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An Open Letter to the Entire Male Species Attempting to Meet/Hook-up/Date Women in 2015

 

I gather it’s been a long time since I’ve been in the dating pool and things have changed drastically in that time frame. I mean, the last time I was actually “dating” I didn’t have punks, cell phones weren’t the norm, social media was non-existent, and guys actually took girls on dates (you know, like out to dinner or to a movie?). But seriously. What in the what has happened since then, guys? Read more →

It’s Your Own Little World…

Cortland. If this punk would have been the first born he absolutely would have been an only child. He earned himself the nickname “Crack Baby” when he was about a year old because this punk is absolutely fearless, crazy and just plain weird. We can’t trust him for shit as he continues, time and time again, to make horrible choices that usually result in him getting hurt or me needing a drink. Read more →

37 Seconds

Last week a friend posted a link on their Facebook page that I’m sure most of you have seen by now. In case you haven’t watched it, in 37 seconds a woman goes from “average” to completely flawless, courtesy of the one and only Photoshop. Read more →

I Used to be an Expert

Fact: it’s easier to be a parent when you aren’t actually a parent. Before you have punks is when you will find you are most knowledgeable regarding how their little minds work, disciplining methods, and the best way to raise them to ensure they aren’t Grade A assholes.

This all changes as soon as you leave the hospital with your new bundle of joy. It is the moment you step outside (typically as you are trying your damndest to get the car seat latched properly so you can take your day old baby home) that you realize, you don’t really have a clue as to what you are doing and regardless of the amount of time you spent reading “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” you’re screwed.

No one will ever tell you this. It’s as though all parents are part of a secret society and this topic shall never be discussed with non-members. Parents just want non-parents to believe that it’s as easy as their non-parenting minds think it is, so once they’re in the club we can all sit around and laugh that another one fell for it. Then we all drink a glass of wine, high five and initiate the newest idiots into the club.

I was a complete childrearing, disciplining expert when I was 25 and most parents I knew were total douche bag idiots who should have never even been allowed to reproduce. There is really no better time to be an expert as when the only experience you have is from babysitting for a couple of years, before you can even drive. Also lending a hand in my expertise was “The Babysitter’s Club” book series which I was a fan of when I was about 10.

This all went to shit for me when I had my first born punk. Listen, there’s a lot no one will ever tell you about pregnancy, delivery or actually raising punks. Ever. I’m not even going to get into the delivery part because if you haven’t had punks yet and are excited to start your family there’s a really good chance you’d never want to do it. Let’s just say it involved an epidural, a hot anesthesiologist, and not being about to feel below the waist, resulting in utter humiliation. Ugh.

When Emmerson was about 5 days old I felt a lump on her head and I panicked. I knew it had to be one of two things: either in my sleep deprived, zombie state I had unknowingly hit her head on something, or, it was a tumor. I cried. I called the doctor and took her in, prepared for the worst – either they were going to take her away because I had whacked her head and didn’t even know it, proving me unfit as a parent, or it was in fact a tumor. Turns out, it was her soft spot. $25 co-pay to tell me she has a flipping soft spot. Expert right here.

When you aren’t a parent it’s usually really easy to spot the ones who suck. They’re the ones with the punks who are having ginormous meltdowns at the store, or the punks who are picking their noses and either eating the boogers or wiping them all over the place. Or their punks are flat out annoying. While I have done my absolute best to teach my punks to not pick their noses, I still catch them, time to time, with a finger shoved up to their brains. My happy compromise is that I’ve scared them straight when it comes to actually eating their boogers by telling them boogers will give them explosive diarrhea that’ll make their bottoms hurt. No one in this family wants a sore ass from diarrhea. Winning!

