Gorilla....I just cant.

 Bruno Mars is an interesting dude that is only 3 inches taller than me and was born in Hawaii which explains his flawless caramel skin tone. Over the last few years hes steadily risen from being featured on pop tracks to having much of his new album played on mainstream radio across the globe. Unlike many pop stars of the day, he actually can sing live, thus proving he does have some innate singing talent for which we should probably be grateful.

I will admit to liking Heaven a lot. It made me sing scream loudly in the car when it used to be played 9 months ago and made me feel feelings which any good song will do.

But the newest radio release--at least new here in the Midwest-- 'Gorilla', makes me want to bang my head against the steering wheel into unconsciousness every time I am unlucky enough for it to fall upon my delicate ear holes. Its not the singing, its not the beats. Its the horrible horrible lyrics that are rage inducing.

Don't believe me? Here let me provide you with this:

Ooh I got a body full of liquor with a cocaine kicker and I'm feeling like I'm thirty feet tall
So lay it down, lay it down

You got your legs up in the sky with the devil in your eyes
Let me hear you say you want it all
Say it now, say it now

Look what you're doing, look what you done
But in this jungle you can't run
Cause what I got for you
I promise it's a killer, you'll be banging on my chest
Bang bang, gorilla

Ooh Ooh Yeah You and me baby making love like gorillas
Ooh Ooh Yeah You and me baby making love like gorillas

Its not the overtly graphic sexual content. I can handle that. Its that its so unsubtly done. I feel like I'm reading text messages between a 17 year old that just got his first girlfriend and his friends who he is bragging to about all the crazy sex he and GF are having... aka one time they did it on the floor lolomg! Come on now. If you want to write a song that makes actual adult women interested in having sex, you have to be smoother in your delivery. You just blatantly telling me that we are going to make love like gorillas reminds me of this:

and now all I'm thinking about is these goofy fuckers running around in monkey costumes. I think I might be ok with the lyrics if they weren't sung in such a sweet, loving, ballad-like manner. You just cant sing "You'll be banging on my chest bang bang Goooriilllla" in the same way you'd sing the lyrics to "More than Words". It doesn't work. Its confusing. My brain doesn't know whats happening or how to process this. What are you intentions?? I don't know.

It is possible to do sexy songs subtly. The best ones don't even tell you they are about sex! You have to infer it, like finally seeing the T-rex in a magic eye book, once you understand it, you cant unknow it and that makes it all the more magical.

I have a few favorite subtle sexy songs that Bruno and his co writers should check out before they decide to create a monstrosity like Gorilla again. And if I haven't dated myself enough already with references to More Than Words, and Magic Eye images, here are 3 songs that if you were born after 1990 you've never heard of!

1) Fiona Apple--Criminal

Summary: Shes cheating on her boyfriend. Probably a lot and with different people because she a like a the sex. She never even tells us that, but we know it. She knows it. And its sexy because its bad.


2) George Michael--Freedom

Summary: This was George Michaels coming out song. After years of having to live a lie, he wrote this masterpiece to tell the world hes gay and fuck you if you don't like it. There is absolutely nothing sexier than a person who is 100% ok with who they are and not afraid to say it. Having a bunch of sexy models in your video slinking around probably helps too.



3) Sneaker Pimps--6 Underground

Summary: There was a lot of debate around what this song is actually about, but Ive always read it as a person who is exchanging money or drugs for sex, in whatever form that may take. He or she doesn't feel great about the choices being made but at the same time doesn't care what anyone thinks either. And now Ive made myself seem unseemly in that I enjoy this song, but really, I just appreciate the winding nature of it. It tells a story, whatever that may be, without really telling me the actual story. Its..WAIT FOR IT...

SUBTLE

Bruno, my PollyPocket Pal, please take note. Don't dumb down your songs because you are afraid people wont be able to understand that they are about sex. We are all pervs at heart, so you can bet your sweet tiny patootie that if there is any way possible to infer sexual content from a song, people will figure it out.



Have a great weekend,

Maria

My Soul is made of Hooded Sweatshirts

My entire life up until this point has been a sham. I haven't been honest with the world or myself. Ive tried to hide who I really am and after almost 30 years I think its time to come clean.

I am not fashionable. And I don't care. There, I said it.

 I have never really been interested in clothes or shoes or if they match or if what I'm wearing is acceptable for this decade. But, being a girl and then a woman, Ive had to pretend that the act of hunting, capturing, and securing garments is one of the reasons I get up in the morning. I've faked it pretty well and over time I even learned to enjoy it the best way I could, but really, its always been an empty gesture. The times I do go out with the act of buying clothes in mind, I get distracted by accessories instead. My weaknesses include crappy rhinestone costume jewelry, baseball hats, and sneakers. None of which qualify as actual clothing.

