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  • Attracting a Mate

    In the animal kingdom the males are the prettiest and flashiest of the species.  The peacock for example with his shiny feathers and ostentatious tail is by far more magnificent then the female who is gray and brown.  Male animals have to perform intricate dances that rival Michael Jackson, sing songs that make James Brown look prude, and have Vercase plumage in order for the women to desire them.  It is the male’s responsibility to attract a mate.

    So how come all a human male has to do to get laid is buy you a beer and text a picture of his boner at 3am?

    In our species it is the women who are expected to preen, polish and paint themselves.  Men are considered sexy with scruff on their face, messy hair, and rumpled clothes.  But a woman should not only manicure her nails, toes, and pubic area, but also decorate her face with semi-toxic dyes, have hair as shiny as a horse’s mane, be thin enough to see her tendons, as fashionable as runway model, and of course make it all look effortless.

    Why are the women doing all the hard work to attract the men?  Isn’t having a vagina enough?

    I know a lot of women want to look good for themselves and not just for the men they are trying to seduce, but I still think there is something backwards going on.  But since I have hatched a daughter into this world, I am fully aware that these pressures are going to be affecting The Munch just as they do every woman.

    So I would like to be able to help her figure this all out.  It is not like you have to look your best everyday, but more just good enough to feel appealing.  You can seriously waste you life grooming, so the key is spending as little time as possible.  I think this is best accomplished by a great smile, a good attitude, and killer accessories.

    I am pretty sure Munch has got it going on….

    August 24, 2012 • 2 years old, Musings, Parenting • Views: 1296

  • Pay Attention To Me and ONLY ME!

    When you are spending time with someone they usually want you to be present.  Living the moment with them.  No one likes to hang around while you are texting, talking on the phone, staring off into the cosmos, multi-tasking, or distracted in general.

    The Munch is no different.

    She gets so irritated when I am preoccupied with my own life and not paying attention to her.  It is like she is metaphorically tapping her feet waiting for me to focus on her, but instead of using subtle symbolism she is yelling “Mamma” in my face, which she is grabbing with both hands.

    I get it.  It annoys me when she won’t get off Facebook and I want to go play in the sandbox.  But The Munch doesn’t seem to sympathize that there are only so many times I can count to ten while jumping before my mind wanders.

    I really try to make an effort to commit to our time together and engage fully in her world.  She is only a child craving my attentiveness for so long, and I do want to honor these memories.  I make it a point to abandon my self-involvedness and immerse my psyche with hers…. Even if that means a slight obsession with playing peek-a-boo behind the tree.

    But sometimes I am too engrossed with what is on my mind.  So much so that I will placate whatever irrational need she has, just so I can do what it is I have to do.  Today was one of those days.  In order for me to concentrate on myself I gave Munch the reel of floss she had been demanding. Which she then asked me to open… and then unraveled and ate for the next half hour.  At least her next diaper change will have a fresh minty scent.

    August 23, 2012 • 2 years old, baby brain, Behavior, Musings, Parenting • Views: 1368

  • The Creative Bowel Movement Divination

    Creativity is like pooping.

    You have something inside of you that you have to get out.  In fact, it is a physical and psychological must.

    You can’t focus until it is expelled from your body.  All your energy is concentrated on figuring out the best place to open either your anus or mind to expel the content of your inner being.

    Sometimes it flows easily like watery diarrhea.  Other times it takes a more concentrated effort, like the one of those black hard excretions of shit logs.  Then there are the pellets that plop out, and leave you feeling unsatisfied.  Like you didn’t live up to your full potential.

    And of course, the most painful, the most excruciating is the feeling of constipation where you can’t release any of the crap at all.

    Your welcome.

    August 22, 2012 • 2 years old, Musings, Pee & Poop • Views: 9683

  • Forgive and Forget

    I forgive you, but I won’t forget what you did.  So I will bring it up every time we get into a fight, because I remember.  But don’t worry, I totally forgive you, I am just bitter and resentful enough to recall your actions when it is convenient for me.  Sound fair?

