Category Archives: IMHO

Have you ever needed someone so bad? Love’s mom crush, Part I

I can sum up about 90% of my thoughts using Def Leppard lyrics. The other 10% of my thoughts are vulgar words and if my boys in Def Leppard would have just had the foresight to add “fuck face” to any of their songs, it truly would have enhanced their universal appeal. A tragedy, really.

I have had many different kinds of crushes throughout the ages.  Here is a quick summary:

  • My first crush was on Brian Murphy in first grade. I named my Cabbage Patch Kid after him, because I thought he was the perfect baby daddy. And he was. We made out in the coat room a lot and he provided many cookies from his lunch box.
  • When I was seven I had a crush on Showbiz Pizza (now Chuck E Cheese). My parents avoided that place like the plague, so I kissed the asses of all the kids who were likely to throw Showbiz parties and I would just sit in the ball pit and pretend it was my bed, ignoring the other children, but doing just enough with the birthday kid to get invited back the next year. Glorious!!
  • When I was about ten I had a crush on the George Michael part of Wham! that was only exacerbated when my beloved George came out with the “Faith” album. I heart you so much George – I would have totally looked out for the cops if you wanted to jerk off in a public bathroom near me. You only had to ask.
  • Junior high/high school I had a crush on Donnie Wahlberg (more on that here) from NKOTB, and I wasn’t even doing drugs at that time. I was just really lame and underdeveloped emotionally, physically and socially.  I’m not sure if any of that has changed.
  • Next came my crush on McDonalds Value Meal #2. It persists to this day. I wish I knew how to quit you, Quarter Pounder with Cheese.
  • Then I fell in adult love with Oprah, although I thought this new season might be the beginning of the end for us because it was so lame….until Mackenzie Phillips came on today to talk about having sex with her dad. Whaaaaaaat?! Oprah, we’re totally back together.  We’re rock solid.

So I’m familiar with having crushes on a wide variety people, places and things.  However, I wasn’t prepared emotionally or socially when my first ever, only ever, mom crush happened. Yeah. I met a real, live woman that made me want to start a commune and blend our families together for all time.  Which, for me, is about as likely as Whitney Houston or Mackenzie Phillips actually staying sober for another three months.

I have trouble forming relationships with other women. Because I don’t like them, for the most part. I’m a guy’s girl. Always have been. And that did not change with the onset of motherhood.  I avoid play dates and moms groups like the plague.  Because they necessarily involve other mothers. The “good” mothers. Not the slackers like me.  Okay, so I’ve never been in one of them, but I just imagine this gaggle of women in mom jeans and sparkly Christmas sweaters with shit hanging off them with socks that match and have jingle bells on them throwing around organic homemade baby food recipes and sign languaging things to their pre-verbal infants who are all named Madison and Jackson (Personally, I think more kids should be named Washington and Lincoln).  Honestly, I’d rather participate in a sex toy party with my mother in law than be in any way involved in a moms group. Yeah. And that’s saying a lot.

So you might imagine my shock and awe when I met another woman I wanted to schedule a standing playdate from 9am to 5pm every Saturday and Sunday with her and her family.  Husbands too.  When you have a mom crush, you spend your days looking dreamily out the window fantasizing about family trips to Disney World together, impromptu BBQs where everyone is dressed in J.Crew and laughing happily with dazzling white teeth, unicorns and rainbows and happy, cherubic leprechauns (not the scary kind) dancing around pots of gold and eating Lucky Charms, as we plan arranged marriages between our children.  It’s like finding true love, only family style.

I met her online.  Yeah, how 2002 of me, right? So I was researching a new daycare place for my son and I posted an inquiry on a parents group forum to see if anybody had kids there and had anything to say about it.  Kirsten replied.  Ah, Kirsten. The woman who would turn my world on its very axis. She responds and says she is starting her son there soon and suggested we talk on the phone. Now you should know that I avoid the phone wherever and whenever possible. Phones = work = boredom = soul suckage = depression.  So I will do just about anything to avoid talking on the phone when it isn’t required for my job. I tried to make excuses about my phone being broken and reception being bad, but finally I agreed to the call because this was about my kid’s health and safety, so it was worth making an exception, ONCE. But I was fully prepared to be talking to a psycho or a SuperMom and I vowed that if I heard even the slightest little tinkle out of a jingle bell on her socks in the background I was hanging up immediately.

