N to the mother-effing OPE

If you live here on planet earth you may have already heard this one before, but do me a favor. Just for shits and giggles. Read this out loud:

I did try and fuck her. She was married....I moved on her like a bitch. But I couldn’t get there.... Then all of a sudden I see her, she’s now got the big phony tits and everything. She’s totally changed her look.... Yeah, that’s her. With the gold. I better use some Tic Tacs just in case I start kissing her. You know, I’m automatically attracted to beautiful — I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything.... Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything.

Read it to your mother, your wife, your daughter, your sister, your female friend. Ask her how it makes her feel. Ask her if it reminds her of the time (there almost certainly was one - at least one) when someone "grabbed her by the pussy" or manhandled her "big phony tits" or tried to shove his slimy hands up her skirt. Ask her how she felt in that moment when a stranger, or a coworker, a boss, or a friend, decided that this woman's (or girl's) body was not her own, not really. That he was entitled to grab and grope and poke at her body like a piece of meat wrapped in flimsy plastic at the supermarket. Ask her how it feels to be on the receiving end of a creepy, horny man who has no qualms using his power and position to demean, degrade, and defile you for his amusement. As though it is a game.

(I was recently talking, with a man, about the high school daughter of his friend who was sexually assaulted, and whether they should report it to the authorities. I asked, "What level of sexual assault are we talking about?" Him: There are levels? Me: Yeah, I think every woman I know has technically been sexually assaulted, including myself. But I've never called the police or anything. Him: What do you mean by sexually assaulted? Me: You know, like guys grabbing my boobs or my ass [him nodding like, okay, sure, not ideal but probably not worth calling the police], or, you know, trying to shove their fingers in my vagina... Him: [Record screetch, freeze frame.])

Yeah. That. 

Read it to your son, and tell him how it would make you feel, as his mother or father, if you heard him speaking this way about women. THIS IS HOW THE BROCK TURNERS OF THE WORLD GET MADE, PEOPLE! Normalizing this type of behavior, writing it off as "boys will be boys." F. That. Not my boy. Not on my watch.

Or, hey, here's an idea - read it to ANY DECENT HUMAN BEING. Even penis-carrying members of society can and should be PISSED OFF right now.

Can someone please explain to me how anyone can defend this man???

If you dismiss it as "locker room banter," saying this is "just the way guys talk," you hang out with shitty humans. Either that, or you are one.

"Sex talk" is not the same as "sexual assault talk." It's not the fact that he's talking about her tits and pussy. It's the fact that he thinks he's entitled to grab her genitals without her consent because he's a "star" (in what galaxy I do not know) and he can "do anything."

I've never read Fifty Shades of Grey but I assume any attempt to excuse DJT's behavior on that basis isn't worth the minimal amount of brain cells it would take to refute it. Again, there's a BIG difference between kinky, consensual sex, up to and including BDSM, and SEXUALLY ASSAULTING SOMEONE. "Sexual assault is a crime of power and control. The term sexual assault refers to sexual contact or behavior that occurs without explicit consent of the victim." (Emphasis added.)

If your defense starts with the words "Bill Clinton..." Stop right there. 

First, just because Bill Clinton is also a creeper doesn't make what Donald Trump did okay. And, for the record, Donald Trump has said himself that what he's done with/to women is even worse than what Bill Clinton has.

I personally didn't vote for Bill Clinton (because I was 12 and 16 when he was elected and re-elected). Knowing what we know now, yeah, the guy is not a paragon of morality, at least in his interactions with the female species. But he isn't a hate-mongering bigot so he has that going for him. Also? This was before Al Gore invented the internet, remember, and prior to the advent of the 24 hour news cycle. But when it did come out (Lewinsky, the Paula Jones stuff) - it was a big freakin' deal. Remember that whole thing about how (a bunch of hypocrite) Republicans impeached Bill Clinton for his indiscretions and lying under oath? But hey, pin an elephant on the lapel of a serial womanizer and pathological liar and you are good to go!

