Monday, February 5, 2018


You guys watch the Grammys?

Me neither. (Seriously, though, ask me for a detailed breakdown of the plot of the latest Paw Patrol. I will DELIVER.)

I heard about it, though, for two reasons.

The first was Kesha's performance.

I've never been a Kesha fan. For one, we were so soooooooo not allowed to listen to anything remotely resembling her music during our psycho-Christian days (have I written about this? I should write about this.) I'm pretty sure we would have been handed a "GO DIRECTLY TO HELL. DO NOT PASS GO. DO NOT COLLECT $200" card.

Whatever, at least we were hardcore about SOMETHING.

Secondly, I'm not a huge rap fan. Dr. Seuss is about as rap as I get.

But this song, man. It's been on repeat at my house.

It's written in that perfect key that makes you tear up and the lyrics are fanTASTic.

So that's the first thing.

The second thing? How the stars were dressed, of course.

But it wasn't the usual best/worst dressed lists, oh no. Those I can handle. If I was getting paid six or eight figures a year, I'd wear literally WHATEVER I wanted. Fuck those guys and their lists.


According to sizzling social media reports (because, don't you know, our opinions are now #FACT since we can post them on the interwebz), the stars were dressed "trashy" and "R-rated" and looked like "porn stars."

And because of that, some argued, they were minimizing the "womens rights" and "equality" movements (snippy quotations marks theirs, y'all.)

Now, at first glance, these comments didn't really bother me all that much (thanksabunch, strict Christian upbringing.)

And then I thought about it. I thought about the hypocrisy of an assault survivor being brave enough to tell her story while the women around her, supporting her, are being criticized for wearing clothing that "asks for it."

I'm only going to say this once.

No matter what you wear (or don't wear) or do (or don't do), you do not deserve to be abused.

It's pretty fucking simple. And yet, somehow, a shit ton of us are still going on about how women are "asking for it" because they're wearing something revealing ... or not watching their drink at a party ... or trusting some asshole who will take advantage of them ... or walking down the goddamn street.

This. is. not. right.


So ... what can I do about it? I always come back to this question when I see something in society that makes me want to throat punch ALL OF SOCIETY.

First, and most importantly, I can support survivors.

Second, I can not be an asshole on social media about the lady wearing snow fence and only snow fence as a dress. To each their own, DAMMIT.

Third, you can bet your boat I'm teaching my boys to respect women, and not just the ones wearing "appropriate clothing."

And fourth, you can bet your other boat I'm teaching my daughter that she is not a possession or a plaything for any man, ever.

To all the beautiful, amazing women out there who've lived through the story Praying tells, I want to remind you that whatever happened to you is not and never will be your fault.

Keep being amazing. I love you.

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Monday, January 22, 2018

It goes so fast.

When you're a new parent, everyone and their parrot will tell you one thing.
"Enjoy it. It goes so fast."
When I was stuck in the nitty gritty of parenting three kids under three, and then four kids four and under, I always felt one of two things upon hearing this:


OH MY GOD, I'M NOT ENJOYING THIS! I don't know WHY I should be enjoying cleaning poop finger paint off the walls, BUT I'M NOT!
2) RAGE.


SO. MUCH. RAGE. I fantasized about punching SO many people. Nice people, terrible people, people I knew and complete strangers. I'm sure the whacked out hormones were part of this, your mileage may vary.
CONCLUSION: My anxiety about screwing up the most important job I've ever had makes me SUPER sensitive.

The thing is, it really, really does go fast, and those of us looking at it from the other side can't help but get all nostalgic and teary and then it just sort of burbles out all over the place at every opportunity. Sorry.
I don't think this gives us an excuse to freak out exhausted parents everywhere, though.
There are beautiful, wonderful, AMAZING highs to parenting and there are TERRIBLE, AWFUL, PROBABLY DISGUSTING lows, too.
It's all part of the package. Parenting comes with the longest Terms of Service you'll ever agree to (without reading first, of course. Apple probably owns all our kidneys, amiright?)
I want you to know this: it is 100 percent okay if you don't fall in love with every single second. Scream and rage and fantasize about punching people in the nose if that makes you feel better. Just do what you need to do to survive ... and stay out of prison.
Now that I've more or less reached the end of the baby stage at my house, I'm going to try to replace my urge to word vomit "Enjoy it. It goes so fast" with a much less terrifying, "YOU'RE DOING A GREAT JOB! *solidarity fist bump*."
In a couple years, I'll have a hot cup of tea and a box of tissues ready and we can sob over ALL THE FACEBOOK MEMORIES together.
For reals though. 😭😭😭😭😭

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Sunday, October 8, 2017

Oatmeal on the Ceiling

... the name of my new ultra-hipster folk & kazoo band.

I kid. Although now that I'm thinking about it, does that not sound furcking AMAZING?!

I've been out of the blogging game for a lonnnnnng time and I don't really know how to jump back in. Do I make a list? A slideshow? Do I just share my Instagram feed? There's no handbook for this.

We moved, bought a business, completed our first year of homeschool and are working on the second, got a new dog, bought a house, and thankfully (THANKFULLY) have not had ANY MORE KIDS. I've gotten on and off and on medication, taken up running, said "haha fuck that", gained weight, gained more weight, lost someone, made friends, fallen in love with brie, re-started and ended therapy, been diagnosed with early endometriosis, OCD, and a "severe anxiety disorder", signed up for yoga (wut), went to a GYM (wutWUT) and our most recent adventure involved a near-death experience and a total knee reconstruction for Grover. Like, they had to use dead people parts to put him back together. (YAY SCIENCE!)

We're doing GREAT, y'all.

I can't help but think back to the beginning of all this, when I had these huge dreams of getting SUPER DUPER internet famous for spray painting bamboo skewers and arranging flowers and crocheting scarve and having thousand$ upon thousand$ of readers and I'm just like THANK WHOEVER IS IN CHARGE OF THAT that THAT DIDN'T HAPPEN. (THAT was a fun sentence.)

I don't do things like this for other people anymore. Hanging out with the Grim Reaper changes shit.

Writing here has always been incredibly cathartic, though, especially when I took my various nose dives into the upside down. So I might keep up with it, I might not, but I thought I'd pop in to say "hi" to anyone who's been here looking through the PPD posts or the crochet patterns or whatever other incredible weirdness they find lurking in the shadows (BOO). I'M STILL BREATHING, BABY!

And yeah ... also procrastinating scrubbing oatmeal off a ceiling. #winwin

P.S. A LOT of my image links are broken; please bear with me on that. It's on the list. For now, just use your imagination.

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