The High School Years = Hell


 

Let me be the first to welcome you and your child to four years of HELL. If your kid is planning on going to college, little Cathy or Bobby had better get their asses in gear and start feeding starving African children, cure cancer or discover how to make a car run on mouse turds. Of course, all that is in addition to being ranked #1 in some fucking sport, or if your kid isn’t athletic, he’d better by god find something that sounds like a sport to be numero uno in like midget wrestling or making balloon animals.

If your kid hasn’t been involved in any organized activities before freshman year, tell them to sign up for any and every damn thing that looks interesting. This year is supposed to be one that the college adcoms can see as a year of “exploration.” Of course by this time in a Modern Kids® life, they have already been involved in about fifty thousand activities so you should have some idea. If Bobby has never played any instrument and decides that he is going to play tuba in the band, that’s probably a shitty idea that you should discourage, unless you are some kind of psycho parent. Same thing with varsity sports teams. If Cathy wants to try out for basketball and she is 4’11” and never played any sport that involves a ball that is just a stupid fucking idea. Thankfully this is the year that you really don’t have to worry about shit like AP classes because most schools only offer that stupid AP Human Geography for freshman. Let them take it if the school offers it because it’s a gateway class and not because any college is going to give you credit for it because that ain’t happenin.

Sophomore year is when the adcoms expect you to have found your desired activities and to stick with them. Cathy and Bobby had better start jockeying in their various clubs to set themselves up to be vice president their junior year and president in senior year. Those adcoms LOVE that shit. They’d also better have signed up to take some AP or IB classes or the newest thing to hit the high school academic scene, dual enrollment classes. Colleges get all hot and orgasmic over something called “most rigorous course load.” That sounds like a bad period to me but whatevs, do it anyway. I forgot to mention earlier that your kid had better not get more than one B a year on that ole report card or they are obviously destined to flip burgers at Mickey D’s cuz they sure aren’t going to Harvard.

Junior year is when you start to leave little skid marks in your dainty drawers every time you even hear the word college. PSATs in October are your big damn notice that college is lurking around the corner like Freddy Kruger. In between building playgrounds for disabled children, sports, clubs and studying for classes and SAT/ACT prep, you now have to wreck all of your remaining weekends visiting colleges and doing what the adcoms call “showing interest.” This part of the process drives me batty. WE the parents paying the damn tuition BILLS, are the ones that have to show “interest.” Are you shittin me, mister? Do I go to the car dealership just to show “interest” to give them my money? Hell to the NO. Anyway, just buy some old lady or man shoes and schlep on, my friend.

Senior year comes and SHIT JUST GOT REAL. It’s happening… your kid got their senior pictures taken and you, dear parent, are freaking out. I suggest a trip to your doctor and a prescription for a nice supply of “nerve pills.” The Common App usually goes live for the year on August 1st. The next few months will see you doing nothing other than beating application essays out of your kid. They will stall, then write dumb shit and you will start to despair that they will ever move out of your basement. Your hands will become worn down into tiny nubs from wringing them. Then, miraculously, everything gets submitted and your kid gets his or her first acceptance letter. You are excited until you see the price tag and then the hand wringing starts anew. You start seriously considering listing your husband’s kidney on Craigslist and wonder how much strippers actually make for a lap dance.

Somewhere in all this madness you start to realize that your families life is about to change. You know your kid is ready to set out on a big adventure and you are so proud of them that you could burst. But something keeps you from being totally, blissfully happy. It’s that tiny little voice in your head that tells you the bottom line truth that this 18 year long chapter is almost over. It’s a terrible realization that your family is forever changed because you did your job well and your kid is ready to fly the nest. I won’t tell you it’s easy because it’s not. It’s weird and disjointing. Somehow you get on with building a new life and end up writing blogs or going back to work or school. I can’t tell you how long it takes to build a new normal because I’m in this phase myself.

Good luck to you. This is my last installment of parenting blogs, at least for now. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I did writing them. Check back on Monday for a new, scintillating blog about nothing in particular. Cheers!

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Twin A and Twin B at graduation.

Your Middle Schooler and You – Why You’re F%$*(@#&!


