2. Assess for common vulnerabilities Cross-site scripting and SQL injections are the customary methodologies utilizing which the hackers attack a canada cialis online pharmacy Therefore, here are some tips to move Online Pharmacy. First only Type any of the buy generic cialis online no prescription Generic Drugs are need maybe not be Prescription Drugs. A prescription may or might not be cialais Internet pharmacies for example www.bluepillshorizon.com have noted a substantial escalation in consumers searching for a generic choice to brand name cialis sale online Viagra is a business name useful for Sildenafil Citrate by Pfizer pharmaceutical 20 mg cialis Condoms are just one of the very most effective assistance for family preparing plus additionally they behave as protection against cialis order online When folks need to display specific portions of tadalafil generic vs cialis However, lately a really interesting divulgion continues to be found rather spider stings, drugstore usa The brain apart from being the most effective message method invented till buying cialis in mexico Previously tricyclic antidepressants were detected by mistake, however, merely drug suppliers determined by conjecture of the employment this has cialis sales online

Adventures
Category

  • I am a Dance Mom Failure

    For the past year, The Munch has been attending dance classes at the local dance studio. I’m usually teaching dance or dancing myself during that time – so her grandmother has been forced to be the stand-in “dance mom.” Since I have not really been around, I was totally clueless to the culture of this studio, and just how much they were seriously not fucking around.

    It all started with the impending dress rehearsal. I asked Munch’s grandmother if she could take her, and she started to get very nervous.

    Munch’s Grandmother: Oh I was hoping you could take her to her dress rehearsal.
    Toni: I would but I have a super important meeting and then I’m teaching. Is there anyway you could?
    Munch’s Grandmother: I can, but they want her to be in full costume with make up and a bun. I only had sons, so I don’t think I can do all that.
    Toni: I’m sure it won’t matter. She’s only four. Just shove her hair up and slap some eye shadow on her face.
    Munch’s Grandmother: Ummm, they are very particular about the buns.
    Toni: Okay, well I will send her to your house with a bun already in her hair.
    Munch’s Grandmother: Okay, they are just really serious about those buns.
    Toni: I’m sure it will be fine.

    That Monday, I got Munch ready in the morning for her afternoon rehearsal.

    Toni: Listen, I have to do your hair now, because Grandma isn’t sure about putting your hair back in a bun for your rehearsal. So just try not to mess it up.
    Munch: Okay. But can you put two braids in the side and then a braid around the bun?
    Toni: Do I seriously have to go all Game of Thrones on your hair right now? Can’t I just do a regular bun?
    Munch: I WANT BRAIDS WITH MY BUN!!!!!!!!!!!

    So I did what any normal parent would do when their child screams in their fucking face. I did exactly as she asked.

    I brought Munch to her Grandmother’s house and she was immediately anxious when she saw Munch’s hair.

    Munch’s Grandmother: Oh her hair looks very pretty, but are you sure those braids are okay?
    Toni: They’ll be fine. It’s a dress rehearsal! Who cares?

    Well it turns out those braids WERE NOT FUCKING FINE AT ALL! Munch’s Grandmother was scolded for having the wrong kind of bun, and the owner of the studio had to do ANOTHER PERFECT BUN! She then sent Munch’s grandmother home with hairpins, a hair net, and specific instructions for me on how to get her bun perfect!

    Okay fine.

    The night of the show, I gave Munch the best goddamn bun you ever did see. But her “Dust Bunny” costume, which was a tutu adorned with pink feathers, was fragile. So I decided I would just get her dressed at the venue, so as not to smash her tutu during the car ride (or have pink feathers all over my car). We drove to the performance venue with the windows rolled up (so as NOT to disturb the bun), and got there just on time.

    As I was dressing Munch, another Mom told me she was going to leave early, as the “Dust Bunnies” were the first to perform, and it was a long show. She was afraid her daughter would be too tired for the next night’s performance if she had two late nights. Her logic made perfect sense to me. One because who wants to deal with a tired kid? And two because who wants to sit through 2 hours of watching other people’s kids dance?

