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January, 2013
Archive

  • No Kid Of Mine Isn’t Going to Be Cool, or a Satanist

    Your kid is a reflection of you.  They are an extension of your personal brand.  How they dress, how you cut their hair, what kind of shoes they wear, all goes back to showcasing you.  If you hipster, preppy, hippy, Goth, rocker, emo, hip-hop, upscale-yoga-chick, alternative, clean cut… the fashion choices you prefer for yourself are usually how you style your child for as long as you have control over what they wear.  I am sure there are a lot of mommies in plastic high heels parading around some slutty babies in thong diapers.

    I dig it… I want the Munch to be wearing ironic t-shirts and rocking a Casio watch.  I need her to show the world that I am in fact cool despite the depressing reality that I am wearing Uggs.  Fuck!  All my self-value is now contingent on whether or not I can stuff my two year-old’s feet into some Reebok high tops.  Or maybe I need to shove her into some flowing yoga pants and a white linen shirt so she can be all Zen and one with the Cosmos.  Wait, who am I again?

    Even though technically I want The Munch to be her own person, and explore whatever she finds intriguing, in reality I want her to be just like me.  Or at least highly influenced by my vibe.

    But some parents are willing to take their insistence on indoctrinating their kid to a whole new level. Like this mom who made her toddler get a tattoo.  I mean, although I think it would be pretty badass to give The Munch a sleeve, or ink up her back with the story of the Bhagavad Gita… even I know it is better to wait until she can decide that for herself.  Like I did, when I got my first tattoo at 15.  Yet this mom not only forced her kid to get a tattoo, but said tattoo actually trademarked the child with the numbers 666.  Now I know your satanic cult must be really important to you and your family, but anytime your kid is upside down it is going to look like 999.  So a picture of the devil probably would have been a better idea.

    “Seriously Munch? A Barbie radio/microphone set?? That is not cool!!! What are you doing to me!?”

     

     

     

     

     

     

    January 31, 2013 • 2 years old, Current Events, Musings, Parenting • Views: 59

  • Nurse Me Back To Health

    When I am sick I feel like a big baby.  I just want someone to nurse me back to health. Is that too much to ask of the world?  And that got me thinking, “hey, isn’t it interesting that not only does the verb “to nurse” mean to cure by special care and treatment, but also to suckle a baby!?”  Maybe the reason why the word is the same is because that is all we really want to make us feel better; a bosom to provide nourishment and cuddle up next to.

    I started wondering which one of my friends would loan me their lactating breast, but then it hit me.  “Hey, I don’t want a boob the size of mine.  I want a giant titty to comfort me, one that will be in perfect proportion, allowing me to become the size of a baby and feel small and safe and taken care of.

    Pretty sure Craig’s List should have what I am searching for.

     

    January 30, 2013 • 2 years old, Health, Mommy Body, Musings • Views: 228

  • My Old Life

    I used to be hot.  I used to use make up. I used to wear sexy clothes and yellow suede boots.  I used to go out to fancy hard to get into clubs, and get into the fancy hard to get into VIP section, then sit with the fancy hard to get people, and stare vacantly out into the world.

    I used to live in New York City.

    In the 12 years that I was there, the New York nightlife was a huge part of my existence.  It wasn’t just about the drinking, drugging, and looking racy; it was also about the dancing, oh, and the drinking and drugging, did I mention that yet?  I loved to go to nightclubs and bars to wiggle around until 4 in the morning.  Something about it felt fabulous, and exciting.  Like I was living my youth.

    But my last year in NY I had decided to commit to a sober existence, and going out got kind of boring. Or maybe I was just boring?  I was too self-conscious to talk to anybody, and when you aren’t wasted on Redbulls and vodkas you realize pretty quick that bumping into sweaty people isn’t exactly “dancing.” It is more gyrating amongst sloppy drunks while avoiding people stepping on your toes.  I got to tell you something, drunk white girls with heels are some dangerous bitches.  Something that used to be so fun and glamorous suddenly felt alienating.  Everyone around me was enjoying themselves, but I was too aware of everything going around me to lose myself in the moment.  When I was wasted it was easy to relate to people because I was stumbling around in an arrogant haze thinking I was Puff Daddy.  But as a sober person all I could think was how weird it was that all these people were in a room acting like they are too cool to engage with anyone, when obviously we were all in this room yearning to engage with everyone.

