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May, 2014

  • Planes, And an Existential Crisis of Freedom

    I haven’t traveled on a plane for few years.  Having had so much time pass made my most recent flight seem totally novel. Especially because I was bringing The Munch for her first plane ride ever, so it was like a virgin experience – except we were flying American.

    After going through all the security and having to show our ID’s multiple times, something became very clear to me that I had never exactly noticed before.  Country borders are a fucking prison! If you don’t have the right paper work, you are not getting out!!!!  We are hostages of our nations!

    I started to have a panic attack from this bleak reality, as The Munch was obsessively interested in how planes got up in the air.  I was like “I don’t know dude… but do you realize that freedom is an illusion!?”

    I know there is political justification for borders that people ascribe to, but aren’t we all just citizens of planet earth?  How does this make sense that we are each quarantined to these divided areas?  The tribal mentality of domestic pride seems so outdated in a planet being destroyed over fights for raw materials and basic resources.  Perhaps the fact that we are separated is exactly why there is so much exploitation and corruption.  It is not like a one world government is the answer, but self-segregation isn’t either.  I am sure there is a way to maintain and respect cultural traditions yet also allow ourselves to live unrestricted.

    I tried to talk about all this to The Munch, but all she cared about if the wings of the plane flapped like a bird.

    Munch Plane

    May 30, 2014 • 1st time for everything, Adventures, Musings, Political Banter • Views: 1273

  • There is Just Too Much of Everything

    The adventures at Target continue. Target is just that rich. It is a destination of vast inspiration, observation, and philosophical reflection.

    I don’t often go shopping with my child. When you live in the country, there just aren’t that many options. I could take her to the hunting and game store to get some fleece? Or perhaps Agway for some seeds? If we are feeling really feisty we might make a trip to the farmers market for some maple syrup? But other than that, there isn’t much point in going to stores because when you do need something, you mostly have to go to these giant corporate mega stores.

    Which is how we ended up at Target.

    So the Munch and I have a deal. Every time we go to Target, she is allowed to pick out one toy… one toxic chemical laden off-gassing toy made in a factory with conditions I can’t even fathom. The horror. Why does it have to be this way??!! Hey Mattel… can’t you pay people a living wage AND only have them work 9 hours AND still make millions of dollars? I BET YOU CAN!

    As we were walking down the aisles looking at all the pink plastic potential possessions, The Munch started to get overwhelmed.

    Munch: Mamma, there is just too much stuff to choose from. There is too much of everything. I can’t make a decision.

    That is exactly it right? The prevailing problem of modernity. There is too much of everything. Too many options. It is paralyzing when we are bombarded with endless selections for everything. The other day, I got on my computer to look through Amazon for an iPhone case, and 4 hours went by before I finally picked one. I hate the one I got too – just because I know there is a better one out there. But if there were just 3 options, black, white, and grey, it would have been so much easier to live with my choice.

    When everything is so accessible and in such abundance it doesn’t make us happy. It makes us miserable. Maybe it was hard to be a Viking, and wear the same fur pelt every day, but maybe it was incredibly freeing not to have to think about it. Yeah maybe it was tiring eating gruel every day in old England, but is that any worse than standing with your thumb up your ass at the grocery store trying to pick out which brand of peanut butter? Our minds are limited, and can only absorb so much information and stimulus before they start to short circuit. If we are filling our heads with meaningless choices about what to buy, then how can we have the mental energy to think about what is really important?


  • Corpoarte Corruption and Influence on the Fragile Child Mind

    I used to think that I would be the most significant influence in my kid’s life. That she would look to me to learn how to exist in the world. I would serve as the model of the type of human she would strive to become. She would want to dress like me, have my same interests, and emulate my approach to how I deal with life. Little did I know that the most profound impact anyone would ever have on The Munch’s psyche – is a fucker named Walt Disney.

    I don’t even know how I got here. I never anticipated things would get this far. It started simply enough. The Munch was sick and feeling really clingy. She wanted to watch something and sit on my lap. I figured why not a movie from my childhood? Why not Cinderella?

    Why? Why? Why? I have been asking myself this same question ever since.