    After Munch had her 3-minute moment on stage, we sneaked out, and I went to find her backstage. I guess leaving 5 minutes after the show has started and taking your kid away is NOT exactly “Dance Mom” etiquette. So as I was leaving her teacher walked past perplexed.

    Dance Teacher: Are you taking Adelia? She’s not going to stay for the bow?
    Toni: No. I’m getting her home early so she isn’t a total A-Hole tomorrow.

    So I guess “Dance Mom’s” also don’t refer to their child as an “A-Hole” in public.

    The next night of the 2nd performance I figured I could have the same routine as I did the 1st night. I did the bun at home, and assumed I could get Munch into her costume backstage again. Yet when I tried to enter, I was stopped.

    Dance Mom Volunteer: Are you a chaperone volunteer?
    Toni: No?
    Dance Mom Volunteer: Well you can’t come in here. Dancers only.
    Toni: Okay, I just wanted to get my kid dressed real quick.
    Dance Mom Volunteer: You were supposed to do that at home. She was supposed to come dressed and ready to perform.
    Toni: Well is there a bathroom I can use?
    Dance Mom Volunteer: No. There isn’t. She was supposed to come dressed and ready.

    My mom and I took Munch around the corner, found the fucking bathroom that this chick pretended didn’t exist, and proceeded to put on her goddamn costume and makeup.

    Toni: Jesus H. Christ she was being aggressively unreasonable.
    Munch: Who was mom?
    Toni: Nobody. Don’t worry about it.
    Munch: That mom that wouldn’t let you in that room?
    Toni: DON’T TELL HER I SAID ANYTHING! YOU WILL RUIN ME!

    I mean that was a lot of stress! Now I am not saying that Munch wasn’t the most AMAZING Dust Bunny… but basically she just skipped across stage a few times with a bunch of other girls who looked just like her, and then rolled on the floor.

    dance-mom-blog-i

    dance-mom-i2

    June 22, 2015 • 4 years old, Adventures, Education, Family Drama, Mommyhood, Parenting • Views: 1619

  • Real Life Instagram

    We all know that we create personas on social media. Usually we broadcast the best parts of our lives, but never really the shitty, mundane, or unflattering.

    So this is my “real life Instagram” for last weekend. It’s not that glamorous. But it’s what happened.

    1) This one is The Munch Yelling at me because the iPad was buffering.

    RLB1

    2) These are my legs from far away

    RLB2

    3) These are my legs up close

    RLB3

    4) This is me cleaning Munch’s feet because she asked me too… the power dynamics are pretty clear.

    RLB4

    5) This is me being all one with the animals and shit. Or goats are just eating my shorts.

    RLB5

    6) This is Munch jumping, and my double chin.

    RLB6

    7) This is me on top of a mountain. But rather than enjoying the epic view, I spent the whole time trying to unclog my pipe to smoke weed. Said pipe was clogged because I had rammed a stick in it, with the purpose of unclogging it, and the stick got stuck. My solution you may ask? To shove more sticks in.

    RLB7

    June 3, 2015 • Adventures, Musings • Views: 1617

  • Not My Proudest Moment

    Lately I’ve been feeling overwhelmed by life. My plates too full, and I’ve been on the grind – burning the candle at both ends because I’m busy as a beaver that doesn’t even have time to get waxed. Frowny face.

    When things get hectic, I tend to get in this manic state of rushing through life trying to get everything done. This chaotic energy makes it impossible to relax when it’s finally time to unwind at night. Rather than doing what normal people do… ie sleep… I stare at the ceiling sweating while wondering if my life will ever have any meaning. It’s not as peaceful as it sounds.

    The other night I was particularly anxious and thought, “Hey, maybe if I smoked some pot I would loosen up.” Because that is what grown ups do with their feelings – stuff them deeper inside so they eventually get colon cancer.

    I took a few hits and settled in to watch an old Saturday Night Live (when it was good) and within 20 minutes my body started to liquefy. My cells were so relieved to not be drowning in floods of stress hormones that all systems shut down.

    I was suddenly so tired my eyelids officially protested opening. My lashes clasped together like multi-racial hands in the face of a police barricade at a political rally. So I decided to concede to my body’s desires, and get up to go to bed.

