I’m turning 34 tomorrow. I know, I know. I’m a baby.

Unless you’re under the age of 25, in which case I’m used up with one foot in the grave and should probably just throw in the ol’ towel now while I still have some dignity left.

Whatever.

To be honest, I get a little freaked out about my birthdays, not because I’m upset about getting old and therefore less hot (um, “less hot” is a condition I’ve grown rather accustomed to, thankyouverymuch) and more saggy (tits to knees, for the win!), or because I’m afraid to face my own mortality (I’m kinda happy just to be here).

But rather because I get a little irritated that I’m not “further along” in my existence – like I should be more or better or someplace else, you know, more “accomplished,” “advanced,” SUCCESSFUL. Whatever the fuck that means. I don’t know. I’m happy where I am. At least I think I am. I have you people. I like that.

But my birthdays are always accompanied by a vague irritation, a little stick in my side, a lil bastard sitting on my shoulder whispering in my ear: “Janelle, you really should be more by now. You’re kinduva loser.”

I think this irritation is significantly increased by the fact that I spent a good portion of my adult life drunk, running around and around (and around and around) in tiny little circles (which felt very important at the time, FYI) – going nowhere, as they say, very, very fast.

So really, I’ve only been a grown up since 2009, but considering where I was then, it’s safe to say I’ve come a long way, and, once again, have nothing to complain about.

So that’s rad: When you set the bar really freaking low, you can totally be satisfied with minimally awesome conditions.

Wow, that sounds like a lot parenthood.

Anyhoo, as usual, since (as you know) I’m a radiant beam of positivity, I thought I would make up a list of all the things that suck worse than turning 34.

This is my version of “positive self-talk.”

I think you’ll agree with many of them.

Things that Suck More than Turning 34:

1. Being a crack head.
2. Eating lunch with Poppy Harlow.
3. Being Poppy Harlow’s son.
4. Growing up in Westboro Baptist Church.
5. Being born a female in Afghanistan.
6. Running a day care.
7. Finding yourself locked in a room with other people’s offspring. (Oh wait. That’s number 6.)
8. Finding yourself locked in a room with your own children. (Yes, that’s better.)
9. Tattooing small nautical stars all over your face whilst drunk.
10. Realizing you miscalculated and you’re actually 35. (Whatever bitch, I was born in 1979!)
11. Failing your Master’s Degree comprehensive exam. (Somebody hold me.)
12. Being born a male in Afghanistan.
13. Weighing 400 pounds.
14. Having 11 kids.
15. Driving home from the beach with sand in your bathing suit. (Seriously, do you remember that?)
16. Owning a yellow Labrador retriever who runs away from you at a softball game, breaking his collar, at precisely the moment your 2-year-old bolts off in the other direction and you realize you’re alone and totally and completely screwed because OMG the dog and OMG the child. So you start asking strangers to help you (because they’re all standing there motionless with a face like “Wow. Look at this unique unfolding of events.”) until an angel from on high comes over and says “I’ll get the kid. You get the dog.” And you run off and tackle the motherfucking Labrador like a ninja WWF wrestler. (Not that this happened to me last night.)
17. A world without the Grateful Dead.
18. Bigots.
19. A world without Tyler Durden, Jane Austen, Bill Murray, and/or my husband. (Um, that was a odd list.)
20. All things that hurt people.
21. Over-zealous baseball coaches.
22. And their evil parental cohorts.
23. Expressions like “the miracle of motherhood” and “I’m playing catch up,” and “at the end of the day” and “we need a paradigm shift” and…
24. BabyCenter forums discussing circumcision or sleep training.
25. Little girl shirts that say “Step Aside, Barbie.”
26. Implying that your child is a replacement for an emaciated plastic doll.
27. Making up cute, catchy new words, such as “brutiful.” (Sorry, Glennon, but REALLY? Have a little mercy.)
28. Peeing for the first time after giving birth.
29. The expectation that because I’m a mother I should give a shit about seasonal cupcakes and yoga pants.
30. Cleaning up dog diarrhea from the back seat of your car in a Safeway parking lot while the offending canine vomits at your feet while simultaneously trying to eat it.
31. Listening to people try to defend the conclusion that marriage equality is a bad idea.
32. The moment you realized you sneezed um, too hard.
33. PTA meetings.
34. Administrative staff meetings.
35. Okay pretty much any meeting.