    Forgiveness is complex.  Especially with contradictory clichés that tell you not to forget the wrong doings of whom you are graciously forgiving.  I really don’t get how that works.  Because if you dwell on how that person hurt you, and always keep it locked in your memory banks, do you ever really let go? And is that truly forgiveness?

    In my worldview, if you are going to forgive someone you have to fully surrender.  You can’t keep someone around who you are still angry at just to punish them more the next time they fuck up.  It is like keeping a person hostage to their guilt and misdeeds.  If you are going to allow them in your life, you can’t continue chastising them for past exploits.  Of course there is a fine line between accepting the bullshit people throw at us, and taking a bath in it.  It is easy to drown in feces when you never stand up for yourself too.  Being the bigger person doesn’t mean you have to be an emotional doormat.  So sometimes you can’t suspend the blame, and that is fine, but then you have to set that person free and not be in their life anymore.

    In order to truly forgive someone, I think it is necessary to understand their motives.  You don’t have to agree them, but having some sort of comprehension of why they did what they did will help.  I have had people in my life who I felt betrayed me, and the challenge was extending empathy to their experience.  But once I committed to being sympathetic to their psychic state, I was more sensitive to their position.  As long as it wasn’t doggy style.

    I have acted questionably to people in my past, and it wasn’t’ because I didn’t love them. It was mostly because I was being selfish.  Or weak.  Or too scared to deal with reality.  But mostly selfish.  The people that were able to forgive me for my dubious actions were the ones that took the time to talk to me about it in a real way.  It was never easy for me to admit my petty emotions, but it was only through that humbling display could the other person feel for me, rather than at me.

    Forgiveness is about acceptance.  Accepting the fallible nature of the human condition.  The unpredictable impulses that expose the ugliness we all harbor.  Forgiving can feel empowering…

    So Munch, I forgive you for taking Baby from me… and for upstaging me in this picture.



    August 21, 2012 • 2 years old, Musings, Relationships • Views: 1502

  • Picking at Scabs

    There are two types of people in the world: those that see a scab on their body and leave it alone so it can heal properly, and those that pick.

    I my friends am a picker.  I have unnecessary scars all over my body from noticing a scab, knowing that if I pick it I will probably make it bleed, and do it anyway.  Every time.

    And of course, I have spawned a picker.

    The Munch has these bug bites on her legs that haven’t healed in weeks because of this habit.  Whenever she feels inclined, she will just have a seat and dig into her skin like it’s a Zen Meditation.

    “Munch don’t! Stop!  Don’t do it!”

    “Mamma I am picking.”

    “I know Munch! Stop doing it! Quit it!”


    And then she will run from me to pick in private.  Sometimes she will come up to me with bloody fingernails and inform me proudly “Mamma, I was picking.”  Yeah… I got that from your vampire hands.

    So what is this compulsion?  What unites us pickers from the rest of the world that has a normal relationship to semi-open wounds?  Is it that the people who feel compelled to pick are more interested in the most brutal processes of self-examination?  To uncover the innards of what we are really made of?  Is it a philosophical quest to expose every particle possible in a feeble attempt to understand how we work?  Is the picking a metaphor for hypercritical personal analysis?  The intentionally inflicted pain serves as a reminder to examine every impulse, emotion, or motive?

    Or maybe we are just slightly demented and gross?

    August 20, 2012 • 2 years old, baby body, baby brain, Mommy Body, Mommy Mind, Musings • Views: 10220

  • White Lies

    I would like to think that all my lies are white, but no, I am not racist.  A “white lie” is defined as “a harmless or trivial lie, esp. one told to avoid hurting someone’s feelings.”  Doesn’t that make lying sound sort of sweet? Like it is your duty to tell white lies?  Sigh.  I am such a good person.

    The person I lie to the most is The Munch.  I know that sounds twisted, but it is true. Or it it?