Side note: Doesn't it seem like, as a society, we have aggressively lowered the bar on what is acceptable public behavior, both in and out of the White House? I mean, remember Watergate? If that happened nowadays people would be like, Duh, of course he bugged the DNC headquarters! Bill Clinton's biggest pre-election scandal was that he had smoked pot but hadn't inhaled. George W. Bush admitted to doing coke. Obama smoked cigarettes (yucky). I feel like at this point Donald J. Trump could say he snorted meth from a hooker's bleached asshole and no one would bat an eye. (You're welcome for that mental picture.) 

Finally, and most importantly, Bill Clinton is not running for President of the United States of America. 

We can get into a conversation another day about why strong, brilliant, successful women stay with philandering douche bonnets. But let me tell you this - when today's little girls grow up with a strong woman in the oval office, we'll be a little bit closer to a society where men and women really are equal, where the Brock Turners and Donald Trumps of the world cannot flourish, cannot use their power, their reality television fame, their daddy's money, their white entitlement, to thrust their fumbling dipsticks into our various orifices and get away with a fake apology and a slap on the wrist.

Aaaaand another thing - I find it extremely ironic that the same hand-wringing right wing conservatives who pushed for passage of the "Bathroom Bills" because they were SO CONCERNED that our defenseless little lady folk would be attacked by sexual predators wearing dresses in the ladies room (based on a sum total of zero evidence, by the way), are A-OKAY electing a man who LAUGHS ABOUT SEXUALLY ASSAULTING WOMEN to RUN THE ENTIRE NATION. Seriously. Explain it to me like a two-year old because I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around this.

Did I ever tell you I used to work for the firm suing Cheeto Hitler in the Trump University case? I'd seen some deposition footage and spoken with colleagues about it and he seemed like a rich entitled prick but when he first came onto the political scene I didn't think he was as awful as he seemed. I mean, I didn't want him to be president, obviously, or even CEO of Walmart. But I thought he was just acting like a racist cockwaffle to appeal to his base. I didn't think he was actually a bigoted sociopathic predator, you know? I guess that's what people always say about psychopaths, right up until the point where you find human heads in their freezer. 

A friend of ours coaches baseball and has instituted a 24-hour rule with respect to parents emailing him to bitch about the game. If your panties are still in a rumple 24 hours later, then you can write. I feel the same way about blogging. I like to sleep on it for a bit and see. But believe you me, my panties are still rumpled RIGHT UP. Also made of kevlar. And outfitted with those electric zapper things to stun unwanted intruders. Maybe you'll say I'm beating a dead horse, or wasting my breath because I'm not going to change anyone's mind. That may be true. Honestly, when I sat down in front of the computer to press "Publish," I just felt so tired, and I thought to myself, "Why? Who even cares? What difference are me and my tiny soap box in an echo chamber going to make?" And then I started thinking about it again and I'm not tired anymore, I'm MAD. I cannot, in good conscience, sit in silence while this narcissistic sociopath in a squirrel hat threatens to terrorize my country.

I seriously just do not understand how real, relatively-normal-seeming human beings can try to justify this shit stain of a man, like, period, let alone in the role of commander in chief? I was ranting to my husband about this the other day (well, okay, every day). He works for a human rights organization most ultra-conservatives think is the Antichrist, but is maddeningly reasonable, and he said "Just because you're a Trump supporter doesn't mean you're a terrible person." Maybe he's right. But I am really starting to wonder. It's good in a way though, to see a human face on a Trump supporter, as opposed to some kind of Darth Maul situation like I see in my mind's eye. It reminds me - in a giant neon red danger flag type of way - that a Trump presidency is an actual (if, hopefully, increasingly remote) possibility, and I need to do my tiny part to make sure it doesn't happen.

By the way, Republicans, you do not have to vote for this guy. No one is "forcing your hand," literally or otherwise, to cast a vote for this simpering scumbag. This is not North F*^#$% Korea. Yay democracy! That is one good thing we still do have going for us. (Though according to my crotchety old Uncle Jim, democracy actually wasn't meant for stupid people. Make of that what you will.)