So with much trepidation, I dialed her number.  And we talked for a few minutes and she was…super cool. Inexplicably, I felt an immediate connection.  Kind of like the first time I ate a Take 5 bar – the most important invention in the last 50 years.  Yes, just like that delicious, magnificent candy treat, Kirsten was perfect for me. She wasn’t one of THEM (the “good” mothers). I mean, she seemed like a good mother, but not the kind that has to remind you all the time that you aren’t as good as she is, because she has already figured out how to get her 6 month old into the gifted program at the $20,000/year preschool.  We talked for a full 15 minutes about this whole daycare thing and not once did I feel inferior, or bored, or confused.

I think she was listening for a tinkle of a jingle bell from me too.  I could tell that she was relieved I wasn’t a psycho and babbling about all the Mommy and Me classes I don’t take my son to. I was working toward my PhD at the time and she actually worked at the same university in a different department. We were both worried about grant money and our research and our careers and our kids.  So we talked for an hour and then the conversation ended and as we were hanging up, I wanted to giggle and whisper, “No, schmoopie! You hang up first!” because I knew I had just met my soul mate mom. Surely since she was the only stranger mother I ever found tolerable, her family and my family were destined to be together forever.  Because she was a mom like me. We could totally sit around sipping on a really good Cab and make fun of people together and talk about all the egotistical assholes at our respective work places and our deep thoughts on celebrities and new movies and all the ups and downs of our careers and trying to be good moms in our own unique ways.  She even watched Oprah. (I made sure to sprinkle in the “Oprah test” before I got too excited about our intertwined destinies. She TiVo’d it too.) I know! RIGHT?!

So we get off the phone and then things got really awkward in my head.  I couldn’t let her get away!! She was the only woman in the universe who knew my soul.  I mean, 60 minutes is enough time to figure that out right? It was imperative that we meet again.  But I don’t do that stuff. I had never asked a mom out for a mom date or a play date or anything like that. I was a play date virgin!  All the friends I have now I met when we were all young and fun and single and though many of us are mothers, I don’t think about them that way. I don’t know how to talk to strangers who are also moms that I want to be friends with. All. new. territory.

But I couldn’t let her slip away. Our impending friendship was all I could think about or concentrate on the whole week. I told everybody I knew (men) that I was in love with my future best friend.  There were a lot of raised eyebrows and derisive little chortles. “You want to have a play date with someone you just met on the internet? HEE-larious!” They would chuckle a little more and shake their head and laugh, “You at a play date! God I’d love to see that!”

See, I’m not a normal mom. But I digress.

My thought process went as follows: Obviously, the only way to ensure that I see her again was to ensure my son went to that daycare! Then I could see her everyday and eventually our sons would be BFF and she and I would be BFF (we were already well on our way, right?!) and then our husbands would adore each other’s company and they would be BFF. I mean, everything would be right with the world.  But…this is unfamiliar territory for me. I mean, does she like me as much as I like her? Did I sound as smart and cool to her as she did to me? Is she also currently daydreaming about being my BFF? Oh my God! Is she going to think I’m a closet lesbian? How do you ask a mom crush out on date?  Should I ask her out for coffee? I don’t want to creep her out and I don’t want to sound desperate.  We stayed on topic in our brief conversation. We didn’t have a whole schmoopie conversation about how we were destined to be together. We were just thinking it. Or was I the only one thinking of it? She probably had a million mom friends. Who has time for another? What would I wear on our first date, and where should it be, assuming I get the balls to ask her out on one?  What if we met in person and we didn’t like each other as much? What if she was wearing a Christmas sweater?  Would we have enough to talk about? The questions were endless.

But I’m a born salesperson. She was going to be my BFF and dammit, I was willing to do whatever it took to woo her into being my best mom friend of all time. It would just be a lot easier if she felt the same way. So I had to woo her. And she would be mine. Oh, yes! She would be mine.  Am I creeping you out now? I’m creeping myself out.

Okay, so this is getting really long and I have ADD and you probably have a job to get back to.  But in Part II, I will regale you with the full pursuit of my mom crush.  It was exactly like pursuing a boy crush, except 1000 times more awkward and difficult. Stay tuned…

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Love’s Laws #2 – #21, a.k.a What Oprah knows for sure

I live to talk a lot about Oprah. You know that already if you’ve read anything I’ve ever written, or had a conversation with me that lasts over 3.4 minutes.