I mainly care that what I'm wearing is comfortable and if I will be able to handle wearing it for more than 15 minutes without instantly hating wherever I'm going just because I'm uncomfortable as hell. The inability to stand this type of physical discomfort is deeply ingrained. My fashionable, interior decorator mother used to lament the time it would take to first, get a pair of tights on me, and then count the minutes she could get me to keep them on without constantly saying my legs itched or pulling at my crotch. I remember almost nothing from my early childhood. Hating tights, I remember.

Because I'm eternally mentally preparing for the worst disaster scenario in any situation, I like to dress knowing that I will be able to fight or run from whatever bombing, mugging, tornado, shooting, runaway fire, or animal stampede that may possibly occur without being hindered by what I'm wearing. Skinny jeans--real jeans, not glorious jeggings--and super cute 5 inch nude pumps are not going to help you when you need to get away from an impending fireball while carrying a 22 lb baby. Because you can bet your ass me and my kid are the ones that survive that. Team Q wins at the apocalypse.

This isn't to say that I don't appreciate fashion or beautiful clothes. I love looking at them. Fashionable people are delicious eye candy and I enjoy watching them walk into somewhere and think "wow that outfit is so cute, I wish I cared enough to go get all 12 pieces of it". I do not. Id rather stare at you in it. I think that's one of the main fallacies that people have about unfashionable people. That we don't appreciate beauty or looking nice. We do. We just don't have the patience to do it ourselves. So keep your 3 hour morning routine and extravagant shopping trips because I want to continue staring at you in public.

If it was permanently Fall, and if I didn't ever have to go to social functions that required looking nice or if I ever became famous enough to get away with not looking nice at social functions, my wardrobe would only consist of the following items:

12 Hooded sweatshirts
6 Hoodies with a zipper
7 flannel shirts
72 pairs of jeggings
6 pairs of yoga pants
5 pairs of warm sweatpants
7 pairs of short shorts
15 perfectly fitted cotton tshirts
7 fitted cotton wifebeaters--Im sorry I don't know what else to call them I'm classy
6 pairs of rockstar adidas
1 pair of black Carolina boots
1 pair of fake Frye boots from Target that make me feel like a pirate

 That's really all I require to be happy. And comfortable. And thats fine. No matter what Stacy and Clinton will tell you. Its ok to not care about what you're wearing. Don't let people make you feel bad about it. Because deep down under our eight layers of skin and under the muscle and bones, way deep down in there, in some hidden place, there is a real you. And if it could live outside your body, you might be surprised what you actually look like. Ive come to accept that if I could see the real me, it is probably is a smallish but sturdy pile of flannel and hoods and zippers and fake leather and jean material with some Christmas lights peeking out of pockets and button holes with a fakey rhinestone jewel thrown in every so often. Inner me is comfy and warm and able to survive whatver manmade or natural disaster is thrown its way. So you let your freak flag fly and wear whatever the hell you feel like.

Because Im going to target today wearing this and may end up on People of Walmart by mistake:

Enjoy your week. Wear a cat sweatshirt un-ironically.

~Maria

Commentary on Trayvon Martin

I have gone back and forth about writing something or not. Why add my opinion to the multitude? Why make enemies? Why cause more conflict? Why add to the drama? Because after everything Ive heard and read and been told, I have to say something. Because when shit hits the fan, I have to take a break from looking at the funny side of life and get real for a moment. If you don't want to read it, don't. Its that simple.

My goal with this post is to get to the barest of the bare bones in the hopes that I can adequately express  why I am so emotionally destroyed right now. Think of this situation as a living thing. It has skin and hair and teeth and nails and organs and veins and blood and muscle. All of those parts are equivalent to the basic facts of the case, individual state laws, witness testimony, 911 tapes, past behaviors, the verdict, etc. These parts are the ones that we as observers love to dissect, endlessly going over and over. Pulling them apart, putting them back together, reorganizing, reshaping, remolding, until we have recreated the event into something we can recognize as making sense in our own minds. The shape and texture of this event are unique to the person who formed them, meaning even if we both go through all the details and both come up with an event that looks like a purple elephant, your purple elephant is not going to look the same as my purple elephant. Where the real tension and anger and devastation occurs is when we both look at this situation, and I end up with a purple elephant while you end up with a green alligator.