I just do not understand casting aside your ethics, ideals, and gut instincts in blind allegiance to a party that chose this ignorant puppet to represent it (but not the kind of puppet that does what you want it to, more like the possessed kind that tries to kill you, or grab your vagina, in your sleep.) By the way, this guy isn't even a Republican, really, and he damn sure ain't a Christian, for those who care about that kind of thing. In any event, he is the leader of a party that is frantically bailing water on a rapidly sinking ship. And hey, if your excuses and justifications let you sleep at night, well, then, that makes one of us. But you are the dance band on the Titanic, my friend. Please just don't bring the rest of the country down with you.

kthanksbye.

I actually despise bumper stickers. I think they're so tacky and I never considered tainting my sweet-ass mom-ride with one until this election season. Desperate times call for desperate measures, right? Anyway, I had this bumper sticker that said "Not A Republican." I thought that was pretty damn pithy, if you must know. Then. Some fucking pussy (see what I did there) snuck under cover of darkness and put a sticker over the "Not A" part so that it just said "Republican." Objectively clever, I suppose. But I do not respond well to threats. See Exhibit A, below.

How you like me NOW?!

If You Vote For Trump Then Screw You - Drew Magary, GQ

Michelle Obama on Trump's Latest Disgraceful Debacle (video) “And I have to tell you that I can’t stop thinking about this. It has shaken me to my core in a way that I couldn’t have predicted."

Trevor Noah on The Daily Show - Fallout from the PussyGate Scandal, aka, Scumbag Millionaire (video)

Samantha B - Pussy Riot (video) She's my new hero.

Trump, the GOP, and the Fall - John Scalzi, Whatever

Notable endorsements of Not Trump:

The State of Alabama! "Endorsement: We're with Hillary Clinton. Frankly, Donald Trump's Dangerous."

The Arizona Republic: Since The Arizona Republic began publication in 1890, we have never endorsed a Democrat over a Republican for president. Never. This reflects a deep philosophical appreciation for conservative ideals and Republican principles. This year is different. The 2016 Republican candidate is not conservative and he is not qualified. That’s why, for the first time in our history, The Arizona Republic will support a Democrat for president. (They received death threats for this, by the way.)

The Atlantic: First endorsement in 52 years

The Cincinnati Enquirer: First endorsement of a Democrat in 100 years

The Columbus Dispatch: first endorsement of a Democrat in 100 years

The Dallas Morning News: First endorsement of a Democrat in 76 years

The Detroit News: First endorsement of a non-Republican (Gary Johnson)

Foreign Policy: First endorsement in 46 years

The San Diego Union Tribune: First endorsement of a Democrat in its 148 year history

USA Today: First "disendorsement" in its entire 34 year history

See also, Mother Jones' running tally of newspaper endorsements

STFU: A Serenity Prayer

We moved into our (now not-so-)new house almost exactly one year ago. I like the house a lot, obviously, or else I wouldn't have moved. It has a spare bedroom so we don't have to have sleepover parties when guests come. It's within walking distance of the ocean and coffee shops and restaurants and bars and DM and I ride our bikes around town on date nights.

It's down the street from a dog-friendly park and the elementary school, where they also host a rad farmers market on Sundays. But my children, when they're being grumpy and contrary, say they like our old house better and wish we still lived there. Like that time I sent Jackson Jay to his room and he cried, "I CAN'T LIVE LIKE THIS! MY ROOM IS THE SIZE OF A PEANUT!" Now, they're small children. And change is hard. I get that, and I don't hold it against them (very much). Being so young, I'm hoping they will eventually look back and see this house as the house of their childhood.

