1. Family trips would be a lot more fun if my kids weren’t there.
2. I realize this adjustment may threaten the occasion’s status as a “family trip,” but that’s a risk I’m willing to take.
3. This past weekend we went to Sonoma County for two annual holiday parties – one with my extended family – the other with friends so old they are like extended family. And it would have been a lot more fun if my kids weren’t there, or maybe if they just stopped by occasionally. I mean they’re nice to look at, especially all dolled up in their Christmas gear, but they’re just so fucking annoying, particularly on trips. I believe this warrants a blog post of its own, but I’ll give you a rundown of the key problem areas: 1. Car rides; 2. Hotel rooms; 3. Behaving at other people’s houses.
4. But I guess the yelling and car sickness and tears and whining is all part of the deal – the youngest cousins going batshit crazy because some tyrannical aunt fed them soda and lollipops the size of their heads and Christmas outfits getting muddy (pissing me off) and flailing squealing boys and kids crashed out in the gift-filled car on the way home and new babies and old babies and all that family. Who knew me since I was a baby and a kid and a hot-headed teenager and now. All that crazy family we’ve held onto, once a year whether we need it or not. I just love those people so much. They are my people. And I wouldn’t change a single freaking thing.
5. But holy shit does it all make me miss my grandma. My dear grandma Bonny, who held it together and held me together, and fills my soul with longing and meaning and maternal pride. Because my roots are some badass roots, through her. And when I feel like it’s getting too heavy I think of my grandma Bonny and I tell her about it and she tells me through my heart that I’m tough as nails, just like her, and I’ll be just fine. But I miss her so much I feel paralyzed sometimes, like I can’t figure out how to navigate this place without her and I can’t believe she’s gone, even though it’s been 3 years.  I feel like she’s just gotta come back and say hello one of these days. But she hasn’t so far.
6. I’ll tell you about her someday, when I can see through my tears long enough to express my adoration for her.
7. Admittedly, however, she created a brood and extended brood a little like a mix of The Office and National Lampoon’s Christmas vacation, but for the sake of privacy, I’m leaving out details. You know who you are.
8. Btw, I have a rather infantile need to rebel – you know, do something contrary just on principle, for no reason whatsoever. For example, when I see those water conservation toilets that tell you to pull up for “Number 1” and push down for “Number 2,” I feel like pushing down even though I just went Number 1. I don’t actually do that, though, because that would be wrong. But I want to.
9. I feel better having admitted that.
10. I would also like to admit that I am a little proud of myself. Doesn’t happen often, but I felt a genuine sense of pride when I finished this semester of graduate school – there were many days when I wanted to quit, with the husband gone and all, but I stuck through it, and I freaking finished that shit. Yo.
11. And…today is our ten-year anniversary. I have so much to say about this, but there isn’t time right now. There is just too much to say. Ten years.

Is Christmas really on Sunday? I’m so screwed. Can’t we push it back a week? Damnit.

I didn’t really wear make-up until I was in college.

I got into that whole cute-clothes-shopping thing at about the same time.

I got my first boyfriend when I was 16.

My hair was down to my waist by the time I was 12 because I didn’t cut it. That was my hair-styling method: don’t cut it.

Pedicures didn’t enter my life until I was around 25 (and they come way too rarely) and manicures have never quite made the cut. Ha ha. Nice pun.

What I’m trying to say is…it took me a long time to get into the whole “girly” thing – and I have never completely entered it.

This is not because I think I’m above it or a feminist or anarchist or whatever. Though obviously, women are better than men. Duh. It’s because it just isn’t my thing – just naturally not really my deal, from the beginning. But I am into some girly stuff. I wear make-up with relative frequency, I get my hair done (every 6 months whether I need it or not!) at salons that charge approximately one month’s rent – and I have a minor boot problem. Also jackets. But mostly boots.

At one point I had a small obsession with gift bags.

Let’s talk about something else.

And I dig getting dressed up. Like twice a year.

But there a few girly things that I just don’t understand on any level. A lot of it (lots of make-up, heels, matching purses, exercise, shaving, etc.) I’m just too lazy for, but I understand the theory behind them. Some things, though, are a complete no-go. I look, I watch, I wonder.