Hopefully, you have read Love’s Law #1. I have found further recent proof from one of my favorite blogs that I’m not the only one creeped out by mustaches.  Meg from 2birds1blog wrote yesterday:

– Speaking of ridiculous things my sister has said, the other day we were discussing her intense love of mustaches when she mentioned how excited she was because it’s almost, “mustache season.” Apparently, mustache season begins after Labor Day ends, in a sort of reverse White Pants Rule kind of way. Or as Becca puts it, “When the white pants go away, the mustaches come out to play.”

I have never felt so completely molested by a sentence in my entire life.


Wowsers! Her sister is fucked up! But I see that the first thing that entered her mind was molestation.  I’m not the only one.

Anyway, Oprah always asks people what they know for sure. From my last post I learned a few more things for sure:

  1. John Mayer is indeed a douche. But we wouldn’t kick him out of bed.
  2. Michael Jackson is asexual. Except it appears that Nel doesn’t think so and she was x5. However, now I know for sure I don’t want to know what MJ did or didn’t do with small children. Oprah didn’t even weigh in on this in her tribute to Michael Jackson. She is of zero value here.
  3. If you marry a rock star or pro athlete (except Herschel Walker) you’re ridiculous if you think they aren’t going to screw around on you. Read: buy your famous husband condoms so you don’t get any of that nastiness coming home.

But I will admit to the world today that Oprah wrote down in the November 2008 “O” Magazine all the 20 things she knows for sure and I carry it around with me everywhere. (Stop it. At least I’m being honest).

So today I’ve decided to recreate that list as Love’s Law’s #2 – 21, but know that they are straight from Oprah’s mouth because I don’t want her to sue me because I don’t even have a lawyer. On second thought, if she sues me does that mean I get to see her in court? That might be so worth it.

Love’s Laws #2 -21 – What I believe (and you should too) since Oprah knows it for sure:

  1. What you put out comes back all the time, no matter what.
  2. You define your own life. Don’t let other people write your script.
  3. Whatever someone did to you in the past has no power over the present. Only you give it power.
  4. When people show you who they are, believe them the first time.
  5. Worrying is wasted time. Use the same energy for doing something about whatever worries you.
  6. What you believe has more power that what you dream or hope or wish for.  You become what you believe.
  7. If the only prayer you ever say is thank you, that will be enough.
  8. The happiness you feel is in direct proportion to the love you give.
  9. Failure is the sign post to turn you in another direction.
  10. If you make a choice that goes against what everyone else thinks, the world will not fall apart.
  11. Trust your instincts. Intuition doesn’t lie.
  12. Love yourself and then learn to extend that love to others in every encounter.
  13. Let passion drive your profession.
  14. Find a way to get paid for doing what you love. Then every paycheck will be a bonus.
  15. Love doesn’t hurt. It feels really good.
  16. Every day brings a chance to start over.
  17. Being a mother is the hardest job on earth. Women everywhere must declare it so.
  18. Doubt means don’t. Don’t move. Don’t answer. Don’t rush forward.
  19. When you don’t know what to do, get still.  The answer will come.
  20. “Trouble don’t last always” (A line from a Negro spiritual)

I believe in all of this, except for a caveat on #17.  I think being skid row prostitute is the hardest job in the world.  And after that, being a person who lives with me. And then maybe motherhood.

More Love’s Laws to come, including #22 – People living in Seattle are cool I guess, but unfortunately they are the worst looking population in the continental United States.

My Republican Facebook friends are killing me slowly and painfully, something they learned from Cheney, no doubt

I like to believe I’m open-minded and everybody has valid points and everybody is entitled to their own opinions and whatever, whatever, but I’ve decided that all of my Facebook “friends” who are super conservative staunch Republicans and want me everyone to fucking know it are annoying assholes.  I have seriously considered de-friending all of my bitchy war-mongering, liar-protecting, poor people-hating, dumb ass arch conservative friends because they, and their Facebook statuses, bring me down.  I can’t help but feel intellectually and morally superior to anybody who voted for Bush/Cheney twice and then voted for Sarah fucking Palin and isn’t even embarrassed about it.  Okay, so maybe I’m not very open minded. No. I’m not. And I hope before I defriend them, they defriend me because I feel dirty being linked to them, even if its only electronically, but they delight in torturing me, so I doubt they will take the high ground.