    The Munch is obsessed with all things Disney. There is some prissy ass princess punk bitch named Sophia the 1st who The Munch is SUPER into. She also cried for 3-hours the other day because she didn’t have a tail like the Little Mermaid. And don’t even get me started on Frozen. I know see my life as BF and AF (before and after Frozen).

    Guess what Disney? All your gender role indoctrination has proven to be a great success. Not only does my daughter want to be a princess when she grows up…. A FUCKING PRINCESS…. But she also wants to live in a castle and wear a crown. Yup. You win.

    But this weekend, things go seriously out of hand. I didn’t mean to do it. It was like life was happening to me, and I was a mere ghostly witness to my own actions. It’s not my fault. I am weak. I used to think I had mental strength – but I don’t. Hey FBI… you want a real interrogation technique to make prisoners break? Send them to Target with my 3-year old and have them try to negotiate why she shouldn’t get Cinderella Glass Slippers with high heels.

    This is how it all started. The Munch has seriously smelly feet. I never knew kids could have feet that reeked, but I guess when you run around and never change your socks because you HAVE to wear the purple stripey ones every goddamn day, things can get a little funky. So I brought Munch to Target to get some new shoes, because her current ones are so pungent I couldn’t touch them without the odor transferring to my hands.

    Munch: Mamma, can I get these Cinderella glass slippers?
    Toni: No way Dude, those have high heels.
    Munch: But Mamma, I really want them!! Please please please please please!
    Toni: Munch it makes no sense for a little girl to wear high heels.
    Munch: But Mom…. They are just like Cinderella’s. I really really really really really really really really really want them. Please Mamma. Please Mamma. Please Mamma. Please Mamma. Please Mamma. Please Mamma. Please Mamma.
    Toni: Dude… it is totally impractical. They are going to be too tippy to play in. Besides, they probably don’t have them in your size. (Lie)
    Munch: Yes the DO! Look Mamma!!! (She holds up a show that is exactly her size to her foot).
    Toni: (Sigh) Munch, I really don’t feel comfortable with this.
    Munch: Please Mamma. I promise you will feel comfortable if you please just get me these Cinderella high heel shoes.
    Toni: Fine. But you can only wear them in the house!

    So I got her these stupid plastic high heel shoes, and of course she wanted to wear them everywhere.

    Munch: Mamma. Let’s got to the basketball court with my high heel shoes on. And you can wear high heel shoes too Mamma!
    Toni: Dude, there is no way you are getting me to wear high heel shoes.
    Munch: Mamma you will look so beautiful in your sweat pants and high heel shoes!!!!
    Toni: Not going to happen girl. Besides, then I can’t jump or run.
    Munch: Why not?
    Toni: Because you can’t jump or run with high heel shoes. They are too tippy at the ankles. So why don’t you take yours off, I can put on you sneakers… then we both can jump and run at the basketball court.
    Munch: Oh that is okay. I will just walk then in my high heel shoes. And if my cousin Calvin wants me to run, I will say ‘No Calvin, I am wearing my high heels shoes and I am not going to jump or run anymore!’


    May 28, 2014 • 3 years old, Behavior, Family Drama, Parenting, Talking and Not Talking • Views: 1338

  • Elliot Rodgers: How Race and Class Skew Stereotypes of a Criminal

    After much resistance, I finally saw the video Elliot Rodger made.  I wasn’t interested in giving him any more “eyeballs” to contribute making his manifesto a viral hit, and I was also terrified.  The idea of watching him felt creepy.  I was afraid to get inside the head of a killer.

    As I watched the video, I couldn’t help but notice the composition.  Elliot had set up the shot so the sunset was cascading a luminous glow on his face, as if he was taking advantage of the “twilight hour” from a filming perspective – a strange mix of vanity and appreciation for natural light.  Then there was his maniacal laugh that seemed to be inserted more for affect, rather than an authentic impulse.  Directors cue – play part of evil villain here, accent with demented chuckle, and cut.  Seems pretty obvious his daddy’s work had a profound influence on Elliot’s identity.