But even the man-child that is my husband whines about the new house on occasion. For example, we were recently hanging out with his cousins who moved to town. They're renting an ADORABLE little craftsman bungalow built in 1928 or something. And DM's like, "This place is so awesome I wished we lived here." It is super cute and has tons of personality, I will grant him that. It's in a really charming part of San Diego, close to downtown and surrounded by a fun, hip neighborhood. But it's teeny tiny, and old, and far away from the beach (I mean, at least 20 minutes ;)). It also costs more than our house even though its half the size. It's not just this one enchanting house, though. He says the same thing about other, "cuter," houses in our own neighborhood, or even imaginary houses in some fantastical nether realm ("I really need to stop using the word 'cute.'" - DM)

And in my mind (and sometimes under my breath) I'm thinking, "Are you joking me right now?!? Then why did we go through the upheaval of three arduous real estate transactions and moving and changing schools and all this DRAMA?! You're forty, not four. I didn't make you move against your will. This was a decision we arrived at together, or so I thought." In fact, the whole impetus behind moving was to head toward downtown, to be closer to work and more city-ish things. But we couldn't pull the trigger because we love our funky, beachy, surfy town at the outskirts of San Diego and we just couldn't bear to leave. And thank the lord we didn't because I just got a job a mile away from our [terrible] new house and I walk my kindergartner to school and buy local organic non-GMO fried cheese from the farmers market and we're basically a fucking Normal Rockwell painting here.

So, like, this is it. This is our life. And it's not too shabby. At least, that's how I see it. But apparently, I'm in the minority.

Just the other night we were stressing over the property tax bill and DM said "You know, if we were renting, this wouldn't be an issue." This is basically the equivalent of warning someone about the perils of face tattoos AFTER THEY ALREADY GOT ONE. Like, not helpful. At all. Of course when I say this out loud, DM replies "FINE, I guess I'm just not allowed to have any feelings or tell you what I'm thinking ever again." I mean... when it's about something that is, for all intents and purposes, irreversible (at least without arduous and painful laser treatments)? Yeah, maybe you're not.

I can't get too upset because Daddy Mack is basically the poster child for "the grass is always greener," and "buyer's remorse." At restaurants, or, for example, Cold Stone Creamery, he'll hem and haw and wiffle-waffle and then at the very last minute he makes an impulsive decision that he instantly regrets. He'll sadly consume his baked fish tacos while day-dreaming about the carnitas chimichanga that got away, or hate-eat his strange strawberry-banana-butterfinger-gummy-bear ice cream concoction. But I don't want him to think of our happy new house as baked butterfinger gummy bear tacos, you know?

Don't get me wrong. I loved our first house and feel nostalgic for it too. It will always hold a special place in my heart, kind of like how I imagine some people feel about their vintage two-seater sports car they had to trade in for a family wagon. But, you know, a two-seater sports car isn't real practical for a family of four plus two dogs.

Funny random small-world side-note - one of the partners at my new law firm actually owns our old house! So I suppose if DM and the kids really want to go back, I could send them for a visit :) Or we could arrange a house-swap.

Anyway, this new house debate is representative of a larger discussion regarding whining about things that you can't change. How does the serenity prayer go?

Dear God, Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. I think what God was trying to say here was: Quit yer damn bitchin'.

As my mom always used to say, don't complain about it unless you have an actual solution.

I was talking to my brother and sister about our mom's old adage, and my brother said, "See, I totally disagree. Validation is so important. You have to let someone know their feelings are heard." "Spoken like a true millennial," I said. But then he reminded me about my anxiety and how DM and I learned this wondrous tool from Dr. Psych mom:

Instead of minimizing her feelings, "try to meet your wife where she is in her anxiety and stress. And, like a magic trick, she will actually get less stressed." True story.

So okay, fine, one point for the young millennial with feelings ;)

And, as DM reminds me, not everyone has a blog where they can bitch about things. Some people have to complain the old-fashioned way. And that's legitimate, I suppose.

Still. Pity parties should have time limits, shouldn't they? Like birthdays at those kiddie places where they kick you out when your time's up. Move along people! What's the point of repeatedly grousing about something that just "is what it is?" At what point does it cross the line from being therapeutic to you being a big fat whiner pants?