 

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy… I am rubbing my hands together with unsuppressed glee. Today I get to cover parenting advice for the middle and high school years. This is the time in your kid’s life where they are most likely to be strangled by you or perhaps offered up to a passing chain gang. If you can survive ages 12-18, it makes the rest of your life look like a damn walk in the park.

Middle School

Remember Billy and Mary, the former genius kindergarteners from yesterday’s blog? By the time middle school rolls around, they have become pot heads and spend most of their time trying to be as big of an asshole as their stupid parents. Because of those kings of assholery, your kid will be miserable for a couple of more years. Middle school is like a god damn shark tank and your kid is probably the biggest piece of chum those fuckers have ever seen. Just make sure your kid knows how to spot those sharks and how not to become a remora or a stupid pilot fish.

Middle schoolers are Jekyll and Hyde beings. One minute they will want to climb into your lap and be hugged like a little kid. And then in the next minute they’ll turn around and rip out your fucking throat with their teeth if you try and talk to them about what is bothering them. They still want help with their homework, but will beat you with that damn textbook if you can’t do that quantum physics problem just like their teacher did on the board. It’s maddening. I recommend strongly daily partaking of the juice of the fermented grape. Some days you may need something stronger and illegal but that’s your call. No judging here.

It really cracks me up when I hear parent’s talk about something called “privacy” in reference to their kid. In my world, they don’t GET to have privacy until they move the fuck out. You want a facebook/instagram/vine/snapchat, kid? Sure, but you have to friend me and I get all the passwords. Cell phone? Okay, but I reserve the right to read all of your texts. You don’t like my rules? Tough beans. This isn’t helicopter parenting; it’s stealth parenting because they eventually forget that you have access to everything if you keep your yap shut and don’t post anything on their little social media lives. It also has the advantage of letting you know exactly what their little creep friends are up to. I also recommend chaperoning field trips and stuff because if you listen to the convos on the bus, you learn a lot of good shit. It’s like they just sort of forget you are there and keep yakking about how Billy and Mary almost “did it” and the party at Susy’s where they broke into her parents liquor cabinet. Very informative stuff.

I have one sort of serious piece of advice for parenting a middle school kid. Let them fail. Yes, fail… as in do not save them from themselves. Grades from middle school DO NOT count for college admission. These are the years that they need to figure shit out for themselves. Like when to study, when to play, all that “life” stuff. Unless, of course, you fully intend on holding their hand all through high school and college. Not that I don’t mean you shouldn’t give them a swift kick in the britches for fucking around and not studying, but they gotta learn to figure out how and when to get that work done without you scheduling it for them. If they forget their homework, don’t take it up to the school. Let them deal with the teacher and the consequences.

I was going to tackle the high school years today too, but this is getting long and I know I have other shit to do. My college kids are coming home this weekend and I haven’t seen Twin B in six weeks. I figure I’d better at least do some damn laundry so that she can have clean sheets on her bed here at home. I’m fairly certain that the sheets she has on her bed at school are probably ready to get up and walk to the washer themselves. That’s her problem though. Because I’m not a helicopter parent, I don’t know and I don’t care. See how my plan worked?

Peace and One Love until tomorrow…

 

lordoftheflies

I’d personally give this an A+ for creativity. This teacher had no sense of humor.

Parenting 101


Let my children breathe sayeth the LORDdAH…. Ok Jesus never said that, but he would have if he had seen the way we raise our kids in these progressive days. Since I mentioned dispensing my amazing parenting advice yesterday, I decided to fling some more bitchin ideas your way. That’s right… it’s your lucky damn day.

Let’s start at the very beginning because it’s a very good place to start.

Pregnancy

  • If somebody asks to touch your belly, ask if you can touch some body part of theirs first. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that if it was a dude that asked, you immediately grab their balls. Hard.
  • If someone asks if you know what you are having, you can go with the tried and true “a baby, asshole.” or look at them blankly and ask them what the hell they are talking about like you have no idea that you are pregnant. I also liked answering “a martini”.
  • “When are you due?” is a great question. Count out nine months from when they asked you, especially at the end when you are huge and not interested in entertaining the masses. They end up thinking you are birthing at least sextuplets. Go with that and ask for donations.