And…the Number ONE thing that sucks worse than turning 34…yeah that’s right you guessed it…

NOT TURNING 34.

Because that would mean I didn’t make it past 33. And who wants that?

Really, it’s funny, right? That this is what we all want and don’t want: Getting older. It sucks. But the alternative sucks more.

So this is it, I guess. We just keep moving on and on and on until we aren’t moving on anymore, and every year we get a little closer to that moment, trying like hell to live in this one (Make it count! It may be all you’ve got! (no pressure, though)) — even when it’s a little grayer than expected, a little less glamorous and interesting and bright. Though in some ways, it’s way more so.

It’s the accumulation of all that I’ve ever been and the stuff my future is made of. Here is where it ends, and begins, the life I’ve got, the only one.

So I guess I’ll just say fuck it, and welcome, 34.

To be honest, I’m just happy to be here.

Also happy I’m not having lunch with Poppy Harlow. Because really, at the end of the day, we all just have to look on the bright side and enjoy the fucking miracle of motherhood. A paradigm shift, people. That’s what we’re going for.

Let us also not forget I’m way less fat than I used to be. WINNING!

Poppy Harlow, you’re a douchebag. And so are you, ­­Candy Crowley. And Lester Holt, thank YOU for your insightful words in response to the rape of a 16-year-old

These people are a bigger threat to America than Caillou. FOR SURE.

girl in Steubenville, Ohio: “In many ways, tonight stands as a cautionary tale to a generation that has come of age in the era of social networking.”

Such a helpful message: IF YOU’RE GOING TO RAPE SOMEBODY, KIDS, DON’T VIDEO IT!

And let’s all lament their “promising football careers” and the “lasting effects of jail time” on boys so young.

I have an idea: If you don’t want to go to jail, don’t rape people.

And let’s emphasize how sorry these boys were and really, REALLY emphasize how drunk intoxicated out-of-her mind this victim was. Let’s make it clear that she made some seriously unladylike choices that put her in a position to be raped and THOSE POOR BOYS they were just BOYS being BOYS. I mean, what are they supposed to do when faced with an unprotected vagina?

Just for funsies, let’s play a little game. Let’s pretend the female who was raped was a male. Let’s pretend a 16-year-old boy got drunk, fell semi-conscious and was raped and urinated on by classmates, and it was video-taped and texted about.

WOULD WE BE RESPONDING DIFFERENTLY?

Wouldn’t the rapists be monsters, now? Wouldn’t they be sick fucks who took advantage of a person who was just having fun, just out for a little fun one night, like all teenagers do?

Think about it. I bet the media would have a very, very different reaction. Setting mainstream homophobia aside, it’s interesting to think about whether the focus on the victim “making bad choices” and “compromising oneself” would exist were the victim male. I mean if a girl gets drunk she’s potential rape material. If a boy gets drunk he’s having fun.

Here we go again with the same old narrative: it’s the woman’s fault.

And apparently, if you’re CNN or NBC or whatever, if you’re a boy who gets drunk and fingers a girl against her will and then urinates on her and slaps your penis against her hip in front of a bunch of people while she lies there half-unconscious, and you videotape it all and text about it and brag to your friends – well, you’re just a boy being a “boy” and it’s just fucking heart-wrenching when you get punished for your ILLEGAL behavior because WHAT ABOUT YOUR PROMISING FUTURE?

Yes, such promising futures as douchebag misogynistic football stars.

It’s really too bad they didn’t make it all the way to the big leagues, where they could rape women and get away with it! Yay!