    Can I please add to the definition of “white lies?”  Just an addendum that says “or you are dealing with a completely irrational being, and the only way for them not to be insanely annoying, or toss a tantrum around, is by telling a cute fuzzy little lie?”

    But this has to be okay.  My mom lied to me when I was a kid!  She would tell me things like eating peas would make my hair curl, or finishing my asparagus would put hair on my chest.  You know, every little girl’s dream.  I have an aunt who never told her son that there was candy inside the candy wrappers.  So he would go trick-or-treating and think he was collecting a lot of shiny blocks.  Never understood he could open them.  Same aunt also lied about possibility of replacing batteries.  Simply said once they ran out, that was it.  She was even known to take them out of noisy toys in the middle of the night.

    I lie to my child because it makes my life so much easier.  I can’t explain why I don’t want her to eat cookies when I eat them.  It is too complicated for her to understand that she has a whole lifetime to deal with a sugar addiction and there is no reason for her to start now.  So instead I say cookies are “mommy crackers made of dog poop.”

    If she wants juice and all I have is water in the house, I tell Munch it is magic water.  If she wants mango and all I have are peaches I tell her they are special magic mango-peaches.  If she wants to play with the water hose, but I don’t want to waste water I tell her the water is sleeping.  If she wants her baby, but we are outside and the baby is in the house I tell her that her baby is drawing magic pictures of Elmo.  If she wants to see those pictures I tell her they are sleeping.

    “Seriously Mamma… what are you talking about?”




    August 17, 2012 • 2 years old, Mommy Mind, Musings, Parenting • Views: 1239

  • My Vagina is Bleeding

    My vagina is bleeding.  My uterine wall is shedding and slowly oozing out of my body as we speak.  Yeah.  You don’t like that visual.  Well fuck you.  I am going to come to your house while you are sleeping, plug your nose, and just as you start to gasp for air I am going to fart in your mouth and leave a trail of my blood on your chin.

    In some cultures, when women suffer from their moon menses flow they are shuffled off to a hut, and told to stay there for the next 7-days to bleed on a rock.  That makes sense to me.  I don’t see why I have to interact with society in such a state.  I would much rather flap around and flail in my own juices secluded in a dark room.

    For instance my brain is not functioning as well because it has no blood pumping through it.  As such, when I went to buy my stupid hippy drink at the overpriced pretentious organic store today, I totally forgot that I had already opened it to take a sip…. So when I was at the register, I absentmindedly shook my open drink.  Ginger juice flew into the air, covered me, all my other groceries, the conveyer belt, and of course, the woman running the register.  I tried to explain it was an accident, but I was laughing too hard and I just looked like a crazy person who was doing some weird terrorist vigilante work.

    And everyone thinks science is soooo smart with nature and how it works and blah, blah, blah. Well what kind of fucktard thought of having women riding the crimson wave still having to take care of their kids?  May I remind you that being patient is a key ingredient to be a good parent towards an irrational, crazy, demanding two-year old… and something about leaking out my lady parts makes me feel quite the opposite.

    So when I was giving The Munch her bath she decided to throw one of her stupid babies at my face.  Keep in mind this was quite a luxurious bath.  I was reading to her, she had all her toys, and I had even put some bubbles in it.  So for her to throw her fucking baby at my face was really not cool.  So what did I do? I took that baby and I bit the head right off her body.  And then I laughed demonically as I chewed that plastic face looking Munch right in the eye.


    I didn’t really do that.  Not because I am a good person, but I didn’t think to do that in the moment because of my afore mentioned lack of brainpower.  So instead I did the incredibly imaginative approach of taking the baby away and saying I wasn’t going to read the book anymore.

    “Nooooooooooooo!! Waaaaaahhhh Wahhhhhhha! Mamma!! Read the book! Mamma! I want tiny baby!”

    “Munch, you can have tiny baby back, and I will read the book once you say sorry for throwing the baby at my face.”