    Now my life is really different.  For one, I often wear fleece sweatpants non-ironically.  I live in the woods, surrounded by sticks and leaves rather than beautiful people with stick like bodies and leaf like personalities.  A night on the town means I go shopping for food past 6.  Being a mother in the cuntree is a lot different than a party girl in the city.

    Last night I was watching the show “Girls” and they were getting all fucked up- acting wild running around NY- and I felt nostalgic for that old life.  But at the same time, I had a good run, and it would be kind of demented still trying to live like that now.  Like I would get home at 5 in the morning, hating myself once I ran out of blow and booze, and then have to wake up at 7 to help someone poop on the potty and listen to them talk about how they want two oranges, not one, because twinkle twinkle little star is so bright, and not falling.

    Isn’t my friend wicked hot in this pic!!!???

    January 29, 2013 • 2 years old, Musings • Views: 81

  • Everyone Has Got a Type

    This weekend I went to a renaissance fair.  I can’t really tell you why.  I live in the country, and will go almost anywhere someone invites me just to break the mundane routine of life.  And nothing says The Renaissance like the Radisson Hotel in Manchester New Hampshire.

    My friend Cyndal is the one who is into this world, and Munch and I were tagging along for the experience of it.

    “So Toni, I will come by in the morning to bring you some clothes that are period appropriate, but you are going to have to find something for The Munch.”

    “Wait, so if I don’t put “period attire” on my 2-year old they wont let me in?”

    “Probably not, no.”

    I don’t know if you have ever been to an event like this, but let me tell you, these people are not fucking around.  Not only was everyone dressed like wenches, princesses, maidens, peasants, gnomes and knights, but everyone was dressed WENCHES, PRINCESSES, MAIDENS, PEASANTS, GNOMES AND NIGHTS!  According to Cyndal they are Scadians, which is a term for the members of SCA, or the Society of Creative Anachronisms.  There is a whole industry around creating costumes, armor, leather satchels, Robin Hood hats, helmets, corsets, swords, and was all sold at the market where you could pay by credit card swiping an Ipad.  Just like they did 1000 years ago.

    Cyndal suggested we go watch the battle, where people were either fencing or beating each with sticks, swords, and axes.  The fencing was more of a laid back scene, but the reenactment battles were really brutal.  I mean these guys were really wacking each other.  I guess they had shields and armor on, but the sounds of the weapons clacking against the top of someone’s helmet were horrendous.

    Of course, The Munch was obsessed with the battle scene.  She was mesmerized watching these guys, and I started to panic thinking she was seduced by all the violence and fighting.  She has been going through a hitting phase, so we have been doing all this talking about how hitting is not the solution to frustration, and then here were these men pummeling each other.  I didn’t know if I should take her away because of the bad influence of this behavior, or totally start stressing out about what kind of impact it would have on her relationship to physical aggression? But she was so happy, and I had a really good idea for a tweet to twitter.

    I finally pried her away after about an hour to go watch some belly dancing.

    “Mamma I want to go back to that other room.”

    “Well Munch, you know that hitting is not okay right? They are playing pretend, but in real life hitting is not nice.”

    “I know, I just want to go see the boys.”

    Oh, maybe The Munch wasn’t into the viciousness at all, and just has penchant for nerdy guys.

     

    January 28, 2013 • 2 years old, Adventures • Views: 70

  • My Kid is a Tattle Tale

    I know it is important to teach our children honesty and all that crap, but man… kids really can’t keep a secret.

    Example 1:  The Munch was jumping on couch, and at times off the couch into my arms.  We were having fun, but then I got bored and wanted to get my boots so we could go.  Just as I was telling her I would be right back and turned my head, she leapt into the air to jump in my arms and subsequently fell on her head.

    “Munch I am so sorry! I didn’t know you were jumping!”

    “Wahhhhahaaaaaa! You dropped me!!!!”

    “Well, I didn’t exactly drop you, I just didn’t catch you. There is a difference.”

    “YOU DROPPED ME!!!”

    “Look, I can admit it is sort of my fault you landed on your face, but it is not like I actually dropped you.”