Alright, to get away from sarcasm for a minute, when I first thought about these media outlets practically in mourning for the rapists, insinuating the classic “boys will be boys” rhetoric – I got all pissed off, like “how dare you call my son a rapist,” (which what they’re doing when they imply that all boys would be rendered powerless in the face of an unconscious female).

And I got all irate thinking about the way the media deployed the offenders as “just regular ol’ boys” doing boy things…rather than calling them what they are (individual monsters).

But then I started thinking about their douchebag coach who was all but condoning their behavior, and I started thinking about the thousands of comments on social media demonizing the girl, and the people in their town sending the victim death threats. And I started thinking about the boys’ parents and teachers and coaches and friends throughout their lives and all the people that could have or should have taught them some self-respect, some basic decency toward others, some simple fucking humanity.

And I realized they are every boy. Or they were, at some point.

They started like my son.

And they grew up, and they were told women are property and playthings, and that men are tough and sexually driven and the ones in charge, and they were shown every day that women are objects – tools to satisfy their desire. They were spoon-fed misogyny and the subjugation of women. They were built. They were structured. They were molded into the monsters that spoke of a “dead girl” getting “so raped.” Between fits of laughter they showed the world what they’d become.

I’m not saying they aren’t responsible. Obviously. They are undoubtedly horrible specimens of people and are wholly responsible for their crimes (um, do all boys grow up to be rapists? No, so clearly society isn’t the only problem here.) I’m glad they’re there, and I’d like to dropkick their football coach and the aforementioned idiotic media reps.

But it’s too easy to think they are just individual demons, that they’ve just made bad choices because they come from “bad stock” in a “backward town” in wherever the fuck – like the coach and their parents and classmates and local citizens are just an anomaly, a strange occurrence of twisted humanity, and we can all just fall back in our smug superiority, because we’re so much better, raising such better sons.

Although yes, that’s probably true.

But check it out: when we dismiss them as exceptional, we ignore the systematic violence toward women being deployed every single day on a million different fronts.

And we ignore the systematic violence toward men being deployed every single day on a million different fronts.

Because we’re all dying here. If girls are sex objects, and men are the mindless victims of testosterone, unable to control themselves in the face of drunk female, it’s pretty clear to me that we’re all losing here.

Men are monsters. Women are the preyed upon.

But we’re all losing our humanity.

And when I look at my boy and my girl, I’m terrified that society is going to see them as a “boy” and a “girl,” with all that those labels involve, and it’s going to work to mold them into the crap of humanity we see on television on a daily basis. And on the streets. And everywhere.

I see my kids and I see humans who are going to walk along this earth like all the other humans who have ever been and ever will be, and I know it’s my job to teach them, teach them to be human. But I’m fooling myself if I think I’m all there is. Like my husband and family and I are it, like we can single-handedly negate every sick and twisted outside influence on our children.

As if I can fix a broken society by being a “good mother.”

There’s more to this story.

And we better figure out what it is, or we’re all going down.

It makes me sick to think about the whole thing: those boys raping that girl, laughing and giggling and bragging about it, the burden the victim will carry the rest of her life, the town and coach and media defending the rapists, offering their condolences to the criminals.

The attitude of all of it: “Sorry, I’m just a boy, and that’s how boys are.” I’m just a poor weeping boy in a court room! I’m just a high school football star! I mean no harm! I’m just a boy being a boy because that’s how boys are!

No, no they’re not. You’re a fucking criminal, and you deserve to be in jail, and my son and father and brother and husband would have kicked your ass if they saw your sad selves abusing that girl.

Because they’re men.

Or they’re women. WHATEVER. Call ’em what you want.

They are humans.

And that’s how we are.

Until we become something else, I guess.