    I stumbled into the kitchen to turn off the lights and then suddenly remembered I had cheesy crackers – THAT ARE FUCKING DELICIOUS WHEN YOU ARE STONED. Yet as much as I wanted to satisfy my munchies and mow down, my eyes still refused to open.

    So I did want any responsible adult would do. I ate an entire box of cheesy crackers standing up with my eyes closed.

    (Good thing I didn’t see the bag of cookies… or I would still be standing there eating those too)

    cheesy-crackers-blog-(i)

    May 27, 2015 • Adventures, Musings • Views: 1672

  • Getting Frisky On Kevin Allison’s “Risk!”

    I spend a lot of time alone, in front of my computer, and staring at a screen. I guess I have a LOT in common with porn addicts, but my keyboard is sticky from tears. The life of a writer is lonely. Hold me.

    Even though I am pretty comfortable being emotionally open on paper, that’s because I’m not with you when you read this, or aware of your reaction. I don’t have to sit next to you to hear if you are laughing as you peruse through the 90 different euphemisms I use for my vagina. I am actually watching you from outside your window, so I can’t hear anything. OPEN YOUR FUCKING WINDOW ALREADY!

    There’s a safety to being hidden behind a screen because I am semi-protected from your response to me. Of course there are people who comment on my articles and say mean things, but don’t have to read those. I can just pretend everyone loves everything I say. Who cares if “bonertown23890947567839847” thinks I’m a dumb cunt who should be taken out back and shot,” because I never even read that comment! (*Chokes back more tears).

    Then last week my friend Miriam sent me an email saying how Kevin Allison – the comedian who started the podcast “RISK!”– was looking for submissions for his Boston show. At first I was like “Eh, every time I submit to things like this I get rejected, so what’s the point?” (*Tears of self-pity). It sat in my email box for days, just staring at me, reminding me of my insignificance in the universe. I noticed the deadline was soon, and said fuck it. I submitted this story about how my parents sent me to the Transylvanian Alps when I was 14, because seriously who the fuck does that?

    So it turns out that my story got selected to be on the show! Now here is the thing. I’ve never been on stage before, except for dance performances. My friend Grace was like, “just think of this as a noisy mouth dance,” which even though that made perfect sense, I was still SUPER intimidated. The weekend before was the first time I had ever spoken into a microphone! I’m on the board of the Monadnock International Film Festival, and I was giving out a grant I had created for a high school student filmmaker. I wasn’t nervous at all until I got on stage and saw all these people looking at me as if I was supposed to say something. I was a mess. My hair was in front of my face, and I looked like a 17-year old stoner who called myself Gangja Breath. I had no idea what to say, and was like “Uhhh I made this grant because education is good and stuff. Kids should like, make movies by trying to make movies or whatever… (long pause) San Dimas High school Football RULES!”

    I did a recording of my story so Kevin could give me notes. This is my favorite part of his email “One of the things that pops out at me about your story is this. It seems like most parents would be very careful about sending their 14-year old girl overseas without a chaperone or a highly reputed exchange program with references. Eastern Europe has been notorious for decades for culling young girls into sex slavery. At the very least, you could have been raped by the soccer playing boys you met over there. Most young people traveling overseas without guardians are at least college-age. And most American kids who travel go to stable, 1st world cities like London or Paris. Parents of the 90’s to today are constantly criticized for being way too overprotective. But your folks seem to have something else going on in this story.

    So it’s worth unpacking all that more. Because the audience will be thinking, “What was going on with this girl’s parents? How much good is it going to do for an American kid to get in touch with her Hungarian roots?”

    HAHAAHAHAHAH you bet your sweet ass I sent that to my parents so they could give me answers!!!!!!!! My mom was just like, “You were born in the 80’s – what do you want? I didn’t put a helmet on you to eat breakfast.”

    When I got to the venue, Laugh Boston, and realized that this whole event was part of a comedy festival and everyone performing was a PROFESSIONAL FUCKING COMEDIAN, I started to have a panic attack. I felt like I had to both explosive diarrhea and projectile vomit. It was a full house of over 200 people. Thank god my friend Grace came with me to be my moral support/self-confidence/person to alert me if my anal leakage was showing.