This is where the bones come into play and where I'm finally going to stop speaking in metaphors. The skeleton of the Zimmerman/Martin case is this: an unarmed 17 year old black child was shot to death while walking home from the store at night by an armed adult male who was told twice by a 911 operator to not engage the child and that the police were on the way. That's it. That's literally all you need to know. As a member of this thing called humanity, that in and of itself should make you scream or weep.

The argument I keep hearing over and over incessantly like a gnat buzzing around my head is that "if Trayvon were a nice, well mannered kid, none of this would have ever happened. If hes wasn't some thug wanna be, he wouldn't have started a physical fight with Zimmerman and Zimmerman wouldn't have had to shoot him." He should have done his little dance "yes sir no sir, how can I help you sir" and Zimmerman, being the vigilante neighborhood watchman of the year would have given him a stern talking to about not walking around at night looking so black, and then would have graciously let him continue on his way.

Ive also heard, "Trayvon was a bad person- he smoked, he drank, he fought, he wore baggy clothes, he punched a bus driver" as if being a teen and making stupid decisions somehow invalidates your life.

"Act like a thug, look like a thug, get treated like a thug"

"If you want to be treated professionally, dress professionally. He didn't, so he got what was coming to him"

"Perhaps blacks should do more to do more and better themselves instead of killing each other and living the thug life"

"One black kid gets shot by a Mexican its racist, but NO one says anything about 3 black kids that beat a white girl to death. Its sad"


The list goes on. It grows like some kind of parasitic tapeworm feasting on the hateful thoughts and misunderstood rationalizations of the internet. And because of blessed anonymity, not one of these people will ever have to look into the faces of Trayvon's parents and tell them why they think its ok that their son is dead. Because that's what you are saying when you defend a murderer. That you believe the life he chose to take wasn't worth it anyways, so who cares really? Self defense. He had no choice. He was being beaten, his head pummeled into the concrete. He had to shoot.

George Zimmerman made the choice that resulted in the death of Trayvon Martin the minute he ignored 2 warnings to not engage him and wait for the police. That's it. Truly. There was a crossroads, and Zimmerman took the path that made him feel something. He wanted something to happen, he wanted to be part of the action, to feel like the hero. He didn't bargain on the suspicious looking black kid resisting. Why would he suspect that? Zimmerman was the adult. He was the neighborhood watchman. He had the gun. He had the power. But Trayvon didn't see it that way.

I think the real reason people are so upset about this is because Trayvon fought back. He didn't run over to Zimmerman with his tail between his legs, begging for forgiveness for being young and black and male on a lonely street at night. He said Fuck You Man, I am who I am, I'm walking home, do something about it. That is what society fears. The fact that a young black male has the power to stand up for himself. I don't advocate for violence, that's not my point. I'm saying that the real fear lies in any trampled down person realizing their own power and strength in the face of their oppressors.

I hope Trayvon's parents can eventually find peace.

Douchecanoes of the Internet

Oh hi there everyone. Today is Monday so Im sure you are having a lovely time of it. Unless you are in a country where its Tuesday or Sunday. In that case I dont know what to tell you other than time zones are neat.

I began participating on Twitter over a year ago even though I swore that I would never be involved in something so ridiculous. The idea of broadcasting your every move in 130 characters or less did not appeal to me. I dont even care what Im doing 90% of the time, why would anyone else? But then I learned that Twitter is fun to fuck around on with your homies and to get real time news updates, but that overall, the real point of it is to creep on the famous and semifamous.

And because of twitter Ive found myself in better connection with whats going on around the globe, and I get to see pics of Amanda Bynes tweerking in her mirror after snorting dishwasher flakes, and most of all, twitter has helped me come to the conclusion that if I ever see Rob Delaney in person Im going to run up and hug him while either humping his leg or peeing on his shoe.

Becoming part of the twitter community means Im also exposed to the completely asinine shit that makes up 99.9% of everything else there. And amidst all of the dumbfuckery, the spelling mistakes, grammar errors, boob selfies, and food pics, there is one thing that continues to baffle me. The large number of people who use twitter to say really terrible hateful mean shit to someone that if they met in real life they'd either ask for a picture with or would be too starstruck to speak.

Example:

Why does anyone find it socially acceptable to call this woman a whore--no matter how much of a waste of space she may be-- when she posts a picture of her pre Kan-baby self in a silver bikini? It confuses the hell out of me. You are literally replying to her tweet "@kimkardashian DIE". You have a picture of yourself and people you know know who you are and can read your tweets and can see that you are being a giant asshole for no reason. Did Kim come and make a sex tape with your husband? Did she tell you you looked fat in your prom dress? Did she shit in your refrigerator and ruin your Benihana leftovers? She didnt? Then what is your deal? You have nothing better to do with your one precious life than to call someone who doesnt even know you exist a slut via the internet? Cool. Good for you. Lets be friends.