Before I had punks I honestly believed that “time-out” was one of the most underutilized, no-fail, disciplinary methods. Hello, stupid parents. Obviously this shit works because all the experts say it does. One minute for every year they’re alive. ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME? The only thing “time-out” does around here is piss me off from the amount of time I have to spend putting my punks back in time-out. It’s more of a punishment for me than for them. You know what works around here? No TV, no video games, no playing outside, no fun. You have to hit them where it hurts and sitting in one spot for three, six or seven minutes doesn’t hurt shit. That’s a mini vacay in my book.

I miss the days when I was a childrearing expert. Back when I knew the answer to every punk related issue and could just roll my eyes at all the idiots who were completely clueless on how to raise their kids. I’d like to say that it gets easier the more punks you have but truthfully, what works for one will usually never work with another. It’s a never ending battle to raise punks who aren’t Grade A assholes. Some days you win, some days you get the A-hole. All you can do is hope you get it right more times than you get it wrong. Then sit back and laugh as you get to welcome all the previous “experts” into the club. High five.

Okayest Mom

Ryder Grey

Despite my best efforts, my little Ryder Grey keeps growing up. I’m not sure why he’s opposed to just staying a little dude for the rest of his life but it seems he’s figured out there’s more to life than living with your parents and having to go to bed every night at 8pm.

Every night when I tuck him in bed I give him a kiss and ask if he’s “my guy”. Every night he tells me yes. Then I test whether or not he’s serious by asking if he is my guy forever. And every night he tells me forever. And then I tell him that he’ll always be my guy, even when he has a girlfriend when he’s 45. Then he laughs because girls are still gross to him and that makes me happy because I like being the most important girl in his life.

Ryder is my emotional punk. He cries when he doesn’t get his way, when his feelings are hurt and when he’s mad. He is sensitive and sweet, wild and crazy, fearless and free. He’s bold, hates to lose and smart as hell. I appreciate the fact that he’s so willing to take chances without contemplating the outcome (although I do hope when he’s older and faced with bigger decisions than whether or not to jump off the diving board he’ll do some serious contemplating) because he typically finds so much joy in life.

His heart makes me proud – at six he truly cares about other’s and how they feel (this does not apply when he and his brothers or sister are fighting though). He is quick to offer a hug or a kiss, to tell you that he loves you and to say please and thank you. Even when he’s at his maddest, he’ll always tell me he’s sorry and that he loves me. I like to think this sweet heart of his is going to make someone extremely happy one day. Who wouldn’t want to find a guy who loves so freely?

Ryder Grey you touch my heart every single day. You are one of the very best pieces of me and I am forever grateful to be your mom. I cherish the fact that you are unique, independent, confident, sweet and smart. You are such a cool little punk and I am so proud of who you are. I know you will do great things in this life and I will always be here cheering you on, pushing you forward when you need it and reminding you of all the great things you can do.

Happy #6 to my guy.

I love you, dude.

Ryder

Because It’s Always Better to Stand Out

I’m 157% certain if Cort would have been the firstborn child, he’d be an only child. God must have known this, so not only did he save him for last so he wouldn’t be an only child, but also to serve as a constant form of birth control, for me and pretty much anyone who meets him. He is currently sitting on my bed, roaring at the top of his lungs about nothing in particular which has me considering inventing a mute control button for punks. Not only would this save my ears from bleeding but I’d be richer than Bill Gates. I’m pretty sure I’d also get a key to the city and a day named after me which would be awesome, too.

The upshot of the fact he is completely fearless, weird, loud, stubborn and hilarious is that I think it means he’s going to be successful in whatever he does with his life. His current life goal is to be a ninja with blue hair because it will pay him a $1000, but I’m not sure one can actually make a career out of being a ninja so I’m hoping he’ll eventually pursue something that might actually pay the bills so he can move out one day.

He’s been getting up at 3am everysinglenight for the last week and has decided his bed is stupid and dumb and that he hates it. He’s even gone so far to call his bed an idiot which tells me he’s serious about his level of hate for it. Although, he calls everyone an idiot when he’s pissed off (approximately 23 hours a day) so it might just be his “thing”. That’s the problem with having older punks – they teach the little ones cool words like stupid, idiot, hate and shit. Okay, I’m responsible for “shit” and I’ll admit, it’s hard to let that one piss me off when he uses it in context.