    I couldn’t admit that I was a total virgin to this experience, so I pretended that I at least finger-banged and gave rim jobs. As Grace left me in the Green Room to watch the show I was left alone, and started to shake. The comedienne that was going on before me, Robin Gelfenbien looked like a nice person, so I started talking to her to see if we could form a co-dependent relationship. She reminded me that being nervous was normal and to just be myself. She then checked to see if there were any brown stains on my pants, before going through her notes for her story. She had the genius idea of writing hers down, and bringing a printed copy. I was like FUCK FUCK FUCK… what is this story again? Why didn’t I think of that!? Grown ups do things like use printers!

    Kevin told his story and killed. It was about the time he got crabs, which reminded me of the time I caught Cuban crabs. (Technically it was body lice, but you know where they settled). Robin then went on stage, and I paced like an enslaved lion in a zoo. I tried breathing, but it just turned into hyperventilating so I stopped all together.

    Right before I almost passed out I remembered something. “Toni – you have a body! You should use your body on stage and say things with it!! Let your body help your story!”

    Thinking about my body got me out of my head. Kevin then introduced me, and I walked on stage. We shook hands, and he gave me the sweetest smile. It totally disarmed me, and I just started to tell my story. A story I have told countless times at the dinner table, whenever my parents are around and whenever they have guests… because seriously who sends their 14-year old daughter to the Transylvanian Alps to a place called Camp Commando?

    PS my parents totally did come to the show, so they could hear the story for the 400th time.

    PPS Here is my Dad’s reaction to the show.

    “Dear Toni,

    I haven’t yet written you to tell you how much I liked your stand-up.
    You have a real knack for live performance.
    Also, you were great at the microphone. Excellent distance… I didn’t hear a single puff into the audio. Wow, you’re a real pro.
    And I loved the material, even if I was the major foil.
    On the content, my only tweak… Camp “Kommando” is a vestige of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire, I believe. So it has nothing to do with
    Nazi death camps. The closest thing to Nazi behavior was that of the Romanian “Iron Cross” between the two big wars. My info on all this is wobbly, I grant you – as you know better than anyone, I should have done more homework back then – but, I’m pretty sure about Kommando. Even I wouldn’t send you to a death camp.
    Love,
    Dad”

    (Me getting ready for the show… I guess adults aren’t supposed to sleep with stuffed animals either. Fuck I really need a printer).

    risk-blog-(i)

    April 27, 2015 • Adventures, Old School Stories • Views: 1416

  • Getting High On Weed and Processing Death Is Maybe Not The Best Idea

    I started smoking weed when I was 14 years old. It was a fateful Thursday evening. My older brother was hanging out with two girls, and they figured that if I was ever going to get high, the first time should be in a safe environment. I got off the phone, took a few hits, then went back upstairs and got back on the phone. I talked a on the phone a LOT in the 8th grade.

    Looking back on it, I am really grateful to my brother and these two vixens for giving me this life experience. As a young girl, you want to be careful about who are with when partaking in mind-altering substances. Let’s face it; I was the kind of teenager that was going to get into that stuff. This way I knew what was going on, what to expect, and would less likely lose my shit with the wrong people in the wrong situation.

    My best friend Bitty and I had previously made an oath that we would NEVER smoke pot EVER. Probably because we were 13 at the time, and had both suffered through D.A.R.E lectures at school. Can I just say that “daring” kids to not do drugs is probably the least effective psychological strategy of all time.

    When I finally saw Bitty, I admitted what happened.

    Toni: Bitty… I smoked pot with my brother.
    Bitty: So did I. Do you know where we can get some?

    That summer Bitty and I smoked a lot of weed together. In the years to come, I smoked a lot of weed. A Lot. So much weed I can’t remember how much – which is par for the course I guess.