I try to understand, but I fail.

For example, fruit-smelling lotions and sparkles.

So basically, everything at Bath and Body Works.

Raspberry scented lotion with glitter.

Enchanting.

Yes, right after I vomit on myself after applying it. I mean some of that shit is horrid. I like eating fruit, not smelling like it. I walked into that store the other day with Ava to purchase something for a birthday present and I was slammed with the sparkly-ness of it all.

Freaking GLITTER everywhere. All this pink and cursive and gold curly ques. I felt an almost visceral reaction…wanted to cry out “Mommmmyyyyy. Help. Get me outta here.”

In short, some of that shit stinks – such overkill.

Now, now. I’m not judging people who use “Jingle Bellini Shimmer Mist” or “Strawberry Sparkler Shower Gel” or “Pink Sugarplum Fragrance Spray”. I don’t care. And some people I love dearly use that stuff. I just cannot relate to how it’s appealing on an actual nose level. It smells so overwhelming to me – like a big, thick, shimmering mask of SUGAR.

The sweetness of it gives me a headache. I sound like an old person.

And I do a lot of things. But I don’t really sparkle. There ain’t a whole lotta “Sparkling Berry Bliss” in my life.

I mean when I hear names like “Marshmallow Fireside” or “Frosted Cupcake” or “Ribbon Candy” I think porn, not lotion.

Not that I watch porn, cause I don’t. I’m lucky if I get 15 minutes of television a week, I’ll be damned if I’m gonna waste it staring at women who are skinnier than me.

How’d we get on the porn topic?

Oh right. Frosted Cupcakes.

I’ll frost your cupcake.

Inappropriate.

Sooooo…admittedly I like the Lavender Vanilla, and my friend had a Vanilla Bean lotion that was nice, but most of that stuff is just too sweet for me, and, well, kinda smells like ass.

It was weird being in there, walking around all this stuff that was supposed to apply to me (as a female), but felt so unappealing and foreign – and as I strolled around a little awkwardly an old familiar feeling crept in – you know, that one that tells me there’s something wrong with me because I’m not interested in “Cinnamon Raisin Cookie” lotion, or sparkles. Or raspberry lip gloss. And I never have been.

Ever.

I used to look at these other girls and wonder “how do they just know how to do this make-up thing?” How do they know how to dress? How to be cool?

What boat did I miss and where can I find it now?

I tried for awhile, to find it, to shove myself into glitter and fake nails, but it just didn’t work.

I felt more awkward pretending than I did just embracing my non-“Candied-Sugar-Plum” self.

The only difference between then and now is that I now embrace my geek-hood. I’m okay with being, well, I don’t know. Whatever I am.

I’m okay with not getting it. With looking at society’s depiction of femininity and just knowing I ain’t that and a lot of us aren’t and I don’t really know how to dress and if my purse matches it’s coincidental – and my nails are usually not pretty and my gray hairs are starting to show and I don’t know what the fuck to do with myself in Bath & Body Works.

Now leave me alone so I can go douse myself in “Sweet Cinnamon Pumpkin” body cream.

I just threw up a little. I did.

Enchanting.

Well, not all of America.