If he wasn’t so cute I’d consider giving him away because this one little punk is the work of 10. He’s lucky he climbs into my lap every morning to see if he still fits because I’m able to look pass the fact he’s borderline insane and fall in love with him all over again. Most people might think that I’m crazy because I really like the fact that he’s so damn weird but I think he’s one of the coolest little people I’ve ever known. Even when he’s pissed off at me, refuses to put his pants on, and passes out in the middle of the floor I think he’s pretty awesome.

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I hope he always stays this way (minus the sleepless nights and being so pissed all the time). I hope he never meets a person who thinks he should be different and tries to change who he is. That he never feels he has to change who he is to fit in or make someone else happy. I might not do everything right as a parent but teaching my punks they don’t have to fit in is one of the best things I’ve given them. I don’t think there’s anything better than people in our lives who don’t fit perfectly into a mold and I’m proud that, right now, my punks are as unique as they come.

So when you see us out and one of them is rocking a cape, a skull sweater, swim trunks and cowboy boots (a popular outfit this summer), and singing Pearl Jam at the top of their lungs, just know that this is my definition of rocking parenthood.

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What an Ahole

It’s so easy to go through life simply going through the motions. When you think about it, just getting by is so much easier than doing things that scare us or require change. I can deal with other people making changes but I’m usually a chicken shit when it comes to instigating change in my own life. It scares the hell out of me and since I don’t even like watching horror movies, you can see how this doesn’t sit well with me.

But here’s the thing – life will always remain the same if you don’t do something about it. You can stay at the same life-sucking job letting it drain you daily or you can grow some balls and put your resume out there. You can sit back miserably as you watch other people pave their own path in life or you can get your ass up and make your own way.

It’s really that simple. And complicated.

I’m a people pleaser. I hate disappointing people. It’s who I’ve been my entire life. I make a lot of decisions based on how they will affect other people, rather than my own wants and needs. And while being considerate of others is a great quality to possess, it really sucks ass sometimes. It sucks feeling as though you can’t do what’s ultimately best for you because you’re living in fear of hurting other people.

Fear has held me back from some of things I’ve wanted more than anything in my life. Fear of failing, fear of disappointing, fear of making the wrong choice, fear of not being good enough. The list of things I’ve not done out of fear pisses me off: pursuing a career in writing, leaving KU freshman year, not learning to play the guitar when I was 16 and had the damn guitar, dropping out of track instead of running harder and longer. It’s not that any of these things were/are particularly difficult for me – but the fear of not doing any of them good enough, or successfully, has held me back. Worth noting: I can play a mean tambourine and an avocado shaker, I will dance my ass off any time or place, I can work sarcasm into any conversation, I’ve mastered some pretty awesome yoga poses, and I’m also raising some kick ass punks. So. There’s that.

My “fearless” tattoo has everything to do with promising myself that I will move forward in my life without fear. That I will take the chances that scare the hell out of me because those usually end up being the best ones we take in life. That I will speak up in times I usually find myself keeping my mouth closed so I don’t hurt someone’s feelings, meanwhile, suffocating my own. I’m exhausted from putting everyone else before me and while more people should probably try this approach to life a little more often, I need to learn to do it a little less.

I’m at a point in my life where I’m done worrying about myself last and I’m completely done letting the things I want most slip by, simply because I’m afraid. It feels selfish, wrong and completely foreign to me but it also feels freeing and gives me endless hope for what’s to come. So here’s to risks, taking chances and letting fear push me forward instead of holding me back.

Fuck you, fear. You’re an asshole.

The Poop Diaries: Chad

If you read my last post then you are familiar with my love of a good poop story. You are also aware that I have an enormous stockpile of them. If you don’t love a good poop story stop reading now and come back in a day or two when we can discuss something not so gross.