A couple months ago my BFFs were in town and I witnessed a moment of pure parenting genius. One of Claire's kids was crying about something and she said "Oh man that's so sad! Let's cry about it for 10 seconds and then we need to stop, okay?" Then she slowly counted to 10, and in some mystical feat, the kid stopped crying! (Editor's note: I tried it, and my children appear to be impervious to this particular brand of parenting wizardry.)

I guess that's essentially what blogging is for me, except instead of 10 seconds its 1,000 to 3,000 words :) Like journaling, or writing out your "To Do" list before you go to sleep. It's basically dumping the pity party out of my head onto "paper" so that it's no longer taking up real estate in my brain. And I guess that's how I should think about it the next time some big or little person comes to me to get their grump on. Get it all out. Wrap it up. Tie a nice little bow around it. And let it gooooo.

This place is the WORST.
Reminds me of this crazy friend of a friend we hung out with in the Virgin Islands who would always say, while drinking rum cocktails on a secluded white sand beach with crystal blue waters lapping at his toes, "I hate this beach! This beach sucks!"

Presidential Prereqs

Alright hangonaminute. Let me get this straight.

Have penis. Puke on Japanese Prime Minister and then faint. = PASS. It's all good. I mean, slightly embarassing but also kinda hilarious. No worries, man!

Have vagina. Faint/almost faint because you have fucking pneumonia and even still you tried to power through a public event because you knew if you didn't show up, that, too, would be a sign of weakness = FAIL. I'm sorry! Better luck next century! You're too fragile and frail for this office. May I interest you in this velvet settee for the express purpose of lady faints instead?

Girl. I am sweaty, nauseous and fainty just gettin' 'em ON!
Caissie St. Onge on The Twitter

America, to Hillary: "SHOW NO WEAKNESS! Okay well now you just look like a bitch. BE HUMAN! Relatable. NO, NOT LIKE THAT!"

“A woman can’t afford to stay home and nurse a cold – or even recover from pneumonia – when she’s trying to break through a glass ceiling,” writes Dahleen Glanton in the Chicago Tribune.

Story of my fucking life. Not to mention, when you still have kids at home, you don’t get to call in sick, even when you have pneumonia (speaking from experience), because you already used all your sick days on your bite-sized biohazards (that you love dearly and thank your blessings for daily, of course, thank you and amen).

It’s such BS. I think I’ve already mentioned this before, but a while back, shit was hitting the fan in work and life and the kids were sick (and of course they never get sick at the same time, no no no, that would be too simple. God/Karma/Mother Nature like to space it out to maximize the professional collateral damage).

Anyway, DM and I were having to alternate days home with the little sickies and he was getting frustrated and I was like, “I’m so sorry, I hate that feeling when you know you’re going to get those passive aggressive comments from your bosses and you feel like you have to work double-time to get out from under the assumption that you’re a slacker.” He looked at me funny and said, “No one at work cares. They understand sick kids. I just have a bunch of shit to do.”

Oh. Well. That must be nice.

Sincerely,

Angry feminist lawyer mama.

Courtesy of HillaryMoji from the App Store

BY THE WAY - If a male President/Candidate actually had pneumonia, he'd probably have Air Force One fly him to the Vatican so the Pope could personally perform his last rites. Just sayin. 

Pease Porridge Lukewarm

Howdy!

Life is weird and hard and good.

I just made myself toaster waffles for lunch. I did not cook them long enough. I had a sneaking suspicion this was the case, based on their color and texture. But they're gluten free and gluten free things always look kind of unappetizing, so I thought, "Eh," and proceeded to apply butter and syrup. Lo-and-behold, I go to take a bite, and the waffles are still cold in the center. But I can't put them back in the toaster oven because they're covered with butter and syrup. So I put them in the microwave. One minute later, there is a sticky beige lump in the middle of the plate. Ergo, I am eating soggy waffle soup for lunch. Well, really it's more like waffle porridge. Goldilocks I am not.