    When Bitty died in 2000 I had to take a break from smoking pot. This loss was so intense, that I was unable to add another texture to it. I knew pot would not help numb my reaction, but actually intensify it. It would be like putting a magnifying glass up to my broken heart, and burning it with the sun. It was all my mind could think about. I was too afraid of being high, and having to face all the pain. I couldn’t make sense of her death. The irreversible and final nature of it was killing me. I felt so helpless that I couldn’t go back in time and stop it from happening.

    After a few months, I eventually started “partying” again. I was 20, in college, and being totally sober was just as alienating as my constant crying. I had to shut off the part of me that was so deeply connected to the sadness in order to relate to other people. No one knew how to be around me when everything would make me weep.

    Mourning is a life long process. You never truly get over the death of a loved one – but you live with it in a new way. You learn to obsess less, and eventually disconnect from being able to access your feelings about it – at least some of the time. I always knew I was miserable she was no longer with me, but I couldn’t always feel just how distraught I was. There was so long that I mourned Bitty, that when I started to mourn her less, I missed the mourning just as much as I missed the person. The lamenting kept me connected to her.

    Now that 15 years have passed, it’s almost like I have gotten used to her being gone. I of course wish this wasn’t true, but the acceptance has settled in. I live ½ a mile from Bitty’s grave, and visit her weekly. Yet even though there are these rituals where I am reminded of her death, I usually don’t attach to it. It just is this thing that is.

    Last Friday was her birthday, and I wanted to visit her grave, and smoke a joint with her. Now let me add here, that I stopped smoking in 2008 and didn’t get high at all until a few months ago. I am obviously not the pothead of my past, so the few times I do smoke, I have been very carefully to only be very sparing. One hit, and that’s it.

    Yet at this point, I was feeling like my brain had gotten used to weed, and there wasn’t any real threat to my bugging out or losing my mind. So I took maybe 3 hits with Bitty, and then had a plan to celebrate her birthday by going out to dinner and seeing some live music.

    As I was leaving, I started to wonder if she felt it when people visited her grave. Did her soul, or spirit-body get an extra zap? Was there a specific comfort to knowing that someone was paying physical tribute to the place her ashes were buried?

    I got in the passenger seat of the car, and as soon as we starting driving I realized, “holy fuck… I am way too high.”

    I was suddenly transported into a Twilight Zone of distortion. It was one of those moments when the reality I knew, and the reality I was experiencing, were so distinctly different that my brain almost busted a fuse. Nothing was making sense. It was a really dark foggy night, and looking out the window, nothing felt familiar. The outside world was totally foreign, and my inside world was completely melting.

    I was also having a forceful physical reaction where I felt like my body could not contain all the feelings I was feeling. It was this profound buzzing that almost felt like an anxiety attack, but not as painful. It was as if I was channeling too much emotion for one skin sack to hold in.

    I kept trying to return to my breath. During those long inhales I was okay, but as as soon as I let it go, I would lose it again.

    Toni: Uhhhh there is no way I can be in public right now, and I’m pretty sure I have to go home now.

    The drive home we listened to Jimmy Hendrix, and I tried desperately to bring myself back to a place that I could control. All I could say was “I’m just feeling too many feelings.” Yet the second we pulled into my driveway, it was over, and I spent the next 2 hours eating.

    Okay there are a few possibilities about what happened that night. The first, and most obvious, was that I got too high.

    Yet I think something else was going on. Weed opens you up in a specific and unique way. I think because I was at Bitty’s grave, I was hypertensive to the energies at play. One being my own feelings about her death, and the emotions I have learned to enclose in order to survive. The bodily sensations I experienced were like I was releasing all I hold onto in order to function.

    The other energy I felt was tapping into the human part of Bitty. Not her higher-self that exists through infinite space and time while floating through the quantum muiltiverse on a bed of vibrating strings, but the human part of her that actually still exists underneath the earth – and still has feelings about her own death.

    Ultimately the whole night felt like a gift even though it was intense. There is something freeing about losing your mind, heart, and spirit and then having to find it again.