Now, I’ll admit they probably hate me too because I am a Facebook friend who people think is a Democrat and wants everyone to know it, but really I just like to have very dirty dreams about the President. All that hope and change talk gets me all hot and bothered and I just can’t help but lust after him. I so want to be his Monica Lewinsky — well, not the cigar part — but definitely the blue dress part, right after he reads me the Gettysburg address, and as we listen to “Yes We Can” .  I want to have his love child like Rielle had John Edward’s. Except of course, I love him because he isn’t an asshole like Bill Clinton and John Edwards, so the blue dress concept/love child might go right over his head.  Come to think of it, I picked the fucking worst Democrat to fall in lust with. I don’t think our mutual love is ever to be. A lot like my relationship with Oprah. Suffice to say we have a very complicated love triangle on our hands, but I think I’m the only one that is very bothered by it all.

But anyway, about my own political views — I’m not sure if I’m a Democrat and I honestly don’t hate everything Republican. I just think health care should be considered a basic human right in the richest country in the world, and I feel like having a bunch of poor, uneducated people in this country makes us worse off, so I’m all for educating them so they don’t have to be poor,  but that is all really secondary to my very dirty love of Barack Obama. I don’t know if that makes me a Democrat or a bleeding heart liberal or a perv, or just a homewrecker.  Maybe all of those things as well as being extremely annoying to my Republican frenemies.

So I’ll put some dumb innocuous status up like, “I wish Obama would give us a three day weekend every month” and then I get responses from people writing, “He’s already given lots of people 7 day weekends. Those kind of weekends i can do without. 😦 ” It is all I can do not to comment back, “Fuck you, fuck face! And don’t ever sully my Facebook status in this awful way this again!”, because I’m trying to use my words,  but I’d rather use a waterboard, which I know they would approve of  because Cheney told them it was okay, so long as somehow he was making money off it.

At times like these, I envision a world where all of the people who think people without money don’t deserve health care, and poor kids don’t deserve an education, and fear is a good excuse for war, and that free markets can solve every problem, and that women who do not want to have a child should bring them into the world anyway even though they won’t give her a job, a dime, childcare assistance or any help once that happens, and that God only loves Christians and white people, and that they can add their crazy uber conservative rhetoric to my Facebook statuses would all move into Texas together and then secede from the Union and wave their confederate flags around and talk about how great their state is and friend each other on Facebook and defriend me and leave the rest us the fuck alone.  The only problem with that plan unfortunately is that I don’t think they’d all fit in Texas. So I’ll throw in Lousiana too. Sorry Lousianans. And we’d have to split up Facebook too.  I wish them all luck. They aren’t bad people. They just have painfully bad ideas. I think. And I should know, because I have a lot of them myself.  Like the one I just wrote about.

But I will ask a higher power (Oprah herself) to give me the compassion I need for my extremely conservative Republican Facebook friends, but I swear to GOD, if they post any more comments on my statuses that in any way insult the Man I Will Wear A Blue Dress For, I’m going to lose my shit. And lose them too. As Facebook friends, forever.  Then who will they have to torture?

Love’s Law #1 – Men with mustaches in 2009 are either cops or sex offenders, hopefully not both

Indeed, the best way to know whether or not you are in the presence of a sex offender (before he sexually offends you) in 2009 is if you are in the presence of a man sporting a mustache. I’m not talking about beards or goatees or all the other stuff. I’m talking about a mustache only. Its the universal sex offender secret code that says, “See, I have a mustache and I will do very bad things to you if I get the chance. If I’m not currently sexually assaulting you, you can bet I’m thinking about it.” Don’t believe me? Go check out the sex offenders in your area and 90% will have mustaches. The other 10% had to shave them off in prison.

Although that might be a bad example because Love’s Law applies only to men with mustaches.  So the mathematical proof is something like:  If mustache, then sex offender. Not If sex offender, then mustache.  I’m making this clear because I don’t want my readers to be pissed when they find themselves in the clutches of someone sexually assaulting them and he doesn’t have a mustache and now you’re blaming me. Some of them know the universal sign and choose to ignore it just to be tricky, thinking you’ll get Love’s Law all backward and agree to help them get something out of their big, scary van with no windows at night because they don’t have a ‘stache.

Now, there is one caveat to Love’s Law #1 and that is, for whatever very disturbing reason I don’t want to delve into, sometimes cops like to have mustaches too. I don’t know whether they think the mustache looks good on all the sex offenders they pick up or what. But sometimes cops have them too, and hopefully they aren’t sexual predators on the side. So I will give a pass to the cops with mustaches – they may not be sex offenders, but they clearly have no taste, so I would advise them to get rid of it as soon as possible. Its creepy, it does not help them get laid and its a threat to public safety.