1. I did some calculations, and I figured out that between the dog, my 3 kids and the cat, I have not gone to the bathroom by myself in approximately 9 years. I realize I just mentioned this a few days ago, but I tend to get irritated by things in phases, so sorry for the redundancy.
2. I love the whole Christmas thing so much I embarrass myself. Candles, music, decorations, lights, egg nog. I’ve gotten totally mainstream in my old age.
3. Clothes shopping is really not that fun when you’re, um, of a less-than-ideal weight. I’m edging pretty close to some serious weight loss efforts. After I finish all the egg nog, of course.
4. So apparently I violated about nine thousand blog etiquette rules when I wrote an entire post in response to a commenter. Oops.
5. But seriously, I am new to this (well, not that new, but new enough that I can use it as an excuse)…and even if I do this for 5 years, I have a sneaking suspicion I still won’t know what’s going on, but for sure I don’t want people to feel like this is an “unsafe” place to have a dissenting opinion. I love dissenting opinions.
6. It’s helpful parenting advice that I loathe and I get pretty defensive when I feel it coming. Sometimes I ask my friends for help, as in “Hey. This is going on in my house. Have you encountered that problem? If so, how did you handle it?” And then they tell me what they’ve done that’s worked or hasn’t and I add that information to the morass of confusion in my head and we all move on with our lives. But that unsolicited, preachy, “If parents were in order of excellence I’d be top on the list” attitude really gets under my skin.  And it happens to be the reason I started writing this blog – for sure, open spewing of parenting advice is one of the main features of mainstream parenting blogs and chatboards that make me want to stab myself in the eyes with knitting needles.
7. But I have to get real. Not everybody is going to comment in a perfectly like-minded way that speaks directly to what I’m trying to say – I’m not going to “get” everybody the way I get most of my readers and consequently I can misread people. Seriously, I’ve been spoiled. I love the comments on my blog so much – they often say what I’m saying better than I do and I look forward to each and every one of them.  At any rate, I’m sorry if I over-reacted and alienated people. I’ll try to relax next time. I can behave, I promise.
8. Alright enough of that. The other day while I was listening to Christmas tunes on Pandora (oh yeah, I was not joking) this song by Toby Keith came on called “Jesus gets Jealous of Santa Claus” and I thought to myself: “DUDE. It’s Jesus. Do you really think he gets jealous of a fat, gift-wielding sleigh-riding IMAGINARY character in a polyester suit? Don’t you think he’s evolved past that shit at this point?” But whatever. I mean I get the sentiment, but why do people say such stupid things? I kept trying to wrap my head around that: Alright Mr. Keith, you are trying to get people to focus on Jesus and his spiritual teachings over the materialistic reality of Christmas, and your method for doing so is to cast him as a participant in the same superficiality that serves as the foundation for the materialism you are attempting to discredit. HUH? How is that effective?
9. Yes, I realize these are not normal things to contemplate. But I can’t help it.
10. Speaking of not contemplating things, I don’t think y’all have ever met my dog. FYI, he is not my baby. He is not even my fur-baby. He’s just my dog. But I love him dearly and he follows me around everywhere I go and he is, as we speak, snoozing at my feet. He’s an 8-year-old Tibetan Spaniel named Odie. He is our in-house Zen-master, all deep and chill and tuned-in. Seriously he’s an incredible watchdog. Very alert. Very protective and loyal. He likes eggs, me, and peeing in the litter box (not kidding). He dislikes vacuums, bacon, and me leaving. He’s my pal.

I have accepted my lameness in most areas. I have fully embraced my sub-par performance in pretty much every facet of my life, particularly parenthood.

But today, somebody referred to one of my blog posts as unoriginal.

And that pissed me off.

Because it was true.

It was unoriginal. She was referring to the last post I wrote (about Ava getting flipped off). I could begin with a link to the post I wrote about sarcasm so perhaps this commenter could see that I was just ranting for the sake of ranting in a silly, over-the-top way and there was not much seriousness in it at all. But the truth is that when I got to the end of the post I said to myself “and…now what, Janelle? Where you going with this. Say something interesting.”  But I was too fucking tired. And I just wasn’t feeling “deep.”

I’m sure that has never happened to the commenter in question. I’m sure she is universally profound.

Not me, though. Sometimes I just rant. Sometimes I write shitty blog posts. Sometimes I FAIL. Thank goodness there is always somebody though, standing at the ready with their flaming sword of truth to show me the error of my ways. Ah, the flaming sword of truth. I stole that expression from a friend of mine.

So setting aside the fact that she misunderstood an entire blog post on account of the fact that there is no sarcasm font (or something) and somehow thought the purpose of the post was something other than a base, superficial rant, I would like to write a few things about my ACTUAL response to this whole flipping-off thing.

But wait a second. Can we talk about context and purpose for a moment? Let’s get something straight. Some posts are deep and profound and REAL. Other posts are silly and shallow and NOT REAL.

But I digress.

This commenter also discussed “veiled violence” and admonished us for going on and on about how we’re going to “cut a bitch” (which is so funny it’s making me LOL as I write this. I effing love you people.)