1. I’m not sure if you know this, but Georgia (the 2-year-old) wakes up in the morning, removes her clothing and diaper, launches herself out of the crib and goes about her business. Now, her business used to involve running down the hallway screaming “Mama! You gotta get up!” but it’s evolved, apparently.
2. Today I heard her bedroom close the door behind her all efficiently like she always does, even though she’s like a toy-spewing tornado on meth the rest of the day (Why does she always shut her door? Who the hell knows why? Because toddlers are insane.) and I waited for her to come into my room. I waited and waited and waited, hoping she’d come in at any moment so I didn’t have to remove myself from my bed. After enough minutes passed that I started getting worried, I asked Rocket (Mac was off RUNNING up hills or doing some other insane shit healthy people do) to get up and see what Georgia’s up to (YES, I made my 7-year-old get up to check on the toddler while I laid there and checked my phone…WHAT?). So he comes back a couple minutes later and says “She’s on the potty.”
3. We keep the toddler potty in the living room. Because we keep it classy. So I figure she’s fine and get up like 20 minutes later (don’t hate, Rocket was with her), and when I get into the living room she’s still on the potty, which means she’s been on there for like 40 minutes at this point. We make eye contact and she like read my mind when she answered “I’m just pooping!” and I swear there was an eye roll. I mumbled that she clearly inherited the pooping-for-eternity trait from her father. I probably shouldn’t say those things on the internet. I mean seriously, is there nothing sacred?! (no, no there isn’t)
4. Anyhoo, I’m slightly less traumatized about my exam in 3.5 weeks. It may be because I’ve been studying my British lit like a madwoman, or it’s because I’ve resigned myself and pretty much no longer care. I guess we’ll find out after the exam. Whee! Livin’ on the edge.
5. Speaking of “exams,” Rocket made the announcement, and my heart nearly shattered: “I’m the only one in my class who can’t read.” And his head fell onto his arm, face down on the table, and it’s true, he’s 7 and a half and isn’t reading, and can’t seem to recall many words or letters, and it’s getting a little rough. We’re having him assessed on April 2, just because I want some insight into how to work with him, how to make these scribbles on the page come alive to him.
6. It’s a strange feeling to have this kid who isn’t on the “curve” and you’re stuck between wanting him to be free and confident and young while also wanting him to read, because you value learning, but then again what is learning? And how do we know learning is synonymous with reading and school?  IS IT? What if it isn’t? What if there are other ways? And what if I get him a label of “dyslexic” or whatever and then he’s that forever and his curiosity fades into a vague understanding of his own deficiencies, and he gives up altogether.
7. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: It ain’t easy having one of “those” kids.
8. Today I went to a luncheon for my lovely friend who looks better than most people even though she’s 8 months pregnant and I was sitting there cracking up with this group of women, listening to them tell it how it is, uncensored, witty, real. And I thought to myself this is what it’s like hanging out with real women, strong and smart women.
9. It isn’t competitive. It isn’t one-upping. It isn’t female pissing matches shrouded in paper-thin decorum. It’s wild, it’s loud, it’s funny. It’s empowering and nourishing and fucking hysterical.
10. And it revives the woman who’s wondering about her boy, the one who isn’t reading, who can’t remember words 5 minutes after he learns them, because he got up to go to the bathroom and now they’re all gone and he looks at you like “I’m trying.”

And I wonder if he knows the teachers say there’s something wrong, but more importantly I wonder if he knows there’s nothing wrong. Nothing at all. And there never will be.

I knew that today when I was hanging out with these women.

I mean it. I have incredible friends, and it appears the circle is just getting wider.

Here’s what we’ve been up to…

Ava making fun of “duck face” in her new dress

and I wouldn’t trust this guy in the park

or any of these people, to be honest.

well, at least she’ll stay warm

Daisy. Do you know her? She’s a good one.

it’s been 80 degrees all week…

mesh caps and child care – it’s how we roll

after he made the reading comment, I kept him home from school, just to hang out with me

and Laser, who just wants to cuddle

and then at lunch the mother’s heart exploded

my lovely nephew’s 7th birthday party…

Have a great week.

With love,

Janelle

You may not believe that hand salve can change lives. You may not see it. You may think I’m exaggerating.

BUT YOU’D BE WRONG.