My friend Chad has bowel issues. This guy is forever running to the bathroom before he shits his pants. Sometimes he’s successful in getting there in time, other times he’s ends up a hot, dirty mess. Honestly, lots of times he ends up shitting his pants which makes for many great stories. I don’t know if he’s been diagnosed with IBS but I’m 100% certain he’s got something going on because this shit isn’t normal. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve had to 911 it to a bathroom. Seriously.

Chad and his friends had been on a road trip and are headed home when he has a horrible gut attack that has him doubled over in pain. Of course, they are in the absolute middle of nowhere because no one really has a gut attack when they are on a road trip in close proximity to a gas station, right?

So Chad, who was making everyone sick from all of his diarrhea farting, knew he had to make a decision quickly or he was going to shit himself right there. They pull over and he shoots out of the truck like a man on fire, or like a woman who is trying to catch Adam Levine (whichever, you get the point. He was FAST). No one wants to shit their brains out right by the truck they are traveling in with their friends, at least I wouldn’t so I assume that applies to everyone. However, when you’re in the middle of nowhere land is often protected by barb wire fences which is one obstacle you don’t really want to face in this situation.

Chad, traveling like an Olympic sprinter apparently believes he is also now a hurdler at this point and takes the barb wire fence like a true champ, all while squeezing his ass tighter than he’s ever done before. Apparently gut attacks, squeezing your ass, and jumping don’t go hand in hand.

Mid-air, the explosive diarrhea he’s been desperately holding in comes shooting out. Now, I don’t know about you but if I’m going to shit myself silly, I rather be with two feet on the ground, rather than completely air-born.

Poor Chad. Stuck over the barbwire fence, 30 yards from the truck, covered in shit. Things would have been easier for him had there been trees so he’d have leaves to wipe his ass but these things never work out the way they should. He peels off his shorts (covered in shit) and his diarrhea underwear and just sits there, not sure what his next move should be. I’d love to tell you he drug his ass around the ground like a dog to clean up but he decided wiping his ass with prairie grass was a better option. Sounds painful, but what’s a guy to do?

He cleans himself up with prairie grass the best one can, leaves his shorts and underwear in the field, pulls his t-shirt down as low as he can, and makes his way back to the fence which now he has to climb over shitty and completely pantless. It’s hard to say which was the most difficult part of this situation – having to climb over a barbwire fence with his junk exposed to barbwire or seeing the look on his friends faces as they watch him scale the fence. Both equally awful in my book.

The hazing begins as soon as he approaches the fence and only increases as he makes his way over to the truck. Once he gets to the truck he walks to the back of it (on a highway, with no pants but thankfully, in his shoes and socks) to retrieve his bag so he can replace his clothing.

75 miles to a gas station where he can wash his smelly ass. 75 long, hot miles, with the windows down, in a truck with three other guys who have to smell his shit ass and of course, take advantage the situation to completely haze him, like any good friends would do. Or me. Despite the smell, I’d love to have 75 miles to “discuss” the incident.

My best advice is this: if you suffer from IBS, or something similar, do yourself a favor and carry wipes with you everywhere you go. You never know when you’re going to need to clean yourself up. You may also consider stopping the vehicle at the first sign of a gut attack so you aren’t crapping your pants while jumping a fence, or even just shitting yourself, period.

I’d like to tell you Chad learned a valuable lesson and is now carrying wipes with him but such is not the case. I will tell you that Chad has a problem digesting guacamole which has proven, more times than not, to cause him pooping humiliation which we can examine more in-depth in the future.

Let your stomach be your guide. Severe pain is a sign to stop what you’re doing and get yourself to a bathroom.  As are smelly farts. Another an indication you need to shit. Don’t ignore what your stomach is trying to tell you unless you want to end up in the Poop Diaries and then, by all means, ignore away. Just let me know whether or not you want me to change your name.