The Flaming Sword of Truth. Yay.

Beyond the cute use of alliteration, I’m not totally sure what her point there was with the “veiled violence” thing – perhaps that we should be teaching our kids something beyond “cutting people.”

Oh COME THE FUCK ON lady we were JOKING.

You wanna know what I really told my daughter? You want that? You want fucking original? Fine. You got it.

I told her people are assholes. I told her some things happen that leave us feeling desperate and abused and vulnerable. And that hurt turns to rage. It manifests as anger as our ego tries to protect itself. Then comes the urge to retaliate, the apparent need to act out and “get somebody back,” thinking for sure if we “really get ‘em” we’ll feel better and some of the hurt will go and we won’t be angry anymore. But it never works. We talked about the futility of that retaliation, how when we retaliate with more violence, we just become sick inside ourselves, and end up feeling worse than before, deep down, no matter what we may tell ourselves. We suffer like our abuser by holding onto rage – and we infuse with power that which we struggle against.

I suggested she look for the Buddha nature in that woman – for the spirit of God within her, making her our teacher.

I told her about Ghandi – about how he was shot in the heart point-blank on his way to a speech, and as he fell, he looked in the eyes of his murderer and whispered to him a blessing of love and forgiveness.

No, I did not suggest to Ava we hunt this woman down and kick her teeth in. I did that on my blog, where it’s safe to be over-the-top, shallow and sarcastic.

Well, usually.

So as you know, my daughter Ava recently went to a ten-year-old’s birthday party. They rented a limousine for this birthday party (um, yes they did) and piled eight 4^th-grade girls in it to drive around town and go to pizza. Needless to say, they were stoked.

And like any respectable limousine passenger, the girls rolled the windows down and squealed and waved at passers-by (so I’m told, I wasn’t there).

I guess at one point my daughter stuck her head out the window and waved to a woman and man walking on the sidewalk in a town near us, which I won’t mention directly, but I will tell you it starts with a D and ends with an S and has a V in it.

In response to her wave the woman in question flipped her off.

FLIPPED HER OFF.

Flipped off a 10-year-old girl.

Flipped off a 10-year-old girl in front of seven other 10-year-old girls.

Flipped her off without a word.

Ava is still talking about it. How she was shocked and shrunk into her seat, humiliated. Understandably, having just been told “fuck you” in response to an act of friendliness.

And by an adult . A grown-up, a member of the group my daughter still trusts, innocently thinking adults are pretty solid and reliable (having never (thank god) learned otherwise).

But she’s starting to see. Because how am I to respond to that? When she told me about it, after the shock wore off, I just looked at her and said “Ava, some people are miserable, horrible creatures. Just mean. There’s no excuse for them. They are just assholes.”

Yes, I used that word. There is no other word that would have worked in that situation.

Now I’m not that sensitive.  (Okay I’m pretty sensitive. But I cover it up well, so I can say I’m not sensitive on my blog.) But really I don’t get worked up about too many things. Some people are frantic about protecting their kids from the reality of life and I am not that way. Shit. We take them to Further shows – there’s a lot of reality there, lemme tell ya.

But this one has got me disturbed.

Because seriously: WHO flips off a little girl? WHO?

What sort of closet was she locked in?

What sort of dog food did her parents feed her instead of breakfast?

How hot is the secretary her boyfriend is boning?

What the hell happened to that chick to turn her into such a hateful ball of rage that she would abuse a kid like that, slash her little heart in random and meaningless violence? Who would somebody return evil for the innocent antics of a small girl?

If I knew who she was I would kick her in the face.

No really, I would.

If I had been there I would have stopped the limo, gotten out, walked over to her and kicked her teeth in. Without a word.

Yeah. I get that hate matching hate doesn’t solve anything. Whatever.

But I’m not Ghandi and I’m not Martin Luther King, Jr. and I’m not Mother Theresa, and so, when some worthless scrap of humanity brutalizes my child I want to render them senseless with my bare fists.

DO.NOT.MESS.WITH.MY.BABIES.

That is all.

Ladies. Get my back. Wouldn’t you destroy this woman if she did that to your kid?

Where my girls at?