    “Nooooooooooooo! Wahhhhhhhh… Waaaaaaaaaah! I am not sorry!”


    So now I am in a pickle.  Munch is crying because she wants her tiny baby, and she wants me to read her dumb book.  But I said she can’t have these things until she says she is sorry.  Yet she is not sorry.  But I can’t back down now.  I already created a condition.  I don’t want her thinking I am a pussy.

    So we went back and forth like this 6 times!!!!!!!!

    Her saying she wants tiny baby and for me to read the book.  Me saying only once she apologizes.  I wanted to give up so badly.  She was being so annoying, and in my sensitive state I almost drowned myself.

    But then….

    “I am sorry Mamma.”

    Thank Goddess Munch is a girl and intuitively understands the feminine foibles and the need to sometimes give Mamma a break.

    August 16, 2012 • 2 years old, Disciplining, Mommy Body, Mommy Mind, Musings • Views: 1632

  • More Than a Mom

    Our identities are a construct that we create.  We confine ourselves through cliché measures to gage who we think we are.  Different social norms and communal criteria become the vocabulary for the persona you craft.  We become mini-corporations with a marketing department to control public perception.  For example, it goes against my personal brand to wait in line to get into a club.  Enough said.

    Some people define themselves by how much money they have.  Being wealthy isn’t just a life perk, but who they actually are.  Like it is embedded in their golden strands of DNA.  I don’t just have money, I am money… Others make their career their sole defining attribute.  Whether their job is glamorous of arduous what they do is who they are.  Their aesthetic, fashion choices, hair cuts, all dictated by the career path they have chosen.  I am in finance therefor I wear pantsuits, have Hillary Clinton hair, and wear minimal make up.  Or I am an artist so I avoid underwear, only wear flowing fabrics, and ornament my scalp with dried berries and dreads.

    You are hard pressed to find people who actively embrace the contradictions.  Most want to hide from the confusing reality that we all are many things, with different sides, at various times in our lives.  The pressure to conform isn’t just from the outside, but an internal need to oversimplify the self so you don’t have to spend the rest of your life questioning who you really are.  If you just commit to being one thing, then you can avoid the everlasting painful process of getting to know yourself.  Life is so much easier living in a box.

    Being a mother is an identity.  It gives you a sense of purpose, a reason to care about yourself.  I am a mother so I matter, at least to the person I gave life to.  It is almost intoxicating to stop there, to feel like that accomplishment is now who I actually am, especially because it is so much work.

    But when you get lost in allowing a part of you to become all of you, it puts too much pressure onto one aspect of your life.  What if things don’t work out the way you expect?  You could or lose your job, blow all your money on blow, or think your kid is a total loser and want nothing to do with them.  The more emphasis we put onto one part dominating the whole, the more we lose sight of the nuances that make us interesting.

    Being a mom, just like all these other elements I use to explain ourselves with, is just part of my identity.  Obvi…. Because I am not just a mom, I am totally a MILF.




    August 15, 2012 • 2 years old, Mommy Mind, Musings, Parenting • Views: 1189

  • Watch Your Mouth!

    I was watching The Munch play with her baby doll this morning, trying to get her in the little baby highchair to feed her some plastic pretend nummies… but something went awry in Munch’s head.  Not sure why she was getting so frustrated, maybe the baby’s legs were dangling at the wrong angle for her weird OCD 2-year old mind, but all of a sudden The Munch exclaimed:

    “Fucking baby…” as she tried to readjust her.

    Okay… so obviously I have dropped the “f-bomb” around The Munch, but the fact that she used “fucking” so effortlessly, and in context, makes me think she is really quite clever.  The “fucking,” serving as an emphatic adjective to her baby who is not positioning herself in the correct manner.

    Yeah I know… I know… I have to watch my mouth.  But her fucking baby doll needs to get her act together too.







    August 14, 2012 • 2 years old, baby brain, Parenting, Talking and Not Talking • Views: 1793