 I've become mentally exhausted with the anonymity of online being an excuse for people to be dickheads without repercussions. You cant go up to someone in real life  sitting on a park bench doing their thing and yell "SLUT!!" at them without there being some kind of reaction from them or the people around you, hopefully violent in nature to some part of your face. You shouldnt be able to do it online either.

I dont think that celebrities  and other famous persons necessarily even see 1/10th of the things tweeted at them, but if I were famous and occasionally saw that the first comment to a picture I was willing to share with the world was "DIE WHORE" I think it may kind of hurt my insides a little bit. And then to see that there isnt just one person being an asshole, but lots and lots, well, I think that shit adds up. All that negativity has to go somewhere. My hypothesis is as follows:

ASSHATS OF THE INTERNET: Your negative hate speech is collectively bringing down the emotional intelligence of our species and you are personally responsible for the reversal of evolution. You are the reason aliens are going to take us all out instead of inviting us to travel through their advanced worm hole technology to their super cool planets made of glitter and candybeans. Its your fault. Because aliens with advanced technologies arent stupid and why the fuck would they invite such juvenile hateful creatures to come swim in their glitterponds and travel the universe with them? They wouldnt. So fuck you for making the world a worse off place and for ruining our chance at interstellar travel.

 The world is hard enough as it is without all of you shitting in the kool aid to boot. So knock it off. The internet is this really amazing alternate reality where we have the ability to communicate instantly with people around the world. Our great great grandparents had to wait months to get their out of state BFFs reaction to them accidentally knocking over the milk bucket "lol omg smdh!!" so you should be on your fucking knees worshiping the technology gods for your ability to communicate in such a quick fashion. Not wasting everyones time saying hateful shit while you are sipping your Jamba Juice in between classes. Use what you are given wisely. Or Im going to take your smartphone and put it in my blender.

A Letter to my First Born

Good Morrow to you. Id like to begin by letting you all know this isnt turning into a mommy blog. I will eventually get back to writing about the latest celebrity snafoos and my take on the crisis in Syria. But as Ive been out of being in a consistent writing loop for over a year, Im easing myself back into it by taking the easy road and writing about whats going on in my immediate surroundings. Plus I dont have to spend hours fact checking items for a post if Im telling you about getting peed on. Theres really nothing to check there. Its pee. Thats about it.

I have been thinking a lot lately about how completely screwed first children are in terms of parental aptitude and general knowledge of 'how the hell to keep something alive that cant move its own body weight and doesnt know how to tell you whats wrong besides shrieking loudly'. Because really, I dont care if you are the genetic byproduct of a test tube full of Super Nanny, Mary Poppins, and African tribal dula DNA, your first infant is going to knock you on your ass. Its science. And in terms of what thats like for the parent, it starts out awful, but then gradually gets better until one day you wake up and think, holy shit, I actually like this tiny person and am starting not to mind the fact that I am its personal assistant 24 hours a day.

But what about the baby? Its got to be completely frustrating to know that you are hungry/tired/thirsty/wet/uncomfortable/crabby/lonely/too hot/too cold/fucking starving and the large fuzzy blobs that tend to your needs are constantly guessing wrong about what you want. How aggravating. So in honor of this trial by fire that all first borns go through, I want to take time today to let my son know just how sorry I am for being a total fuck up for the majority of his life so far. Begin.


Jack Big Booty Ho My Love:


Im sorry that when you finally decided to get the fuck out of my uterus, that when they put you on my chest, I was so exhausted that all I could do was lightly touch your arm and alternate between falling asleep and trying to see what you looked like. Im sorry there wasnt this huge motherly bonding love moment filled with choirs of angels and me serenely looking down at your tiny head with all of the compassion and proudness of the universe.

Im sorry you didnt get the full 90 min of skin to skin that ensures you arent a serial killer as an adult. Again, I was wiped. Plus you shit your nonexistent pants and they had to clean you up.

Im sorry--and for this, really, I could kick myself repeatedly -Im so so sorry that I let everyone telling me that YOU MUST BREASTFEED take over my rational thought process instead of saying FUCK OFF, the most important thing is that THE BABY GETS FED FOOD. Im sorry that you had to endure 2 weeks of me trying to get you to eat off my boob when for whatever reason, you just werent having that shit. Im sorry you were probably starving and really uncomfortable for that amount of time. I totally get it if you hold that against me into your 20s. I totally would too.