    So here was the son of a famous Hollywood player, sitting in his BMW, and hating the world for his loneliness.  He had a charmed life, loving parents, an idyllic upbringing in the English country-side picking berries with his Grandma, yet was drowning in self pity.  I didn’t get it.  My reaction was, “you have money, a successful dad, a nice car, you are not ugly…. what is the issue?”  Seems like the perfect recipe for Elliot to have the perfect life.  I was just as surprised as Elliot that at 22, he was still a virgin.

    Even though it is absurd for Elliot to believe women should like him just solely because he has a nice car and money, I also had the same assumption that he should be able to get girls. As a feminist I don’t want to admit this, but there are plenty of women who sleep with men they think are powerful/rich/have a famous daddy.  Elliot must have been truly alienating and energetically offensive to eliminate all chances for sex in this superficial world that worships money like a god.  If wrinkled up racially-challenged Donald Sterling could pull women, why couldn’t this kid?

    Everything Elliot had is everything that culture glorifies. Many boys in a comparable situation to Elliot probably do have it easy, which is EXACTLY why the law enforcement ignored all the warning signs.  How could this fortunate kid be a menace to society when his silver spoon is dripping with gold?  Elliot had 3 instances of police contact in the past year, and every time he persuaded them that they had nothing to be concerned about.  According to the deputy officer “He was able to make a very convincing story that there was no problem, and he wasn’t going to hurt himself of anyone else… and he just didn’t meet the criteria for any further intervention at that point.”

    Elliot was never deemed a threat because he was a privileged kid.  But what if he was poor and white? Or poor and black? Would the police have let that person slip through the cracks? Elliot is quoted to have said, “If they (the cops) had demanded to search my room, that would have ended everything.”  The police never even searched Elliot’s room despite the concerns of his own parents, because he didn’t meet the criteria.  Yet every day cops search black people at random on the streets of New York because they do meet the criteria of having too much melanin?

    The police weren’t the only ones who ignored the signs.  There is a lot of speculation Elliot was suffering from an undiagnosed mental illness, but it seems like the reason he was undiagnosed is the same as to why the cops never followed through with their investigation.  Our perception of the rich white man is totally clouded by this twisted hero-worshipping where he is the top of the food chain of humanity.  We don’t have stereotypes of the threatening white man in a suit.  We aren’t warned to cross the street if you saw him walking towards you.  But what makes a young black man in a hoodie any more suspicious?

    Race plays a huge part in who we typecast as a criminal, yet the truth is, anyone has the potential to be violent.  The system itself sets up poor brown people as guilty until proven innocent, where rich white men are innocent until they blatantly murder a bunch of people.  There is a misguided faith society has in rich white men because they these are the same men who hold dominion over our world.  They own our media, control our banks, run our companies, and rule our country.  They are the archetypes of those with power, so we trust them while ignoring the irony that they are also the ones causing the vast devastation to our planet with their endless pursuit of greed.  Society may not fear the white man in a suit like it does the black gang member, but it should.

    When tragedy happens, we always want to know why.  Although Elliot describes his motives and anger towards women in his manifesto, deconstructing the logic of a madman will never result in obvious conclusions.  Misogyny was a theme in Elliot’s world, but so was his desire to be loved by women.  It seems to me Elliot had equal contempt for the men he envied and whose lives he wish he could experience.  Despite having every artificial advantage, he still drove people away.  Elliot may have wanted to understand himself as a woman-hater because that felt more powerful than seeing himself as a woman-lover who kept getting rejected.

    Although I welcome any discussion around gender inequality and violence towards women, I think this story has just as much to do with race and class.  It was easy for Elliot to get guns, fool cops, and avoid being institutionalized because of the public perception that he wasn’t a threat.  Our culture glorifies wealth, yet it is the entitled mentality of privilege that is much more dangerous than the desperation of poverty.




    May 27, 2014 • Current Events • Views: 3172

  • Thanks A Lot, Frozen

    When you are parent you want to give your child everything.  More than anything in the world, you want your kid to be happy – because they way less annoying that way.  But what happens when your little angel wants something you just can’t give them?