In the Birthing Room

  • This is your one shot in life to try out new swears and to get away with anything. I suggest writing some down in advance to make sure they sound as bad as you think. I suggest a Taco Bell drive thru as your testing ground. I think Taco Bell employees have heard everything. If you are worried they won’t speak English and understand your amazing swears, use a Mexican accent to help get your point across.
  • A lot of women are concerned about crapping on the floor while they are grunting out that little puke monster. My advice? Don’t worry about it. In fact, totally enjoy making a mess that someone else has to clean up, probably for the last time in your LIFE. Poop all over that floor and wave your hands in the air like you just don’t care. Insert one of those new Mexican accent swears here too.

The Baby Years

  • Get a cardboard box, a towel, and some pampers if you must. Buying anything else is way overkill. It’s a BABY. It has no thought process and won’t remember if you forgot to buy it a five thousand dollar high chair. They will just shit on it and throw food on the walls anyway. Get a couple of old belts and attach that baby to a regular fucking chair. Fuck you, Consumer Product Safety Commission.
  •  Invest in about 800 pacifiers. Don’t let that little fucker find his thumb cuz he won’t ever stop with the oral fixation. That’s what’s wrong with most men. It would be better to just cut their thumbs off at the same time as the foreskin. Just sayin.

The Toddler Years

  • Don’t buy all those fucking plastic toys. Tell people your are a liberal, bra burning, hairy legged, Birkenstock wearing hippie and give the kid some rocks, sticks, and maybe a refrigerator box for Christmas. The kid will grow up to be the next Steve Jobs and then you can hire hundreds of people to shave your legs for you if you feel like it.
  • Potty training is easy. Just let them poop all over your house and when people come over to visit and start judging you, tell them your pet mountain lion left those piles. Yell for “Kitty” and those judgey pants nosy bitches will leave toot sweet. Then enroll your kid in preschool for about a month and they can do all the potty training dirty work while you go get a manicure.

I know you can’t get enough of this shit. I can feel you taking notes or forwarding this crap to your friends. I know you just are holding your toddler back from becoming a preschooler because you know you can’t do it without my sage advice. I’ll try and help you out tomorrow. Stay tuned…

 

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The Bacon Cure


When you are stressed out what do you do? If you tell me exercise, I’ll fucking punch your lights out and then you can get an unconscious break from your troubles. So you ask, okay smart ass, so what do you do?

Oh I’m SO GLAD you asked. I’ll bet you’re laying money in Vegas right now that I drink myself silly. Wrong. Well, about 25% of the time anyway.

So here’s the deal… I cook bacon. Three pounds of bacon sizzling in that cast iron skillet makes me be able to deal with Life® again. If I’m really pissed off I just burn the living shit out of that pork meat. That’s my therapy. Costco has three pounds of bacon for $15.99. That sounds like a goddamn therapy bargain to me.

Now you are gonna have the balls to remember that Hubs is a shrink. Let me tell you sistahs and brothas… he is an excellent psychiatrist and helps lots of folks. But I’m his wife. He has a shrink voice, believe it or not, and I know that voice. He has only pulled out the shrink voice to use on me ONCE in almost 28 years. The backlash from me was quite memorable. Never happened again. Anyway, I’m just saying the man is my spouse, not my shrink. It’s his fucking job to AGREE with me and not figure out why I feel bad.

It’s been a crazy month or so for my stress levels. My kids moved off to college and I’m trying to figure out how to parent from afar. I’m used to being there and dispensing hugs when needed or a kick in the ass when necessary. There has been a long-term BF breakup, roommate drama, sad texts and tweets interspersed with happy calls about good learning and excellent test scores. I had lots of care packages to organize and send. I’m trying to figure all this out and not lose my fucking mind in the process. I’m not sure what my role in the Universe is anymore. It’s like being fired from your job after 18 years… just a little weird.

Then there is the whole issue of the instant empty nest. I haven’t cried and wailed and acted generally like an idiot during this entire process. I do worry more, fix less, and generally miss the day-to-day noise and mess of two teenaged girls and all of their friends. It’s quiet when I’m home. Except for that that incredibly annoying bird that will. not. die. That fucker shrieks all morning and if I yell at him, he shrieks louder. Whatever… he’d better be careful or I’ll take him out of that cage and fry his ass too.

