Did I miss the memo that in order to be desired by men, never let them think you actively notice the abundance of sexism that exists in the world. Call me crazy, but last time I checked most guys were interested in pussy, and will still fuck you even if you call yourself a feminist.

    All of our personalities are shaped by a cultural interpretation of gender, and part of the female experience in the modern era is dealing with the very real circumstance of chauvinism.  I look forward to the day this discussion is irrelevant, but since we are not there yet, I want to make sure I raise my daughter to be an ultra feminist and proud of it!

    “No way Munch… you don’t have to conform to oppressive beauty standards… no need to shave.”


    November 21, 2012 • 2 years old, Mommy Mind, Musings, Parenting • Views: 1096

  • Maybe You Don’t Have To Be Such An Asshole?

    “You and your kid are kind of annoying to be around.”  Okay…. Not exactly what you want to hear someone say.  Better than “you have full blown herpes,” but not as good as “your anal leakage is only temporary.”

    When you have a baby, your first job is to love it unconditionally and keep it from getting smothered to death by your cat.  When the baby cries, it is because it needs something and is trying to communicate, so you attend to these shrieks dutifully.  You don’t question if your infant is manipulating you with their tears, and in general you can excuse the majority of their behavior as unintentional consequences of their first experience with existence.  But as they age, at certain point you realize that your kid doesn’t have to be a dick anymore, but is actually choosing to be.

    So there is this phenomenon called “the terrible twos.” The general assumption being that your child will turn two, and it will be quite hellacious.  I think there is some truth to this, but it is also a really dangerous prospective.  For me at least, it made me think this was just they way things were.  Like I should accept my toddler being a poopie face rather than try to do something about it.

    I never had to discipline The Munch before so I didn’t really know what to do.  I know how to discipline my dog; shout “NO” in her face when she is trying to steal my sandwich and then feel bad because her face looks sad so give her a bite anyway… but something told me this wasn’t the best strategy with my child.

    I realized that where I was going wrong was letting things get too far and only really reacting once I was frustrated and insanely annoyed.  So my emotionality was only flaming the chaos of the moment.  So I knew I had to intervene much sooner so I could nip things in the bud, mainly because I used to be a pothead.  So the moment I could tell Munch was starting to be an unreasonable prick, I would address the behavior.  But I had to develop a tone of voice that would be impactful.  One that was devoid of any emotion, but stern and persuasive.  A discipline tone of voice.

    Although there is obviously not a 100% success rate, but there has been drastic improvement in the way The Munch behaves.  She is also on average in a much better mood then when I was allowing her whims to dictate the day.  I am aware there will be may more moments and challenges on my quest to raise a decent human, but I feel somewhat encouraged by the idea that there is always something you can do to help your kid be less of a douche.