Im sorry that I took forever to understand if you were too hot or too cold. Your skin is like always this weird temp that feels way hotter or colder than the thermometer reading ends up being. And you arent very good at explaining how youre feeling.

Im sorry you were born in the butthole of the longest winter in the history of mankind. Im sorry you didnt legitimately see sun and grass and blue sky until you were 5 months old. They do exist. They are real and awesome.

Im sorry that I had PPD. Im sorry that I didnt smile at you enough or if I ever made you feel like I didnt care or love you in those first months. It wasnt you, it was me. But we have fun now. I hope that makes up for it a little.

Im sorry that you slept in 6 different contraptions with varying degrees of success until we finally realized, what the hell are we doing, lets just try the crib, which you loved. Im sorry that we woke up twice to see you sideways in your swing. I hope you werent like that too long. To be fair, that was like the one time you didnt cry when you were uncomfortable so you cant really blame us for wanting to sleep for more than 20 consecutive minutes in a row.

Im sorry for the internet. Im sorry I have been convinced that you must be dying of a thousand different aliments more than a handful of times when you were probably just cold.

Im sorry that I didnt figure out baby wearing until you were just on the verge of not liking it. That moby wrap is about 75 feet long and when the highlight of your week becomes showering uninterrupted for 5 minutes, complicated things have a way of making you say 'oh there is no way this shit is happening right now.'

Im sorry we didnt know that infant reflux was a thing. Im sorry it took a month of you screaming when laying down and burping up tiny baby acid burps for us to take you in and get you baby zantac.

Im sorry that every time you were going through a growth spurt, that we didnt immediately remember to just feed you more instead of trying every other possible option first. Again, if you just told us "hey assholes, Im trying to grow neural pathways here, give me more food!" it would have been a whole lot easier on everyone.

Im sorry we didnt realize that burping is actually super important to your state of being. Sorry it is more complicated than patting something on its back really should be.

Im sorry we didnt give you a pacifier until you were older. Thats 100% daddy's issue. He had some pacifier related PTSD that we worked through and once that was resolved you were much more content having that thing to mack on

Im sorry that I didnt just let you fall to your death like you wanted while trying to climb up the back of the couch. Just trust me, back braces are not in this season.

And most of all, Im sorry for thinking that you were a tiny adult when you came out, when really, you were just this tiny mushball of human gak that needed to be loved up and fed and kept warm until it transforms into the beginnings of a person around 4 months. Im sorry for getting frustrated that you needed to eat every 2 hours and that 45 minutes of sleep was all you were capable of at first, and for not understanding just how important touch and warmth was to you. Im sorry for not understanding during those first three months, that my whole life had to change whether I was ready for it or not. I hope that the fun weve had since then and the fact that mom and dad are getting a little better at this stuff makes you forgive us the bad times. Because no matter what, we will always love you and think you are the shit. Thank you for sticking it out kid.

Love,

Mom

A Plea to All Sanctimommies

Alright I havent been this worked up in a while, and I know you all miss my angry rants of yesteryore, so lets just skip the pleasantries and dive right in.

Many of you have heard of and probably follow the blog STFU Parents http://www.stfuparentsblog.com/. Written by Blair Koenig, It is a fabulous chronicling of what the world of social media has done to parents. More specifically, how social media has turned what we can assume were at one point normal functioning people, into hyper defensive, sanctimonious, oversharing monsters--none of which would be possible without the fairytale land that is the internet. Out of all of the submissions Ive seen, there is one type that makes me so angry I feel like stomping a carton of eggs to death--The Sanctimommy.

Sanctimommies are women who are so much better at mothering than you, that you should probably call CPS on yourself immediately and request that your child be sent to their home for permanent placement. They are hyper aware of the latest trends in baby research and wont hesitate to tell you that the specific brand of organic strawberry you are feeding your 7 month old has actually been found to cause a 1-2 point drop in SAT scores. They are so great at being moms, that they have to tell you how great they are at being moms...over & over again. They also have a habit of publicly shaming other parents whose parenting is, in their opinion, well below acceptable levels. And finally, they can multitask an Asian sweatshop under the table. Basically, they are better than you, their kids are better than your kids, and you should just stop trying, because frankly, your attempt at parenting is embarrassing.

You'd like to think Im exaggerating. Im sad to say, my friends, that Im not. There are women in the civilized world that find it necessary to talk this way about themselves and their day to day experiences. And there are probably some sanctidaddies out there too, but Ive yet to see an example as aneurysm inducing as the things that come from the female gender.