    “That is just semantics!” (or maybe what she actually said was “waaaahhhhhhaaaa!!” It’s hard to remember everything verbatim).

    I figured we had worked through everything and all was fine until we got to the store and The Munch decided to engage a random stranger as we were waiting in line.

    “Mamma dropped me on my head. And I was crying.  I was jumping on the couch and she didn’t catch me and I went boom on my head.  And I was crying.  And Mamma said I didn’t drop you, and I said you did drop me.  And I was crying.”

    Example 2: As a lady, when going to the bathroom I will most likely say “I am going pee” even when I know full well that is not the only act that will be taking place. But I feel more comfortable with people picturing urine coming out of my urethra then feces coming out of my anus.  Just saying.  So, I was at a friend’s house and said I had to use the bathroom to go pee.

    “I wanna come with you Mamma.”

    “Okay fine, come with me.”

    (Keep in mind, the bathroom was next to the living room where quite a few people were sitting… so if one were to talk in said bathroom, it would be impossible not to hear the conversation taking place).

    “Mamma you are going poops!”

    “No Munch I am just doing pee.”

    “NO MAMMA YOU ARE DOING POOPS TOO!! MAMMA YOU ARE DOING POOPS!!!”

    See! That is definitely poops in there

     

    January 25, 2013 • 2 years old, Baby Gear, Behavior, Pee & Poop, Talking and Not Talking • Views: 281

  • Maybe Guns are Silly?

    Gun control is obviously a hot issue right now, like autism and rape.  Sigh, what a wonderful world we live in.  The right to bear arms is a constitutional amendment, which is weird because I just want to have regular human arms.  And besides, what does cross species genetic mutations have to do with guns anyway?

    I live in New Hampshire, where we live free or die.  Seriously. It says that on my license plate.  We are not fucking around here.  People are really into their guns in this red-neck of the woods, and don’t want the government taking them away.  I don’t think it is just the idea of owning a weapon that is the seduction, but more what guns have come to represent in the American psyche.

    When the constitution was written, the technology of weaponry was not that advanced.  I mean I guess there were cannons, but guns were still a really big deal when it came to combat.  If you had a gun, you could defend yourself from not only your neighbor, but also your government.  There was basically a semi level playing field.  The symbolic gesture of owning a gun meant you could feel comfortable allowing the government to govern you, and relinquishing personal power to a greater institutional schema because there was always the possibility for revolution.  Meaning if your government became a tyranny you could organize, rise up, and fight for your freedom back.

    I think that people are still really attached to this idea.  Whether you are a right wing extremist, or a left wing conspiracy theorist who believes we are living in a police state, there are many that feel uncomfortable with the police or the government having guns and the public being disarmed.  Okay, I can get that.  But do you really think the best weaponry the government has right now is guns???  We live in a country where our military budget is 42% or the entire global military expenditure! The US spends over $1.5 trillion a year on different ways to kill people!! Are some assault riffles are going to make a shit bit of difference when a drone attack is in your living room, or a nuclear bomb goes off in your bathtub?

    My point is, we are not only living in a police state, we are living in a police world, and the US military holds all the power.  If the American people really wanted to dissent with some guns as their means of defense, the government would laugh at our silliness as they dumped chemical warfare all over our faces.

    If people think guns are making them free then they haven’t read the patriot act, or watched any video footage of peaceful protests lately.  I feel like the only reason the government is even entertaining the conversation about gun control is because people are impassioned and involved because they don’t want any more mass shootings and horrific deaths.  And the more the government takes the conversation seriously, the less we will think about the fact that we are completely at their mercy.

    Anyone that really believes holding onto their assault riffle is going to protect them from the government is in such deep denial of the obvious advancements in technology and needs to acknowledge we are no longer living in 1789.  And if you want a gun to protect your family, I can understand that, but maybe we should talk to the government about getting some of those drones to do that for us. They could be like pets, that our kids love but mutilates anyone who threatens them.  Awwwwww that is sweet.

    (Here  is one of DARPA’s drone dogs… just like a puppy!!)

     

     

     

     

     

    January 24, 2013 • 2 years old, Current Events, Political Banter • Views: 128

  • I can’t feel my hands! Oh wait, have sex with them… now I can

    The only time I ever notice my body parts is when they feel bad.  If everything is working like it should, I don’t feel the majority of my body. I can’t feel my cells right now.  They are just floating around, bumping into each other, and I am completely oblivious to them.