The Poop Diaries: Heidi

I have a lot of talents, some of which are far more impressive than others.

Not so impressive: I’m double jointed in my thumbs so I can put them completely behind my index finger knuckles.

Impressive: Ability to ask the right questions to get people to share with me embarrassing stories that would otherwise go with them to the grave. Out of all of them, this is one I rank as a top two talent. I’ll tell you why…

Everyone has an embarrassing poop story. These stories are typically mortifying for those involved but are seriously the most. hilarious. stories. ever. and I have an uncanny ability to get people (some who know me well, others who hardly know me at all) to share these with me. Don’t get me wrong – poop isn’t like a favorite topic of conversation in general, but embarrassing poop stories are something I like. A lot. You are forewarned that if you and I ever share a cocktail there is a 97.9% chance I’m getting your story. And trust me when I tell you, I don’t forget these stories, no matter how much I’ve had to drink.

Today I’m going to share with you one of the very best stories I’ve uncovered to date. And because I love this person dearly, I am absolutely changing her name to protect the guilty because if this was me I would never, ever share this story with anyone, so I feel extremely fortunate that I managed to get this out of her. Further proof that this is one of my greatest talents.

My friend Heidi had been dating Harold for about six months and she had never farted in front of him. Apparently Harold believed that she just didn’t fart and I’m sure he thought he’d won the girlfriend lottery (non-farter aside, he really did win with her). She’d hold them in until she was about to explode, just to keep Harold from knowing her awful truth. This was working well for her (as well as it can when you think you might die from holding in farts) so they planned their first vacation as a couple: a glorious seven day cruise.

They spent seven days on a cruise ship, eating their asses off, drinking every day and living in extremely tight quarters. There was no privacy. Harold was the most attentive he’d ever been so when Heidi would attempt to sneak back to the room so she could finally poop in peace, Harold would walk her back, like a true gentleman. Seven days, people. Seven long days without a chance to poop. She’s seriously lucky she didn’t die because I’m pretty sure I would have. And honestly, I think she probably qualifies for a Genius Book of World Records because who can hold it that long?

When the cruise is over they have an 8 hour drive back home and Heidi doesn’t feel good. She’s suffering horribly from seven days without going to the bathroom because Harold has some gentleman thing to prove and won’t give her 10 flipping minutes alone. They’re about four hours into the drive home when Heidi knows she’s in a desperate situation and needs a gas station, STAT. But they’re in the middle of nowhere so unfortunately there isn’t a gas station anywhere. Now me, I would have found a tree or a bush because desperate times call for desperate measures, but not my prim and proper friend. Completely out of the question for her.

Heidi is sweating and her stomach is doing horrible things and making sounds she never knew possible. She’s in pain but she refuses to let Harold know that she really needs to go #2 because that’d just be embarrassing, right? She’s got her game face on and trying play off the fact she’s about to die. (This is not a move I recommend to anyone, no matter how hard you are trying to impress the person you are dating.) Harold picks this drive, this moment of absolute distress, to share a really funny story with her and she begins to laugh her ass off. And as she’s laughing harder than she’s ever laughed before it happens.

She shits her pants.

Shit that she’s been holding in for the last week. After eating ridiculous meals and drinking even more ridiculous amounts of alcohol. Seven days of festering shit.

And she can’t stop it. Her tears of laughter are now tears of humiliation.

It takes approximately 13 seconds for the smell to hit Harold.

“What. The. FUCK. Is. That. SMELL???”

“Um… Well… I just shit my pants.”

“What do you mean you just shit your pants?”

“I didn’t want to poop around you so I haven’t gone since before we left. I think I might be dying, Harold. I need a bathroom.” As if that wasn’t completely obvious to him now.

And this is how the worlds worst 30 minutes ever spent in a car began. Windows down, Heidi crying, Harold bitching about the smell and the fact she has shit all over his new truck while he holds his head out the window, gagging. Once they finally find a gas station, Heidi asked begs Harold to walk behind her to help cover her shit ass but he refuses.