I don't have many spare words lying around these days but I just wanted to sound off real quick about the Colin Kaepernick drama.

I will say, when I first saw this story before it caught fire, I thought to myself, "Well, that's probably now how I would've gone about it." But hey, to each their own. I am not a person of color in America, so I don't feel it is generally my place to police the manner in which persons of color protest.

Next thought: Why are people making it about the military? I don't get it. Since when did refusing to stand for the national anthem become a personal fuck you to veterans? Probably not as long as the national anthem has been an underhanded fuck you to African Americans.

Also? The swill these so-called "patriots" are spouting on the interwebs??? IT'S SO INSANE! Sickening and backwards and racist and ignorant and INSANE. Like, do you hear yourselves? Did you skip school the day logical reasoning and rational thought were taught in school??? Or the minimum standards of membership in a civilized society - namely, try not to be a terrible human being? "MURRICA! THE LAND OF THE FREE! WE FOUGHT AND DIED FOR YOUR RIGHT TO DO WHATEVER YOU WANT AS LONG AS IT IS NOT THAT, OR THAT, OR THAT..."

"GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM, KAEPERNICK, YOU [Insert Despicable Racial Slur Here]." Um, okay...  So... Milwaukee, Wisconsin?

I loved this piece by Kareem Abdul Jabbar in the Washington Post:

"One of the ironies of the way some people express their patriotism is to brag about our freedoms, especially freedom of speech, but then brand as unpatriotic those who exercise this freedom to express dissatisfaction with the government's record in upholding the Constitution." 

I'm actually glad, in a way, that the conversation was monopolized by the military because out of that came one of the most refreshing and heartwarming things I've seen in a long while - the #VeteransforKaepernick hashtag on The Twitter. Made my freeze-dried little heart swell three times its size.

At the end of the day, though, it wasn't about veterans at all. It was and is about the iconic image and anthem of a country that systemically devalues the lives and brutalizes the bodies of people of color. Did you know my husband gave a presentation the other day at the local chapter of the NAACP? The topic was "How to not die as you make your way from Point A to Point B in your own damn country/city/neighborhood/street." I'm paraphrasing. It may have been, "Get home safely." But still. In the words of Larry Wilmore, "Black people have to strategize [and/or act like the Dowager Countess] so they're not brutalized by the police." This is not okay.

I don't have the magic pill or the silver bullet (but I'm pretty sure anything having to do with bullets is not the answer). One thing I do know what sitting around wringing our hands and drowning in white guilt, avoiding hard conversations and truths because they are icky and uncomfortable? I know that is NOT the answer.

Side note: I find it FASCINATING and TERRIFYING to compare the treatment of famous athletes who do drugs, beat their wives and girlfriends, and kill animals and humans, vs. one who refused to stand for the national anthem in protest of police brutality and inequality in his country.

Everything is terrible, but I have a stubborn sliver of faith that we're going to figure it out. Things like #VeteransForKaepernick give me hope.

Homework:

A little refresher course - MLK, Jr.'s Letter from a Birmingham Jail.

10 Ways White People Can Help Black Lives Matter on The Good Men Project

10 Ways to Fight Hate: A Community Response Guide from the Southern Poverty Law Center

Let Them Eat Cake

Oh, hello there. Long time no see. How's it goin? What's new?

I've been a wee bit busy. That's part of my excuse for being MIA. The other part is that Donald Trump's presidential campaign has made me question my reason for being, which has eclipsed my mommy blogging motivation.

These times, they are a changin'!

I left my old job after five years. But I took this lamp. And also that one. And this one. And the other one too.

Then we had a Michael Jackson party for The Boy's 6th birthday. This was at his request, which kind of made me feel like I was winning at this parenting thing. (He's too young to appreciate any awkward irony.) But about a week before the party, a little buddy of his came over and apparently didn't know who Michael Jackson was, so J$ said he changed his mind and wanted to have a ninja party instead. I said A) TOO LATE. And B) Your friend needs to reevaluate his life choices. Duh.