    In fact, most of my body is a total mystery that I am unaware of most of the time.  I know I have something called a spleen, but I can’t feel that thing nor do I have a clue what it does or even where it is.  But if it were hurting me, I would be like “ahhhhh that is my spleen and it feels pain” and suddenly become conscious of it.  But of course I would need a doctor to tell me it is my spleen that is bothersome not my stomach because everything is all jumbled up in there.  Internal organs must be quite slutty because they are in some crazy orgiastic positions up in my guts.

    I don’t feel my nose unless it is running, but seriously where are you going because now my face looks ridiculous.  I never feel my head unless I have a headache, and nobody wants to hang around someone with a headache.

    Besides our crotch area and skin, most of our body doesn’t really feel good either.  It is not like my femur bone feels delightful right now.  Or my veins and arteries are feeling fine.  Unless something is broken, bleeding, oozing, deteriorating, burning, agonizing, or suddenly gone, it basically exists with my being totally ignorant of it.  I mean I can obviously feel my body as a whole, but to break it down into parts is too disconnecting on both the micro and meta-level.

    Pain is our connection to our bodies.  It is what makes us realize that we are even inside them.  I feel my muscles only when they are sore, and have never felt them feel amazing.  My bicep doesn’t hurt right now, but it doesn’t feel fantastic either.  When I do yoga or dance I have to relate to these muscles and make them work, but I do that through exerting them not masturbating them.

    Maybe that is why human culture is so obsessed with sex, either alone or with partner(s).  It is the only time we actually feel our body without suffering or intense effort.  The sensation of the skin and sex organs all feels pleasant and therefore heightens our cognizance of our existence.  The pleasure brings us into our bodies in a way that transcends our normal understanding of it.  Unless you do lots of drugs, then you are an another tip completely.   Does any of this make any sense to anyone but me right now?

    (This is me dancing and feeling my muscles with Cyndal… check out my armpit hair!! Epic right?)

    January 23, 2013 • 2 years old, Mommy Body, Musings • Views: 259

  • Tragic Gasoline Fight Accident

    So let me set the stage for this event.  I went to Boston for the night, and the next day my mom and brother brought The Munch to the aquarium while I took a yoga class.  Since this was such a lovely gesture on their part, I offered to drive my brother home to Cambridge on my way back North.  We decided that I would drop him off at the gas station two blocks from his house so I could easily get back on the highway, yet it was at said gas station where the incident occurred.

    Brother Laszlo: “Here, right here at this shell station is perfect.”

    Toni: “Okay great! And thanks again for bringing Munch! She had so much fun!”

    Brother Laszlo: “Maybe you should get some gas since you are already at a station?”

    Toni: “That is a good idea, I only have 1/3 of a tank.”

    Brother Laszlo: “Why don’t we do this, I will pump the gas for you.”

    Again, a lovely gesture! I am a lady after all.  But here is where things get a little complicated.  My brother doesn’t drive… so needless to say he doesn’t have vast experience in the field of automobiles.  I know this about him, but was moved by this kind offer.

    So we both got out of the car and I swiped my card, but the machine wouldn’t read it.  I tried again, same thing.

    Brother Laszlo: “Maybe try debit instead?”

    Toni: “Yeah okay?”

    Third time, nothing.  So at this point we have been standing in the frigid air for over 5 minutes.

    Brother Laszlo: “Maybe you go run and pay inside the station? I will wait here in case it goes through.”

    I run to try to get into station, but of course it is closed and I have to run back.

    Toni: “Okay, I am just going to move the car to another one of these fucking gas terminals.”

    So at this point we are both a little antsy and annoyed, but trying to make the best of the 7-degree weather.

    Brother Laszlo: “Hey, I think you should teach me that trick people do so you don’t have to hold the gas nozzle.”

    Toni: “Yeah sure, you just have to flick this thing down and then it hooks on here like a kickstand.”

    Brother Laszlo: “Ohhhhh I see.  Okay.  But how do you get it off when you are done?”

    Toni: “I will show you when its finished.”