“Woman, you smell like shit and I just spent 30 minutes in the car with you. I’m staying right here. Take your shit ass inside and clean up.” Clearly one shit is all it takes for Harold to give up the gentleman act crap. He had been duped and was not pleased to learn otherwise…especially like this.

So Heidi walked the most horrific walk of shame known to man and took her shit ass to the bathroom where she proceeded to clean herself up, the best one can in a public bathroom, and throw away her clothes.

She proceeded to spend the rest of the drive wondering if she would ever hear from Harold again, all while he talked about her “incident” and she relived the humiliation over and over and over again.

The great news is Harold was able to see past the fact that she shit herself all over his new truck, accepted that she was just like every other human being alive and one day he finally asked her to marry him. The bad news is that it took approximately 2.5 cocktails and I was able to get the story out of them as if I was asking how he proposed. I’m not kidding when I tell you that no matter what you think you’ll be telling me your poop story before you realize what is going on. It’s a gift.

When you are considering whether or not you are really in love, ask yourself this: if my significant other were to shit all over my new vehicle would I ever be able to move past it?

Personally, I ever shit all over someone’s car I’d never want to see them, or their car, ever again.

But if your answer is yes then you know you have something really special so go ahead and ask them to marry you.

Sharpening the Ninja Sword

I think that I’m a pretty open minded person. I’m not quick to make assumptions about people and for the most part, I don’t judge anyone (unless we’re discussing fashion, then I tend to get a little judgey. Sorry, but I take fashion pretty seriously in the scheme of life. You have your “things”, this is mine).

People tend to tell me lots of things – things they haven’t shared with anyone else and don’t want to share with anyone else – because I’m trustworthy, I’m easy to talk to, I don’t judge and I can usually offer some pretty damn good advice (I seriously should have been a shrink). I like that about me. I like that people know they can come to me, that I am a safe place.

I suppose when this is who you are it’s shocking to know most people aren’t the same way. I can’t count the number of times someone posts something on Facebook about a situation they really don’t know anything about. Even better is reading all the comments that always follow with people making asshole remarks about something they know absolutely nothing about. It’s baffling. I read the comments and think, why the fuck do these people think they should have any opinion regarding this situation? Apparently people think that just because they know a snippet of someone’s life they should be able to determine the whole story.

I share some of my life on here. I’ve written about being in a tough place in my life right now. It’s hard for me to share anything outside of my punks because of the fact so many people are judgmental but writing is my outlet and I chose to start a blog so I guess that’s what I get, right? Some of you know my story. Others read my blog and make assumptions about what is going on. I’m fine with it for the most part, I’ve shared my story openly with the people who mean more to me than anyone, besides my punks. I’m blessed that I have surrounded myself with people who truly love and know me, keep my business their own and are my safe place.

Today I’m baffled how anyone can say they care about you, claim they are your friend and then assume they know your story and proceed to tell other people. I mean, I see it on Facebook but I’ve never experienced it first hand. When you truly care about someone you don’t discuss their private business with other people. You take the time to privately address it, if you even have any business doing that. Hell, I give that much to people I hardly know so I absolutely expect that from my friends.

I don’t strive for perfection I simply strive to be the best version of me I can be. It’s important to me to be a good friend. To love deeply, madly, freely. To be compassionate, keep an open mind, to be nonjudgmental. To accept that people have flaws (including my own, some of which are some of my favorite pieces of me). To listen when someone needs to talk, to offer advice when I can. To love the woman I’ve grown to be. To try my hardest to not assume I know anyone’s story. Because at the end of the day, we have no idea what is really going on in anyone’s life unless you’ve been told directly. It’s really that simple.

I don’t expect these things from everyone, but the people I choose to surround myself with need to have a basic understanding of what it means to be a friend.

To quote a friend, “It’s time to break out the ninja sword and delete.”