    (Here we are, 14 and fearless…)
    bitty-blog-(i)

    April 15, 2015 • Adventures, Musings, Old School Stories • Views: 1309

  • It Turns Out Many People Don’t Like Me

    I’m a pathologically optimistic person. I like to assume the best of the world because I am into asses, and u and me. Yet sometimes I have to acknowledge the brutal reality that not everybody wants to be my friend, nor do they even like me at all.

    I brought The Munch to the playground on Sunday because it was the first spring-like day of the season. You see, up here in the Northern Tundra, we have been dealing with the harsh atmosphere of what I like to call “eternal winter.” It was only 3 weeks ago when I decided it was time to wear 1 pair of pants instead of 3. So considering it was the kind of sunny day where you didn’t have to wear a wool body suit, I was in a pretty cheery mood.

    I initially anticipated that the other parents would be equally jovial. You would think that on a beautiful day at the playground people would want to do the monkey bars, play chase, and push me on the swing. But guess what – they don’t at all. No one was even interested in my cool tricks, like when I hang upside down by my knees. They just kept looking away.

    When I tried to talk to some of the other parents, I felt like I had SARS. None of them wanted anything to do with me, and they kept looking at my mask with suspicion. It’s a fashion statement okay!? At one point a kid near me went down the slide on his stomach, flew off the end, and landed on the ground. When his dad came over, I tried to explain what happened so he would know why his kid was crying.

    Toni: He went down the slide head first on his tummy, and just ricocheted off. I’m pretty sure he got the wind knocked out of him, but don’t worry, he didn’t fart or anything.
    Dad: Uhhh yeah… thanks…

    Ummm what’s the problem Dad?

    Then there was a mom with her son who was playing near us in the sandbox, and the son wanted to know why dry sand didn’t make good castles. The mom was on the phone, so I decided to help out and give the kid an answer so he would stop interrupting her call.

    Toni: Probably because 98% of the universe is dark matter, which is a substance so complex, the human mind can’t comprehend what it is. This is just one of many questions you will never know the answer to, so you should probably settle into the deep crisis of unknowing because it will help you better deal with the mystery of death.

    At this point, the mom collected her stuff, but not quickly enough to avoid hearing Munch’s follow up statement.

    Munch: When our dog and cat die – can we please get a bunny!?

     

    park-blog-(i)

    April 13, 2015 • Adventures, Mommyhood, Parenting, Playing, Talking and Not Talking • Views: 1448

  • The Smart Phone Vacation

    The world is changing like a newborn’s diaper – shit is moving fast. Every time I step outside my isolated country existence I experience culture shock. I feel like an unfrozen relic of the past, released into the world wearing clogs and a prairie dress, in search of an open fire with spit to roast my meat.

    Last week The Munch and I went on a family vacation, but separately. I believe that is the best kind. Munch went to visit my friend Gita in NYC, and I was off finding my Zen on the azure ocean. I parked my car in New Haven and took the train into the city so I didn’t have to pay $9,000 for parking….which would actually be a pretty good deal for Manhattan.

    When we got on the train in Connecticut, it was filled with people. We squeezed into a seat and settled in. I began staring at the hominids surrounding us, because that is depressingly REALLY exciting for me. I feel like anthropologist out in public or a space traveler. “There are others out there!” That was when I noticed that EVERY SINGLE PERSON WAS ON THEIR PHONE! Even the family across from us – a grandma, grandpa, and two grandkids – were ALL on staring into their iPhones.

    It is not like I don’t also have a deeply meaningful relationship with my phone. I know it’s a problem. Yet living in nature and spending a lot of time in the car inherently means fewer opportunities both because I don’t want to die veering into an oncoming car while tweeting or because I’m outside a lot gazing at trees and shit.

    I can see how the city life would facilitate more times to check your phone, but my train observation was disturbing none the less.

    When I got to JFK for my flight, I found myself suddenly surrounded by drunk college kids. If you ever every want to question the direction of humanity and find yourself in a deep dark abyss of hate, I highly suggest going to the airport during the week of SRING BREAK!

    Okay, fine Toni. I shouldn’t be such a judgmental curmudgeon about young people having some fun. That is until the self-sticks got broken out.