Perhaps you are thinking, whats the big deal? So they are good moms and proud of it, whats wrong with that? To you I answer--bragging is bragging is bragging. Judging is judging is judging. Just because its about the holiest of holies job of motherhood doesnt make it ok or any less annoying to the rest of the normal world.

The thing that really grinds my gears is that being a first time mom, I KNOW how fucking hard it is!!!!  So being constantly reminded how easy it is for you and how you are able to be an amazing wife, mother, teacher, and chef while staying in shape and loving every minute of it!! makes me want to chokeslam you into a brickwall. Im stoked when I remember to take out the garbage on trash day AND manage to get my child down for a nap--even though the things are completely unrelated--I did 2 things today, hooray!. Im happy when I dont resemble a homeless person at least 1 day a week. Im ecstatic when Ive managed to assemble something echoing a meal before 9pm at night. The thing is, when I DO have these small victories, I dont tell anyone. Why? Because nobody gives a shit about the day to day things in my immediate family, except my immediate family.

You shouldnt feel the need to tell everyone these things all the time. If there wasnt crapfest FB or twitter or Zoosk, would you feel so inclined to call that chick you had one class with in college and tell her you knitted your baby a sweater from organic alpaca wool? Would you write her an email letting her know that you couldnt believe you watched a woman in the grocery store give her son one M&M as a bargaining tool to get him to stop crying ? NO! The answer is no. The only reason you feel comfortable telling everyone any of this tripe is because you get to hide behind a profile picture.

And in case that wasnt enough of a reason for you to knock this shit off, heres an even better one--there are women in the world that are trying to raise families in terrifying and unlivable conditions. Women whose goal for the day is simply keeping their family alive and safe. Syria. Iraq. Africa. These women are the true Supermoms. They are the ones who get to brag at the end of the day. Because really, compared to them, none of us know anything.

So do me a favor. If you are reading this and getting offended, take 5 seconds today to think about why you post the things you do. What is your end goal in telling people how much better you are than everyone else when it comes to parenting? What do you really get out of judging others for being less awesome than you at raising kids? Just think about it for a bit. See if you can come up with any good explanations. If you cant, perhaps its time to do some self reflecting and figure yo shit out. Please stop being a douche. Thank you.

And if you are reading this and saying hey that sounds like somebody I know, go ahead and create a fake email and anonymously send them the link to this blog.

And lastly, if you, like me,  just shoved half of a burnt poptart down your throat while trying to explain to your 5 month old that its physically impossible  for you to remove the dirty diaper that is causing him so much woe while he has both feet in his mouth, I say, right on brothers and sisters. Keep up the 'Im doing the best I can without losing my shit" parenting style. Your kids are going to be fine.

Mine is

Have a great week players

~Maria

RIP Gummi Bears

Hello people of the Internet! Ive missed your musk. Here in the Midwest we are breaking records for the coldest March in years, so as you can imagine, Im about this close to selling my baby to an Asian sweatshop to fund my one way trip to St Vincents. I figure I can get about 50, 60 grand for him, and with that kind of cheddar I'll be able to stay in the SV for a solid decade. Peace. Out.

Being stuck inside for several months has awarded me a rare opportunity to watch a lot of shitty television. And because we dont have cable because wed rather get that free ish via roof antenna, I dont even have the option to sedate my brain function with award winning programming involving the Kardashians or tiny girl children with fake teeth and spray tans.

With all this TV watching, Ive noticed that cartoons nowadays are virtually nonexistent. Turn on regular tv on a Saturday morning and you will be absolutely horrified. I searched in vain to find something that 7-12 year old me would be even remotely interested in watching, and I am sorry to say, there was nothing. Im guessing that the major networks all figure that 1) everyone besides the Amish (pronounced with a long A as in Ape) has cable and 2) they cant compete with Disney channel and nickelodeon and mtvspringbreakjockjams2013. But what about my poor kids or my children of granola moms that arent allowed the vices of a cable box? What about them?? Wont someone remember them???

I remember you tiny suffers of basic programming. I got chu Boos. Because really, its bullshit that this is what is available to you:

The Doodlebops CBS 7AM-8AM-One hour of people dressed in weird semi-human/whoville-ish looking costumes. Nonstop singing and discussion of their 'rockband'. These people terrify me and Im almost 30. If the producers of this show are gearing this towards anyone but infants, they are kidding themselves. No self respecting 3 year old could handle this crap.