The night before the party I almost died the death of a thousand paper cuts because, as per usual, I was assembling motherf*cking cupcake toppers and bedazzling oreo pops at 3am. Seriously why, WHY, WHYYYY do I do this to myself ? WILL I NEVER LEARN??

Ahh. That's bettah.

Also, someone RSVP'ed the night before for a FAMILY OF 5, and then someone RSVP'ed THE MORNING OF for another two kids and two parents and in case you don't know, now you know: This puts me IN A RAGE. Pet Peeve Hall of Fame right here. It drives me absolutely BONKERS. I can hear myself getting all shrewy about it and I can feel DM trying really hard not to roll his eyes at me and I still can't stop. It is seriously SO ANNOYING TO ME. Like, WHAT IS YOUR MAJOR MALFUNCTION? I'm not asking you to reply via carrier pigeon. The marvels of modern technology make it literally as easy as the push of a button. "I Will Attend." Click YES. Or NO. It's that simple people!!!

I shouldn't be so judgy. "He that is without sin among you, cast the first stone," or whatever. Once DM did this to friends of ours, but it was against my express and vehement objection. I was like, No, absolutely not, that is not okay. We are not a family of lawless savages! He went anyway. Also, I recently forgot to send my regrets to an old friend's wedding invite until two weeks prior. Oops. Dick move. But, less bad than a late RSVP - "Will Attend - PLUS FOUR," right???

Maybe my frustration is exacerbated by the fact that I am a woman obsessed who hand-crafts cupcake toppers and magical rainbow unicorn wands and/or orders personalized thingamajigs from Etsy or what have you. I mean it's one thing if you want to bring a few more people to a mellow backyard BBQ. But, for me, kids birthday parties are a production. There are months of careful planning, ordering, multiple trips to Michael's, crafting, baking, etcetera culminating in one mathematically and scientifically calculated afternoon of conspicuous consumption. I already order/make/bake extra everything because I now know better, but the last few parties we've had, there have been like ten unaccounted-for little critters in need of goodie bags! Maybe this is indicative of the underlying problem of kids expecting elaborate to-dos and fancy goody bags at all (a problem created by Pinterest and psycho parents like yours truly). I don't know.

ANYWAY. The party was fine. It always is. AND. The people who RSVP'ed the night before? Literally the nicest family with the most polite children I've ever met in my entire life. Like, THE actual nicest. And as they were leaving the mom said, "I already told the kids they don't get goodie bags because we RSVP'ed too late, so no worries at all if you don't have enough." Soooo, I'm an asshole. Thank the Patron Saint of Party Etiquette we had enough!

Success. DM and I celebrated the next day with a well-deserved grown-up date.

"Mom Purse" this, MFers.

Then DM took the kids to the East Coast for a week and I started a new job and it was kind of good in a way that I could just focus on the new gig, but it felt very strange to come home to an empty, quiet, CLEAN house every night. I felt a little lost and floaty but also a lot free. I got more sleep than I have in 6 years. I subsisted primarily on popcorn, jelly beans, and toaster waffles. It was not the worst.

Imma 'bout ta watch TV by myself for the first time in a year! Just as soon as I figure out which remote to use.

I also had a romantical sister date complete with crafting, poolside cocktails, sunset over the Pacific, and Mexican food. It was all fun and games until the Uber driver asked if I was her mother. [Side eye emoji.]

The new job is good but hard. I feel like a newbie again and I hate not knowing things. But everyone is nice and patient and helpful and, p.s., the office is 1.5 miles away from my house!!! My commute is a tenth of what it was. The other night I texted DM "On my way. Be home in 300 seconds!" The place is also a block from the beach, and it appears that the entire staff generally works normal business hours and even kicks off by 3 on Friday to go surf. I cannot complain.