    I ran into this problem the other day after The Munch watched the movie “Frozen.”  If you are not aware of this charming film, there is a character named Elsa who has magical powers in her hands where she can turn everything to ice.  I mean, call me a stick in the mud, but that is kind of a lame magical power if you ask me.  Yet like all Disney cinema, “Frozen” has crack in it, and The Munch is obsessed – despite the fact that Elsa keeps brutalizing her sister Anna with these powers “accidentally.”

    Munch: Mamma I really want to have magical powers like Elsa.

    Toni: Oh.  Okay.

    Munch: But Mamma, where did Elsa get  her magical powers?

    Toni: I don’t know Munch.

    Munch: Mamma I really want magical powers like Elsa! Where did she get them???? I REALLY WANT TO BE LIKE ELSA!!!

    Toni: Munch, Elsa is a cartoon.

    Munch: (Sob) Mamma please!! You have to tell me!! My hands can’t to anything.  See. NOTHING! I really need magical powers!! WHERE DID ELSA GET THEM? PLEASE!! Wahhhhaaaaahhhhhhaaaa!!!

    Toni: Man I really don’t know?  I mean, I guess she practiced? She like tried really hard? Ummmm perseverance is everything?

    Munch: But who gave them to her??? Wahhhahhhaaa!!!!  Can you please give me magical powers??! Wahhhhaaahhhhhaaa

    Toni: Gosh Munch… I just don’t know.

    Munch: Well I could get magic sneakers that light up? Just like Hazel.  And then my shoes can light up and be magic….

    Toni:  That’s a good idea.

    Munch: But what about my hands!!?? Whahhhahhhahhhaaaaaaaa!

    Toni: I don’t know what to tell you Munch…

    Munch: Well can you give me a little sister named Anna?

    Toni: You want a sister?  I mean I already have you and you are more than enough for me.  Like seriously, you are more than enough.

    Munch: I need you to put a baby in your tummy right away so I can have a little sister named Anna.

    Toni: Dude, I am not sure I can make major family planning decisions because of a movie.


    Toni: Munch, even if I did put a baby in my tummy, it could be a boy! There is no guarantee that that I could put a girl in there.


    Then she buried her head in my lap and cried and cried at the unfairness of the world.


  • My First (and last) Male Stripper

    When I turned 18, my girl friends and I had an amazing idea.  We would hire a male dancer for my birthday party – I am talking about the naked kind.  Forget the fact that we were in high school and the rest of my friends were underage. Never mind that we had no actual interest in seeing a grown man’s wingy-ding – it was more the right of passage we were into. But finding a stripper wasn’t that easy in 1998, and we had nothing but the Yellow Pages to turn to. We flipped the massive book to the letter “S,” for number for “strippers” and called the first number we saw.