    In case you have yet to experience or witness a selfie stick, it’s a stick that helps you take better selfies so your arm doesn’t look fat and ruin the picture. They were everywhere. The really weird part was how shamelessly everyone used them. They weren’t taking secret selfies in a room pretending a friend was there and just DYING to take a picture. They were brazenly using them in public. Like it was TOTALLY okay to be your own paparazzi.

    I was in another country, not only taking a vacation from life but also from my phone. I kept my phone off out of fear of getting charged a gagillion dollars for international texts. In retrospect, the break from my phone was one of the best parts of my time away. It forced me to be in the moment. I took long walks on the beach, soaked in the sun and connected to the sounds of the ocean waves but seriously, everyone on the beach was looking at a screen. It was staggering. The selfie stick followed me throughout the week, as people documented themselves rather than the beauty around them.

    I am not being self-righteous, okay! I am not perfect and have an obsession with my phone too. But you guys, we have to keep each other accountable. We need phone curfews. Or time limits. We need an app that says “get off your fucking phone and look up!”

    When Munch and I took the train back to New Haven, once again we were the only people not looking at our phones. Not to say we don’t have our battles with “screen time” because we do, but the train is still exciting for us. Munch was looking out the window and playing with Alpaca erasers that Gita had given her. She made up songs and occasionally made me play big sister who won’t let the pink Alpaca wear the princess dress and wants to eat all the chocolate (a pretty awesome game, I might add). A woman walked by us and said “wow, she has such an active imagination!” I wanted to fucking weep. Isn’t this what childhood is supposed to be? When we pacify our kids with media to prevent boredom, they don’t have to work their brains to make up insane Alpaca eraser games.

    The Alpacas got us talking about the animal kingdom.

    Munch: Can we go see some dinosaurs next time we go to New York City?
    Toni: Munch, dinosaurs are extinct.
    Munch: What does extinct mean?
    Toni: It means there are no more left. They all died.
    Munch: Are other animals extinct?
    Toni: Yes. A lot. And more animals become extinct every day.
    Munch: Why?
    Toni: Because people are cutting down the forests, and the animals get killed.
    Munch: Why would any one do that?! WHY WOULD ANY ONE KILL ANIMALS!
    Toni: Because they want to sell the wood for money. OR they want to graze cows for money? Basically to make money.
    Munch: The ANIMALS LIVE IN THE FOREST! What can we do to stop them?
    Toni: I don’t know.
    Munch: We have to call the police. And the police would stop all the bad people from killing the animals!!!!
    Toni: That is a really good plan.
    Munch: How many animals are left? How many leopards are left?
    Toni: I don’t know… maybe a few thousand?
    Munch: WHY ARE THE PEOPLE KILLING THE ANIMALS!?

    A man that was sitting behind us then interrupted our conversation.

    Man: There are actually 34 leopards left in the wild. I am sorry to bother you, but I was eavesdropping and then had to know how many were actually left.
    Toni: Thank god you had your phone and stopped me from spreading disinformation to my child.
    Munch: 34 is way less than thousands mom.

    phones-suck-blog

  • Can Grown Ups Still be Wild and Free?

    Technically I am wayyyyy far into my adult years, and no longer even considered a “young person” – yet I still don’t identify with my childhood perception of “grown ups.” My image of a real grown up involves helmet hair, pleated pants, and a deep commitment to Charlie Rose. Maybe that’s why I dress like a 12-year old boy that wears hoodies with sweatpants, and still use the word “dude” non-ironically.

    Part of my rebellion is because the conventional “mature” approach to life sometimes feels soul sucking. When people get older, they stop trying new things, and taking risks. They become complacent because they prioritize things like safety and rest.

    Of course this behavior is rooted in rationality. As your body ages, an all nighter will impact you for the next month, and you take longer to heal if you hurt yourself from jumping off a roof onto a trampoline. Yet, to have practical reasons for being responsible doesn’t mean we have to be that way all the time. A part of your spirit dies when you are always thinking of the consequences of your actions. There is something so freeing when you do something that is out of the ordinary and just plain wild. We need moments of madness just as much as we need to consider the impact of our decisions.