Busytown Mysteries--CBS 8AM-9AM-Based off those books by Richard Scary that were like Wheres Waldo but it was animals and the main character was that cat named Huckle and his best friend was a giant worm that dressed like he was auditioning for a Ricola commercial. ----->
Basically they run around and try and figure out who ate some one's pie or who forgot to return an overdue library book. I have an idea, lets rename it Nonadventures in Snoozeville because once again, there is like nothing happening here.

Liberty's Kids CBS 10AM-11AM-This is a cartoon where 3 kids and 1 freed slave hang out with Ben Franklin and live through all of the historical events occurring in American from 1773 to 1789.....Im not lying. Contain your excitement. One is from France, one is from England, and one is American, but his house burned down due to lightening--the writers think the are hilarious apparently. Im supposed to just accept that 3 kids--2 that are refugees-- without parents could just hang out with Ben F whenever they wanted? According to the history Ive read, Ben was a dirtybird. I doubt he'd want these 3 kids around messing up his game. Im not really sure what goes on in this show because Ive only been able to stand like 4 min before I stab myself in the eye with a pencil. Awful. Just awful.

My childhood is filled with memories of Gummi Bears, Ghostbusters, Ninja Turtles, David the Gnome, Muppet Babies, Pee Wee's Playhouse, Beetlejuice, Garfield and Friends, and that show on Nickelodeon about the Koalas that had telepathy that no one ever knows what the hell Im talking about besides Madrad.  

I feel like there is something wrong with a world that doesnt offer decent cartoon options on basic weekend programming. Saturday mornings were so awesome--waking up early to watch cartoons for a few hours while eating cereal or toaster strudel or eggos, and then knowing that after that last show was done, I had the rest of the day to play outside until my mom yelled at me to come eat dinner. You cant compete with that kind of freedom. Now its 3 hours of crap tv, followed by a you better hope your parent scheduled you a playdate or youre jumping Skip It alone in the driveway until you smash that 75 lb bastard against your left anklebone and you realize this toy is bullshit.

 AND THE VERY BEST THING OF ALL          THERES A                COUNT-ER ON THIS BALL

Like most of the world's problems, I dont really have a solution to this situation. I think its just something I have to accept as I get older. The world changes, and its doing so faster than ever, and Im old enough to realize that I was part of one of the last generations that were lucky enough to be allowed to just be kids. And a huge part of that, for me anyway, was quality Saturday morning cartoon programming.

So Rest In Peace all you wonderful magical creatures that made my weekends growing up the shit. I will never stop looking for tiny red pointed hats when Im in the woods or pretending that white grape juice is actually gummy berry juice.

Have a nice weekend folks

~Maria

Becoming a Parent

Alright so its been weeks and weeks and probably even months and months, but I am still here. Here as in alive. In case you were wondering. Exactly 50 days ago I gave birth to a healthy big ass baby boy. Aside from telling you that labor is fucking insane for 95% of first time moms, I will not burden you with the details because no one really gives a shit about your birth story except you and other women who are just waiting for you to finish talking so they can tell you their own birth story.

Since the moment that little critter was free of my womb, I have felt just about every emotion known to man and have been in various states of nervous breakdown from a minor inkling of pending anxiety to full out holy shit there is no way I am going to make it 5 more minutes without my heart exploding or my brain shutting down permanently. Overall, Id say 50% of my time has been spent seriously questioning my sanity.

I have had 50 days to think about how I want to write about the process of becoming a first time parent, and its been tough because unless you express to the world that you are the glowing specimen of motherly perfection, people wonder what the hell is wrong with you. As a woman, you are supposed to take on this motherhood thing with grace and gentleness and unconditional love and devotion to your new offspring all with an angelic smile on your face. And even if you arent feeling all of those things all of the time or even some of the time, you arent supposed to talk about it because the majesty of meeting something you grew like a CreepyCrawler inside your body for 9 months is supposed to overpower any feelings of self doubt, frustration, or shame.

In my case, this was far from reality. And Im guessing in many first time mom's cases, it is also far from reality, but due to social convention you probably never heard them tell about the crappy times. Or if you did, it was months and even years after the fact when they were at a perspective where they were able to laugh about it all and even look back on those really crazy, intense times with fondness and even longing. I wanted to give the perspective of someone who is still very much in the trenches, but whom after 50 days finally feels like shes on stable ground again. SO because I have probably 5 minutes before the monster wakes up and wants to eat again, Im going to list things Ive learned so far about being a first time parent


1) Put down the books. Turn off the computer. Go to a few classes, but only because they are kind of fun to do with your life partner. In reality, everything you need to know about the basics in caring for your infant you can learn by simply paying attention to the damn thing. This sounds so simple, but in my case was/is super difficult to do. I have wasted so many hours looking up shit online in an effort to figure out what Im doing wrong as a mom or what must be wrong with my kid instead of just PAYING ATTENTION TO HIS CUES. What a concept! I promise once you catch on to this things become 100% easier. This is something grandmas know inherently and they are very good at it, so look to them for advice on becoming more present for your mushball.