Okay fine I’m exaggerating. But not much.

This stuff has cured eczema (my friend swears by it). It has removed chronic dry hand/cuticle/elbow problems (my own). It fixes cracked lips. It makes hands soft in the dead of winter (well, California winter, but whatevs.). It feels luxurious and wonderful.

It made my grandmother’s hands feel better.

So I will stop there. Because there is nothing more.

It sells in hippie stores for $15.00. We’re going to make it for like $2.00 (and that’s mostly the container).

And the best part? You can make it with three ingredients, or you can go nuts, and, just like the lip balm and body scrubs, short of dumping the entire olive oil bottle into your mixture, you pretty much can’t destroy it. This salve is actually what started me on my Homemade Body Product Path to Madness. I’m sure you’re on the edge of your seat.

I mean I MADE HAND SALVE. You don’t just move on from that realization like it’s nothin.

Or maybe some people do. Let’s change the subject.

Anyway, as I learned from this post from Wellness Mama, this salve is composed of three base ingredients: almond or olive oil, coconut oil and beeswax. She calls it “lotion” but really it’s salve.

From there, you can get all crazy and shit: add essential oils, Shea or cocoa butter (I rarely use cocoa butter because it smells like chocolate, which I want to eat, not wear), Vitamin E, lanolin, tea tree.

Infuse the oil with herbs. (oh yeah, I went there. I’ve done it.)

Hello, my name is Janelle and I have infused olive oil with calendula flowers, lavender and comfrey.

I feel better having admitted that. We’ll talk about infusion later. For now, I give you this recipe. This is my favorite one of the blends I’ve made.

Hand Salve (or really freaking strong “lotion”)

1/4 cup olive oil

1/4 cup almond oil (you can also use 1/2 cup of olive or almond if you don’t have both)

1/4 cup coconut oil

2 – 3 Tablespoons beeswax pastilles (depends on how firm you want your salve; either will work)

Optional:

1 Tablespoon Shea butter

Contents of 3-4 vitamin E capsules

15-20 drops lavender essential oil

5-8 drops rosemary essential oil

2-3 drops eucalyptus essential oil (watch it this stuff is STRONG)

Put all these ingredients in your trusty jar (Yes, the one you used for the lip balm. No, you don’t have to wash it first.) and melt them by putting the jar in a pan with a few inches of water in it (over low-medium heat). Swirl it around every now and then as it melts. After it’s all melted, add essential oils. I like the blend mentioned above because it’s refreshing and reminds me of the Burt’s Bees salve, which I love.

The Trusty Jar:

Thanks, Rocket.

So then you pour it in containers and cover with a towel while it hardens. I like 2-3 oz. containers. This recipe will fill probably 4 2 oz. containers. So you could easily make half the recipe. A 2 oz. container of this stuff will last A LONG TIME — trust me. If you find the final product too firm for your liking, decrease beeswax in your next batch (or increase oils).

After you fill your 2 oz tin and put it in your purse with your lip balm and feel rad, you try with all you’ve got to remember it’s in there when that 80 degree day hits (outta fucking nowhere in February) and you’re like OH SHIT it’s too late now. And you just throw away your purse because obviously.

Not that that’s happened to me. I’m way too organized for that kind of thing.

Clearly I’m organized. I make hand salve.

Only organized people make hand salve. RIGHT?

Okay I do want to mention one thing: Part of what makes this “salve” as opposed to “plain ol’ lotion” is that it’s really strong. It’s hardcore. Intense. Okay fine it’s fucking greasy. It takes a while to soak into your hands. So don’t put it on at your desk at work, or right before you grab your $400. silk Chanel robe. Buahahahahaha! Damn I’m funny.

I use it after I’ve done dishes and I’m gonna sit on my ass for a few minutes, or before bed. Always before bed.

I mean it. Life-changer. And the best part? My people ask me for it now.

Especially my grandmother, though she only had to ask once.

xoxo

Alright, Caillou, you inexplicably bald child with the worst voice in the history of mankind, we need to talk.