    When we are young, we are probably too reckless because we don’t have enough foresight of our impending mortality. But when we get old, we are probably too cautious. If you think about it, we spend most of our lives as adults. If we get to be old, a very small fraction of our existence would have been devoted to childhood, and an even smaller one to the infamous teenage years. That is a LOT of time to be sensible, and not that much time to be impulsive.

    Even though I want sometimes to feel the mental liberty of my younger years, it is hard to get into that headspace. The Jiminy Cricket of my consciousness is too damn loud. “Don’t eat that, Toni, too much sugar will give you a headache. You should probably go home Toni and not get into that pickup truck full of Abercrombie Models – you have to wake up early tomorrow to get all the laundry done.” Maybe what I crave most is the psychic space to scream “YOLO” and do whatever the fuck just because if could be fun!

    Then I had some insight into what could help me be more adventurous – drugs!! Duh!!!

    Not hard-core drugs obvi, I am still too reasonable for that – but taking ONE hit of weed will really bring me to a spontaneous psychic space!!

    So this is what happened. I was going out on Friday night… which was a BIG deal for me because otherwise I would be home staring out the window like a lost kitten. On the way my friend said, “Hey, do you want some pot,” to which I replied, “sure do!”

    While we were driving, I was suddenly brought back to all the times in my life when I was fancy free getting high, driving around, and listening to music. It was sooo fun, and lighthearted. I realized what distinguished those times from, say, driving to the store for some organic chicken broth – was that I was less concerned about anything else but that moment.

    Being stoned makes me more of a witness to my life, rather than a participant. It is like I was watching myself from the outside, and it didn’t occur to me that I would ever have to actually deal with whatever happened next. I didn’t care because everything that second was hilarious. The only thing going on in my mind was, “what is that crazy girl Toni going to do next? Who knows? But I can’t wait to find out!”

    weed-blog-(i)

    March 9, 2015 • Adventures, Musings, Old School Stories • Views: 1232

  • You Don’t Have To Be A Creative Genius to Be Artistic

    Being a parent has really helped with my acting chops because I have to act “impressed” a lot. You know, so I am encouraging and don’t scar my kid for life by looking at a drawing she made of me and saying, “well, I don’t really have a line for a body, and there is no 3D perception when you make my nose a dot.” I have to pretend like her efforts are good so she will inspired to keep trying – even though you and I both know the sun is more complicated than a yellow circle with some streaks sticking out of it.

    The only way to get excellent at anything is through practice, so I have to help foster this process of trial and error. I want The Munch to explore her potential talents because the more confidence you have about skills you excel at, the less drugs you do as a teenager. This is a fact. Much like girls who ride horses are less interested in boys – so you better believe that I am getting a goddamn pony.

    Finding passions and hobbies is a really important aspect of personal growth. And, when your kid has school vacation; you need a place to send them so you don’t commit murder suicide. Which is why last week, The Munch went to art camp.

    Did I know what art camp was? No, not really? Did I do a lot of research? Not so much. But I did know that her cousin was going, and she would be gone from 9-3 everyday – so that was enough information for me!

    At the end of art camp, the students put on a performance – which was maybe 45 minutes longer than it needed to be – but also the sweetest thing ever!!!! Watching these kids was both painfully boring and incredibly endearing. Their effort to remember the song, or the incredibly repetitive dance movies of turning around then jumping up and down, was priceless.

    I loved the kids that just HATED being on stage, and would stare out into the audience with their hands on their hips, refusing to participate. Then there was the over enthusiastic ones who were wayyyyyy into it, even though they had no rhythm and continuously bounced their knees off beat.

    There is a certain joy of watching your kid on perform because even if they aren’t the best, the fact that they are out there ignites immense pride. You don’t have to be an artistic genius to take creativity seriously, and to observe your kid genuinely trying is insanely cute. We all have an artist inside of us, and the more we get to know them, the happier we will be in the long run.

    Not to brag or anything, but The Munch kind of killed it as her very important role of “mouse.” Sure, she did pick her nose at one point and eat it – but she also knew all the moves and has genuine swagger.

    art-camp-blog-(i)