Okay, actually I can complain, just a little. I have to dress like a grown-up which is not one of my specialties. Also? There is no ice. I mean, there's like a dusty deformed block of ice from 2004 in one of the freezers. But there is no way to get cubes of ice in my beverage of choice. So basically I'm adjusting to life as a pilgrim. But don't worry. I'll get there. I'm a survivor.

One other issue is that, before I got the new job, I had signed up for this writing workshop so I could bust out the next great American novel right quick ;) There's a (self-established) daily writing quota and I figured, given my penchant for too many words, I'd be able to meet it, no problem. Haaaaaa.

Let me just say, I am eternally grateful for the opportunity and experience my last five years of employment afforded. But, as I think I've mentioned here before, the job did not require the utmost application of brain cells. Most of my job was rote and repetitious and could likely have been performed by a primate with a law degree (I happen to know several). I figured I could squeeze half my words in during lunch and still have the stamina for a post-bedtime stretch.

At the new place? Not so much. I've used more brain power in two weeks than I have in the past year. And my grey matter is a fat lazy f*ck. It is dusky viscous sludge. I am basically doing an intensive "couch-to-5K" program for my think box. Or maybe couch to half marathon. And it is somehow physically exhausting to be using my brain like this again. Also, writing at lunch just means I'm working an hour later. But trying to string a bunch of coherent sentences together at 9pm? Let's just say it has not been smooth sailing.

Another hurdle has been the fact that, apparently, I kind of suck at writing. I mean, *actual* writing, as opposed to blogging. My scribble-scrabble thus far can most aptly be characterized as "Bridget Jones' less witty, semi-literate, schizophrenic cousin's diary."

It has also become clear to me over these past few weeks that I do my best work when I get a bee in my bonnet about something on the internet and feel the need to preach from my tiny soap box. It is much, much harder (for me) to write, regularly, in a linear manner, and tell a story. Even (or especially) when that story is my own.

The take-home is, don't hold your breath for Mack N. Cheese to be debuting at the top of the NYT Bestseller list anytime soon :)

In the vein of lighting a fire under my tiny soap box though:

This. Freeport Bakery in Sacramento (Sac-TOWN, whoop whoop) made a cake with a Ken doll in a pretty dress. Some people got their puritan panties in a bunch, called the bakery and said they'd lost their business forever and ever ("You're not invited to my birthday party so THERE!"), "un-liked" them on Facebook, wrote them nasty messages, left negative reviews and comments, etc. Luckily, it seems the story has a happy ending. Support for the bakery in general, and orders for the fancy Ken cake in particular, have been flooding in after the story went viral. Git it, gurrrrl.

It's my party, I'll have a trans-Ken cake if I want to!
Hater's gonna hate. The rest of us get cake!
Image courtesy of the Sacramento Bee.
Read the story here. 

I'm glad it ended well but the initial backlash still chaps my hide. Why is it that when a bakery refuses to make a cake for a non-traditional client/theme/occasion based on their "religious" or "moral" views, these whackadoodles are like, "RAH RAH RAH! RIGHTZ! You can't force a bakery to make a cake they don't agree with. Private business are free to make whatever they want and not make whatever they don't want! Yeah! CAPITALISM! FREEDOM! GOD! THUH CONSTITUSHUN! 'MERICA!!!"

BUT THEN! When a bakery exercises it's GOD- (or Adam-Smith-given) RIGHTS and bakes a deliciously sassy cake AT THE REQUEST OF A PAYING CLIENT, these same 'Merica - FuckYeah fools are like, "DON'T GET YOUR GAYNESS ON MY GOD OR MY FREEDOM OR MY FROSTING!"

YOU CAN'T HAVE YOUR CAKE/CONSTITUTIONAL RIGHTS AND EAT THEM TOO, PEOPLE!

Okay I'm going to go crawl back under my rock now, byeeee.

Wait, just kidding, I'm back. I forgot one small recent milestone. My kids also started Pre-K and Kinder on Monday and NOBODY CRIED.

The end.