But first, seriously, why are you bald? Are you 18 months old? No, no you’re not, you’re a preschooler. SO WHERE THE FUCK IS YOUR HAIR? My kids are whiter than Christmas, and a couple of them were bald for a really long time, but by the time they were going to “play school,” even they at least had a respectable mullet.

Speaking of play school, what the fuck is “play school” and why can’t you call it “preschool” or “day care” like the rest of the world?

But really, that’s the least of our problems.

It’s clear to me you’re waging a war on the American people, running around households on the sly, disguised as some harmless cartoon when really you’re a small bald Satan with a diabolical plan.

I know what you’re doing. I see it. You’re trying to create a generation of entitled whiny-ass humans running around losing their shit because they want to go to the zoo NOW but they CAN’T because daddy has to work.

You won’t get away with it, little man, because some of us see through you. We know what you are.

Your voice alone should earn you permanent banishment from the gaze of innocent children: “I want to play with Leo NOW!”

“Rosie, this is MY GAME!!!”

“But I don’t want to go to play school, mommy!!!”

Look bitch. You’re going to play school.

NOW STOP TALKING.

Clementine and Leo hate you because you’re an asshole.

When Leo had a broken toe, what did you do? You whined because you wanted him to play with you NOW! Have you no consideration for the wounded? Have you no heart? Why don’t you just be grateful that your toe is INTACT and shut the hell up?

We already know the answer. Because you’re evil.

And Clementine. She sang the same song you wanted to sing at play school – I believe it was “Old MacDonald” – and you flipped your cookie as if the world had just ended, like you own that song, like the whole world is against small hairless humans. You know what? Despite the soothing tones of your teacher Julie (seriously what is she smoking because I WANT SOME) and the drivel exiting “grandma’s” mouth: nobody gives a shit.

Now, or ever.

Pick a different song you self-obsessed little monster.

“I CAN’T. IT’S TOO HARD!!!” Really, Caillou? When have you ever ONCE not been able to do something with those obviously twisted parents at your beck and call ALL DAY LONG, supporting your horrible (baby? Toddler? Kid?) antics with their nauseating proclamations of joy: “Good job, Caillou!”

They don’t mean it. You’re a horrible child.

You never get better. You never even vaguely improve. You just whine and whine and whine and fucking WHINE until something changes, and then you smile and get all happy when you get your way. So what’s the message to the young people: If you whine long enough, you’ll get your way! Leo will come to play!

Not in my house you little fucker.

Leo’s never comin’ over.

You keep saying “I’m doing it, if I practice, if I TRY” but then you never actually try anything. You just stand there and squeal for mommy or daddy or grandpa until they come and save you.

So you’re a liar. You’re a whiner and a liar.

Not to mention a manipulator. Take Rosie for example. You’re a big brother and as such you should at least PRETEND to have some patience for her, since she’s a baby. But you don’t. You don’t care. You just get in her face and bleat until you get your way: “May I have the bell for our scavenger hunt? Rosie, come onnnnnnn!”

Someday, Rosie’s gonna kick your ass.

And all of America is gonna watch it.

On another note, your rock-and-roll band sucks. “Caillou’s Rock and Roll Band” bites. It’s like the worst band in the world. Your animal noises and impersonations are equally bad. I’ve never ONCE thought you were an actual zebra.

So there.

Clearly your “mommy” and “daddy” aren’t going to tell you the truth, so I will: You’re something of a douchebag and you almost ruined my toddler.

One day she looked at me and said “But I want YOU to play with me, MOMMY!!!!”

And she had that lilt.

And she had that whiiiinnnnnnneeeee.

And she had entitlement seeping out of every pore.

And she called me “mommy,” which is banned in our house.

I knew what had to be done.

Two hours later, when she demanded she watch Caillou, I looked at her very seriously and said “I’m sorry, honey, but Caillou is dead.”

We buried him.

In the backyard.

With all the other horrible cartoon children trying to destroy America’s youth.