    My birthday is on December 29, which is not only in the dead of winter, but also during Christmas vacation. (BECAUSE WE WERE IN HIGHSCHOOL REMEMBER?) A lot of people were on holiday with their families, which meant only 6 girls were at my house that day, and then 25 guys. Luckily no one really cared about the 4 to 1 guy to girl ratio because we were all just excited that I had 3 cases of Red Dog beer, but that did mean our guy friends would have to be hide in the kitchen when our stripper arrived so as not to distract us from our magic moment.
    At around 11 pm my doorbell rang. I opened the door to my “stripper” and did my best not to allow any disappointment to show on my face. Allow me to take a moment to describe him to you. He was in his mid 30’s and wearing jean shorts that extended down to his mid thigh, but were also cut in strips all the way up to his crotch. So if you can imagine a pair of denim venetian blinds wrapped around his legs, barely covering his balls. He was wearing a white tank top under a black pleather jacket, and his hair was fashioned into a pretty sweet, feathered mullet. The mullet had a nice crispy curl to it because of the excessive use of unidentifiable product, which omitted an unidentifiable odor of floral chemicals. In his right hand was a boom box, and in his left, a bottle of body oil.
    Toni: Uhhhhhh come in?
    Since the guys were not exactly interested in having the life experience of watching an aging 80’s rocker take his clothes off, we closed the kitchen door and ordered them stay down stairs while us girls followed the stripper upstairs to the living room. I can’t say any of us were exactly excited to see this man naked, so it was more like the walk of tears up the spiral staircase.
    Once upstairs we sat on the couch and looked at each other with apprehension as our stripper turned on his boom box and White Snake blared out into the silent room. He took off his shirt, and began gyrating violently, all the while asking who the birthday girl was – my friends eagerly pointed to me, as I tentatively smiled at his bouncing balls in my face.
    He began pumping his pelvis towards me at an alarming speed, then took my hand, and gingerly placed it on his chest. I can still remember the feel of his 3-day old pectoral stubble and whatever lubricant he had lathered up his body with. Now keep in mind, we had really dressed up for our stripper and had gone through my mom’s closet. We were wearing some fancy expensive clothes of hers, which intuitively I knew she would not appreciate if covered in KY jelly. While reluctantly cupping this man’s slightly sagging breast muscle, it became painfully obvious to me that the one thing I really didn’t want to get on my mother’s designer duds was stripper grease – but I also didn’t want to be rude so I kept my hand their, soaking up his sweaty emollient.
    Luckily, when Bon Jovi’s “Shot Through the Heart” came on, the stripper got really excited and released me from his grasp. Swept away my his love for the song, he started intensely fist-pumping while struggling to take off his shorts with his other free hand. We were then exposed to his red thong, which gently cradled his flaccid penis. Either we were not cute enough, or he had done way too much cocaine – but either way its lifeless state was noticed. Perhaps it was his sense of common decency, or maybe his fear of getting arrested, but by the grace of god the thong stayed on.
    Our stripper continued to pulsate his genital region around us as we feigned interest and excitement. We didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but we also really didn’t want to touch him. His music kept him motivated as Motely Crue bled into AC/DC which was followed by David Lee Roth, Cinderella, Def Leppard, and into Poison… By the time we got to Whitesnake, he had worked up quite a sweat – which was being flicked into our faces every time he spastically moved his body, or whipped his head around. After a combination of perspiration and scented body spray flew into my mouth, I started to wonder if maybe I had just caught an STD.
    Finally he tired himself out, and we all gratuitously thanked him for his time and talents. Let me just tell you that there is nothing sadder than watching a stripper collect their things to go. We tried to balance the awkwardness by talking amongst ourselves about how amazing that all just was, and I think he did a couple of lines of blow off my mom’s coffee table. We went back down stairs and released our guy friends whom we had quarantined in the kitchen; they asked if stripper experience was all that we thought it would be. It was… and much, much, more.




    May 22, 2014 • 1st time for everything, Old School Stories • Views: 4969

  • Broken Promises

    I have really malleable morals.  I assume that people are imperfect, and try not to let their faults ruin my faith in humanity.  It takes a whole lot to alienate me as a friend.  I think that lying, cheating, betraying, jealousy, pettiness, vindictiveness… are all part of human relationships – and we have to be forgiving in those moments when we experience them.  Of course everyone has their limit, but I am not going to abandon someone if they fool me once.  Maybe I am little like George Bush Jr. in that way.

    I have relatively low expectations because I think we are all flawed creatures who are doing the best we can amidst the commotion of our own dysfunction.  As long as someone is willing to sit down with me and analyze their motives of why they did what they did, I am pretty quick to forgive.  Yet within all my flexibility, there is one thing that I hold sacred – promises.

    If you make a fucking promise to me, you better keep that shit.

    The thing about promises is that you don’t have to make them.  You can easily say to someone “I can’t promise I will make it, but I will try.”  That way if you flake, you always made it known it were a possibility.  Yet when you promise to do something for someone, or be somewhere, you have to follow through.  Otherwise there is no reliability.

    Trust is an interesting phenomenon.  We like to think that we trust each other completely, but that is asking a lot of someone.  I may trust you with my secret about having a crush on Justin Bieber, but that doesn’t mean I trust you to tell me I have a poppy seed in my teeth.  The only true expectation I have of anyone is I want to be able to trust their promises, which is why I have committed to teaching The Munch the sanctity of them.

    The Munch and I spend a good portion of our day negotiating.  She wants something from me, like 20 chocolates, I say no, and we debate from there.   My logic is that she shouldn’t eat too much sugar; hers is that chocolate is fucking delicious.  We usually come to a conclusion when she has more reasonable request.