2) For certain babies and then subsequently their first time parents, the first two weeks can be hell. Especially if you had a traumatic labor experience. Maybe you will have one of those babies that whimpers quietly a few times when hes hungry, or makes a few tiny peeps to let you know she is uncomfortable  Congratulations! and also I hate you. If your future children are anything like my son, they will fucking scream bloody murder the first 2 weeks until you finally figure out what the hell you are doing and how to meet all of their needs. And really, I dont blame them. I become a horrible person to be around if I havent eaten or am really overly tired, so it only makes sense that 'intense people begot intense infants.' Ezekiel 15:5

3) The life you had before will disappear for a while.....maybe even for forever. You have to accept that. If you arent ready to, then wait a few more years before having kids.Honestly, this has been a really hard one for me. I guess I never realized how much I liked doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted to. I thought my life would remain the same, except Id have a cute little happy tiny person with me while I was doing it. I think that some day this will definitely be the case, but I was quite delusional in the timeline of me gazing lovingly at my adorable baby sitting calmly in his swing while allowing me to complete an entire session of Physique 57 after starting 3 loads of laundry and putting a roast in the crockpot 5 weeks post partum.

3a) What my life actually looked like at 5 weeks post partum: After 3-4 hours of sleep total, I alternate between trying to pump enough milk every 3 hours, trying not to fall asleep, changing diapers, trying not to fall asleep, washing pumping equipment, feeding bebe on demand, walking bebe on demand, entertaining bebe on demand, trying not to fall asleep, and sitting on the couch. Lots and lots of couch sitting. Sometimes I remember to eat and go to the bathroom. A lot of the time I feel really bored and sluggish and daydream of the times at work where I could go for walks to the copy machine without thinking about keeping someone else alive. But as time has passed I get about 2 hours of smiling and laughing a day too from a tiny creature that looks like me which is pretty awesome and amazing.

4) Your body changes after birth no matter what you do, no matter how much you will it not to. Your stomach doesnt magically go back to sexy within 2 weeks. It looks like a deflated balloon. You may get stretch marks that dont go away. Your perfect boobs lose their oompf. If youre breast feeding or pumping, your nipples hurt. Your nether regions can become a source of  major depression. To sum up, unless you are rich or a celebrity, you wont be entering any bikini contests right away. Thats ok. You can get your shit back together. Im not telling you this because I already have, but rather because Ive seen it done. I know its possible. I cling to that fact as I sit on my couch-glued ass typing this while dreaming of the day I will get 57 minutes to work out uninterrupted.

5) Having a kid will be the ultimate test in whether or not youve chosen the correct life partner. Luckily for me, I did. My husband has been 100% my life saver. He has helped me out of debilitating anxiety attacks, reocurrence after reocurrence of self doubt, and on again off again days of intense depression. He is amazing with our son and has stood by me through my worst. I wish for you the same luck I have had. If your partner is anything less than amazing, turn to friends or family for the emotional support you need.

5a) Post Partum Depression is a very real, very common thing even if you feel like its not. You are not alone. It can manifest as either anxiety or depression or both and lasts past the first month. I still have days where I know Im not completely out of the woods with mine, but do not hesitate to talk to someone about the things you are feeling. Not talking about it makes it spiral out of control and the mini human you just made needs you to be ok enough mentally to take care of him. It will get better but you have to acknowledge it first to work through it.

6) Nothing anyone can tell you, nothing you can read, nothing you watch on youtube can ever really prepare you for having a kid. If anyone could really explain to you what having a newborn is like, the human race would have died out years ago. I thought I was prepared. I thought I knew what to expect. I was completely blown away. It was like jumping into a freezing lake in winter. But guess what? Im alive. My son is too and hes healthy and growing and becoming cooler every day. My husband and I dont have the freedom to enjoy each other like we used to but we are now closer than ever. And we get nights and weekends to enjoy this tiny little person we made together and let him know how great we think he is and how much we love him. So overall, Id rate having a kid somewhere between having your eyes gouged out with a spoon and winning the lottery the day after marrying the person of your dreams in Mexico.

So yeah. Hang in there. It will get better every week. And someday you may be able to come home to a handsome face like this every day.

Happy New Year Players

~Maria & JackAttack