My alternative for staying semi-sane when I run out of the damn bacon to fry, is mow the yard and paint shit. Last week I mowed AND painted. It was a banner fucking week. My grass is all like “leave me alone, bitch!”. Tough shit. My mailbox and light poles didn’t complain about getting painted, you sissy grass. This week I’m ordering new door hardware and painting that door too… Oh wait, I can’t order hardware or buy paint because of Congress and their inability to pass a budget! Hubs is on the payroll and he won’t be getting paid if those dumbasses can’t get it together. If the government shuts down maybe I’ll go find Rand Paul’s palatial estate and mow his grass. On the number 1 setting. Then he won’t have any grass to worry about and maybe he will have time to do his damn elected job.

Painting and mowing isn’t very exciting. It fills the time until I figure out the next chapter of my life. Hubs keeps asking me if I want to adopt some Ethiopian kids like my neighbor did when her bio kids grew up. Umm… NO to that. I ain’t Angela Jolie.

I’ll figure out what I’m supposed to do. I sure had no fucking idea when my kids were born and somehow it all worked out. I think I will find something to do that benefits humanity eventually. Maybe I’ll run for the Senate. I sure couldn’t do a worse job than the assholes that are in office now. Or maybe waffle house has an opening for a bacon fry person. Cooking beautiful strips of bacon for the world to enjoy sounds a lot more productive these days than being in congress.

baconmeme       fucking-bacon_o_930929

 

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Bob the Shrieker (before)

 

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Bob the Former Shrieker (After)

Weird Stuff I Know


  1. Frottage is the clinical term for twerking. It isn’t a new thing. I got frottaged at a Jimmy Buffett concert a few weeks ago by some weirdo who refused to step back when I was trying to get out of the row to go to the bathroom. I yelled in his face to step his freaky ass the hell back or I’d break his fucking balls. He wasn’t wearing a cool black and white stripped suit and cute like Robin Thicke either. He was more a weirdo like Miley’s dancing bears and her daddy, Billy Ray. Ick.
  2. I know that male dogs that are not neutered like their balls fondled but do not like frozen food items applied there. They will bite you. Just ask hubs and Moose about that weird shit.
  3. Coach handbags set off security at every damn store in the world. I am so sick of getting stopped and frisked by old weird fat security guys that really seem to like touching my shit. That’s really a weird thing to have someone examining my flask and my tampons. Don’t ask me for a sip either, fat boy, or I’ll slug ya.
  4. I’m weirdly good at picking out people I can take in a fight. The first thing I look for in any bar that’s a little sketchy is the eighty year old alcoholic in the corner. That way when a brawl starts I know exactly who to mix it up with.
  5. When you are traveling and stay in a succession of motels, its weird but not uncommon to forget the room number because all the hotels run together in your scrambled brain. I spent 20 minutes today trying to get in a room that wasn’t mine and got rather testy with the poor Hispanic midget lady who didn’t speak English and was just trying to help. I will be leaving her a healthy tip. I don’t speak English, but I sure know how to speak the international language that is called Andrew Jackson.
  6. I know that if you are a gas bag that the bathroom is the best place to pass it. However, if you feel the urge to let it all out and you are in a public restroom with 20 stalls, 19 of which are empty and me the only occupant, DO NOT get in the stall right next to me. I swear to God you are a fucking weirdo to seek me out in a public toilet to gross me out. This lady the other day (I’m assuming it was a lady) sat in the stall next to me, peed like a god damn racehorse, farted so loud my ears popped, and then let out a serious of belches like she had just done four or five beer bongs. Do that shit at home for whatever organic matter you live with and call spouse. I’m sure it’s a turn on for some people.
  7. Scatology is the practice of telling people’s fortunes by examining their poop. Seriously… what weirdo came up with THAT?! I need to have a corn diet and go to one of those Scatologists and see what they say about my future. They’d probably tell me to be a farmer.

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These are the people to look for in a bar fight. It’s even better if they are in a wheelchair and sporting an eye patch.