    Munch: Okay Mamma, how about two chocolates and I promise I wont ask for any more treats for the rest of the day…

    Toni: If you promise that is it, and you won’t ask for any more, you can have two chocolates.

    It then becomes my civic duty to hold Munch to her promise; because of course she is still learning of their severity.  So when she asks for more treats an hour later I have to remind her.

    Toni: Munch, you made a promise you wouldn’t ask for more, and it is really important to keep your promises.

    Munch: But I really want a lollipop.

    Toni: If you keep asking, Mamma is going to feel like she can’t trust you.  You made a promise Munch and you have to keep it.  It is really important that Mamma knows she can trust your promises.

    Sometimes she lets it drop there, and sometimes her insatiable need for lollipops overrides.  It is a process right?

    So last night I was putting The Munch to bed and she really wanted to watch The Mickey Mouse Club House, but I really wanted her to go to bed.  Our current bedtime ritual is that I tell her a story and then we have a cuddle.  But it was past 8 o’clock and there would be no time for watching her cartoon, and the story, and the cuddle.

    Toni: Munch, I really don’t think it is a good idea to watch something tonight.  It is too late.

    Munch: Please Mamma!!! Please!! I really really want to watch something! PLEASE! For a special occasion!!

    Toni: We just don’t have the time.  If you watch something then you get no story tonight.  You can’t have both.

    Munch: But we ALWAYS do story! I really want a story! Wahhhhhaaaahhhhhhhhaaaaa!

    Toni: You can’t have both.  You have to make a decision.  What is more important to you? Story? Or watching something?

    Munch: But I can’t make a decision! Wahhhhaaaaaahhhhhaaaa! I really can’t Mamma I just can’t!

    Toni: Well what is the solution?

    Munch: How about I watch a really short movie, and you tell me a really short story?

    Toni: Ummmmm… well that is a little like having your cake and eating it too…

    Munch: I like cake.  Can I have some?

    Toni: That is not what I meant.

    Munch: Mamma, I promise.  One short movie and when you turn it off I won’t whine.  Then one short story and I won’t ask for another.

    I could have made this a lesson about decisions and sacrifice, but I was too busy focusing on the promises.  I mean, you can only instill so many values on a Monday nights.

    So I let The Munch watch 10 minutes of Mickey Mouse, and even though she wanted to watch more, she listened and didn’t whine. Then we went upstairs, I told my short story, we had our cuddle, and I got up to leave.

    Munch: Mamma, can you tell me one more story?

    Toni: Munch, that is not fair.  You made a promise and it makes me really upset when you don’t take your promises seriously.

    Munch: Oh whoops. I forgot. Sorry Mamma.  I broke my promise but I put it back together.




  • There is NO WAY I am Letting You Win

    I don’t like losing.  If I am going to play a game, I am going to do it to the best of my ability… and maybe even beyond if I can figure out a way to cheat.  It isn’t just about competing with the other person – it is about demolishing them completely so my ego can rise like the phoenix and gloat over their pathetic failings while I lick the tears of defeat off their puny face.   Whoops.  Sorry, that was my auto correct.  I meant to say that all having fun is all that really matters.

    Even though my most recent opponent is my 3-year old child, that doesn’t mean that I am going to lose on purpose just to appease her.  You bet your sweet ass I am going to play “memory” like my life depended on it, even when my kid isn’t paying attention because she is momentarily eating her boogers.

    Okay listen; The Munch is honestly better at “memory” than me.  Of course she never spent a good decade of her life ripping bong hits like I did, so her memory is actually pretty good.  She tends to clean up in the beginning where I am turning the same card over and over again.


    If you can get on a roll at the end of the game, because there are fewer cards, you can get on a real success streak.  There are only 6 cards, and they have all been turned over before, so it is easy to figure out the matching pairs.  Which is what happens ever time I win.  So the Munch has to watch as I scoop up the last 3 or 4 pairs… which kind of infuriates her.

    Munch: No Mamma NO! I wanted to have the purple fishies!

    Toni: Well Munch, I remembered where they were, so I turned them over.