    Since we had some time to kill, we did a little dance to show off our free hands.  At this point, I could have easily gotten back into the car because Laszlo did say he would pump the gas for me… but we were having so much fun with this aforementioned dance I decided to wait it out.

    CLICK.

    Brother Laszlo: “Oh it’s done, so I just pull up and it unhooks?”

    Toni: “Yeah just like that.”

    Now this is where things get wild.  Because my brother was holding onto the gas nozzle, and had a tight grip from unlatching that hook, he must have figured he could keep holding the nozzle with that same level of intensity.  So he pulled the nozzle out of the car- still gripping on the handle -and gas continued to violently spurt out.  It hit my car with such vigor and intense pressure that it started spraying everywhere.  Laszlo quickly reacted by pointing the nozzle away from the car and directly at me.  And then we just looked at each other in total shock; his hand still exerting the same pressure as gasoline showered my entire body.  It is like we got into a tragic gasoline fight, yet he was the only one armed with gasoline.

    Quite a few seconds go by and neither of us can register the proper mode of action.  For me to get out of the way of the violent spray, and for my brother to let go of his grip.  Eventually both these things did happen, but not until I was soaking wet.

    Brother Laszlo: “Oh my god.  I am so sorry.”

    Toni: “Holy crap did that really just happen.”

    Brother Laszlo: “I didn’t realize it would keep spurting gas after the machine clicked signifying its completion.”

    Toni: “Yeah, I hear you.”

    Brother Laszlo: “Maybe you should come to my house and borrow some of Lizzie’s clothes?”

    At first I thought I would be fine, until I remembered I was covered in gasoline.

    Toni: “Yeah I think you are right.”

    We climbed in the car and got high on fumes for a few blocks so I could get into his house to shower, scrub the scent of gas off my skin, steal his wife’s clothes, and get back on the road with a trash bag full of soiled clothes.  And when I finally got back home after my 2-hour drive I noticed I only went through 1/8 of a tank of gas.  Fucking A.

    Only my favorite text messages of all time ever to be received  by any human in the cosmos

     

     

    January 22, 2013 • 2 years old, Adventures • Views: 224

  • My Armpits Are a Political Statement

    As a woman, shaving your armpits is actually a really big deal.  It is like the hair under your arms is a metaphorical vocal vagina, nestled away and roaring at the world of your feminist status.  If you don’t shave them, you are sending a message every time you high five that has serious moral ramifications.

    But you know what world? Sometimes I just get lazy, and my razor is all used up and rusty, and I tell myself to get another one next time I am out but every time I forget.  And then months go by and all of a sudden I have a tuft of hair in my pit place that resembles a small Sasquatch.  These things happen.

    So I was in this dance performance over the weekend that was a fundraiser for an arts program for kids.  Sounds wholesome enough right? I get to the venue and realize my costume is a leotard and tights.  I started to feel shy and self-conscious.  I felt like my armpits were going to take center stage, so I pulled the choreographer aside…

    “Ummm yeah. Has your boyfriend left the house yet?”

    “I don’t think so why?”

    “Unless you want my armpits to be making a political statement, do you think you can have him bring a razor?”

    “Oh shit I don’t have one.  Mind is all gross and full of rust and hair.  I will just text him to bring his but tell him its for your legs though.”

    “Fair enough.”

    Now it is not that I don’t want to be making political statements, nor am I afraid of identifying as a feminist.  You guys know me.  I am a feminist loving pagan worshipping Gaia munching priestess.  But I was embarrassed!!! I feared all these uptight people would be staring at my armpits dancing around  the whole time.  I would like to consider myself a self-possessed woman who doesn’t give a care what anyone thinks, but I have to admit, I was a little timid.

    I finally got a hold of a razor and went into the public bathroom to shave them in the sink (because I am classy like that), and was followed by one of the high schools girls who wanted to see if they were really as bad as I said they were.  Now the saddest thing about this whole story  is not only the social pressure that totally broke my laissez fair armpit hair attitude, and subsequently my spirit and confidence as female, but also that I was too shy to ask a 17 year old girl to take a picture for my blog.  A really tragedy on countless fronts.

    (Why can’t I be more like this chick?)

     

     

     

    January 21, 2013 • 2 years old, Adventures, Mommy Body, Mommy Mind, Musings • Views: 16130