    Munch: But I really wanted them in my pile! Wahhhhahhhhhahhaaa!

    Toni: Dude, you can’t be a tyrant about these things.  It was my turn, I got a matchy-matchy, I went again, and I got another matchy-matchy with the purple fishies because I knew where they were.

    Munch: But it was my turn!

    Toni: No it wasn’t.  It was my turn.  When you get a matchy-matchy you go again right?  Well, so does Mamma.

    Munch: But that is not fair! Wahhhhahaaaa I really wanted the purple fishie and you shouldn’t have taken her.

    Toni: That is how you play the game.  Maybe next time you will get the purple fishie.  But I knew where it was, so I get it this time.

    Munch: Wahhhhhaaaaahhhh!!

    Toni: Listen, you can play by yourself if you want, and then you can have all the cards you want?

    Munch: I want to play with YOU! But you have all the cards I wanted.

    Toni: Well, you are going to have to accept that sometimes you are not going to get  all the cards you want.  But maybe next time you will okay?

    Munch: Okay. Lets play again.

    I can’t let my kid win just because she is 3!  My ego will not allow that! Damn auto correct again! I meant to say that it is better for her character to experience the disappointment of not winning, but still trying again.  In reality I am looking out for her future personality by not letting her win.  Failure is such a huge part of success, In order to have perseverance you have to be able to deal with frustration.  Besides, The Munch then beat me the next 3 times in a row.  Even though I got the purple fishie.  Sucker.


  • Letting Go of The Balloon

    Have you ever loved something so much that you totally destroyed it?  Even when we are full of passion for something that makes us uncontrollably happy, there will often exist this buried impulse to crush it.  There is this human compulsion to self-sabotage, just to know what the pain will feel like.

    Sometimes the idea of something is so seductive that we can’t handle the pressure of getting what we think we want.  It is as if wanting something is safer than actually having it.  Once a fantasy turns into reality, it becomes too real.  The flaws start to peak through the cracks, and the disappointment of how things actually are is worse than disrupting it yourself – at least if you are the one who fucks everything up you are still in control.

    I think that is why this story (or one like it) happens at least once, to every single child.

    It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and The Munch was given a balloon by her Auntie Emma.  She was totally delighted.  The whole drive home The Munch talked about the balloon, and watched it float around the car.  She couldn’t contain the magic it brought into her world.

    When we got home, I grabbed the balloon to bring it inside.  It didn’t have a string, so I had to hold onto it by its balloon penis.  I figured I would find a long ribbon or string once I got I my house….

    Munch: Mamma, can I hold the balloon?

    Toni: I don’t think it’s a good idea Munch.  If you let go, it will fly away.

    Munch: Please Mamma, please!! I really want to hold onto the balloon.

    Toni:  Okay, but just DON’T LET GO!

    Munch: I won’t.

    I grabbed the rest of the stuff from the car, and started to walk in, when I heard “OH NO!”

    I turned around, and sure enough, The Munch had let go of the balloon.  We watched it fly into the sky as she lamented with sorrow and regret.


    Toni: Munch! I told you not to let go!

    Munch: Wahhhhhahhhaahhhhhhhaaa!! MY BALLOON!!!!! NOOOOOO!!

    Okay… so it is NOT very cool to say, “I fucking told you so” when someone is crying – even when you can’t help it and want to rub how right you were in their face.

    The Munch was completely dejected.  She kept weeping with remorse, begging me for the impossible.

    Munch: Please Mamma. PLEASE!  Wahhhhaaaahhhhaa.  Can you please go find my balloon?  I really want it.

    Toni: There is no way I can find it.  It flew away.

    Munch: But where is it going? What is going to happen to it?

    Toni: It will keep flying in the sky until it deflates and falls down.  Hopefully it doesn’t kill a flock of birds in the process.

    Munch: Will it fall down in New Hampshire?

    Toni: Maybe.  Or maybe it will fly to Boston?  Or New York? It could fall anywhere.  I just don’t know.

    Munch: But I really want my balloon Mamma!

    Toni: Well, why did you let go of it?  I told you that it would fly away.

    Munch: I know – but I just had to let go.