Now, this is a pretty universal law, and just prove the point I have added a poll here so that others can vote on the validity of this observation.  If it comes out as I suspect it will, then perhaps I can update Wikipedia and reference this poll. Also, next time Oprah does a show on catching wanted sex offenders, this could serve as a good rule of thumb to catch those bastards.  So please take the poll and let me know….

Some more proof of Love’s Law #1 sent in by a savvy reader.

Don’t worry – if you have a big ass, or I think you’re gay, I’ll be the first to let you know

Sometimes I have trouble filtering.  If I consume even a drop of alcohol (Fine. No. I’ve never stopped at a single drop, but shut up, I’m trying to tell a story here), I lose the ability to not to tell you exactly what I think on any subject, including unpleasant things I think about you. I just…tell it like it is. Well, I tell it like it is for me.  And I tend to think that my perception is universal reality, so I can get quite passionate about your flaws as I list them out for you after my second martini. But only because I’m doing you a favor. I honestly believe that I’m just trying to help.  Honestly. There is absolutely no malice involved. I just get alcohol in my system and it occurs to my brain that what you really want — no, what you really need — is for me to tell you about what your problems are. My brain assures me that surely if I see your problem, then several other people are thinking it and you might not know it, and don’t you want to know? And so even though its uncomfortable for most parties involved (and I often make these revelations loudly, which tends to get several people involved), I’m convinced I’m doing you a favor.

Some people are mean or angry or happy drunks.  I’m a truthful drunk.  And this is a very dangerous variety of drunk to be, especially since I’m also a drunk that does not remember the next morning any of the shit I tell people or even who I may have talked to.  But if I try hard enough, sometimes I can conjure up a memory of the look on someone’s face when I tell them exactly what I’m sure that they need to hear.  Coming from a friend. Who loves them. And then I try to piece together what I must have said in the morning hangover fog, but I know what I must have said because I just think to myself about what I really believe about that person and with 100% accuracy, that is what I told them.

Needless to say, I avoid alcohol around those I do not care for, but I’ve never gotten a beat down, because like I said, I don’t say these things with any sort of malice. I say this with grave concern and love, like when I tried all throughout college to get one of my guy friends to just admit for once that he was gay.  I pleaded with him for three years to just come out, but he swore he wasn’t gay. He wanted to know why I thought such a thing. I told him the tight turtlenecks he wore, coupled with the track lighting and the crystal wine glasses he had in his dorm room, along with the key lime pie he was so fond of baking kind of gave it away. No, perhaps it was his slight gay lisp that probably was even more telling. But I suggested this out of genuine love and affection, which makes people less likely to punch me in the face, I think.  And it turns out he was gay. And he actually thanked me for my incessant drunken pleading in college. It helped him come out faster, he said. But then he disappeared from my life quickly after that. (But I don’t care because now I have Thomas.  Ah, Thomas. My fabulous queen.)

I don’t have a problem approaching complete strangers. Because I spontaneously fall in love with some of them and convince myself they need my advice.  Like the time I was at my company Christmas party and I told my boss’s boss’s girlfriend that he was a total prick at work, but I could see that she was a really nice person and maybe that means he really isn’t as terrible as I think he is and maybe she could work on him a little more and tell him to chill out. Or dump his ass, because he is kind of a fuck face (I never tire of this expression) and I would if I were her — all this while he was standing right next to her. But she was so NICE. I just thought I needed to tell her.  Maybe she didn’t know.  It got a little awkward after that.

But maybe God sent me to this earth to give people a clue. To help them out of their misery. Or just embarrass myself.  Oddly enough though, I think my friends would tell you that this is my best trait.  They want me to meet their new significant others immediately because they know that I won’t lie if I think the new guy is a total douche. Even my boss gets me drunk on purpose and then grills me with questions so she can figure out who is sleeping with who and who is talking shit about her and whether I’m going to quit or what.  And then there are the times I’m with my friends who are drinking and getting all pissy because they haven’t found someone to marry yet and I just very kindly tell them that maybe nobody wants to marry them because they’re fucking crazy. Or maybe too passive-aggressive? Oh, and that I wouldn’t date them either. And yes, earlier when you asked about whether your ass looked big in those jeans, you were spot on. It does. You are embarrassing yourself. But I’m only telling you because I’m the only one kind enough to do it.

But my revelations aren’t always bad. Noooooo. Because I think positively. And if I think good things about someone, I’m not afraid to show my love for them. Like when I spotted BD across a crowded bar in 1999, several months after we had a few dates that went nowhere, and I graciously told him in front of several of his friends that I felt bad that he had absolutely no game because if he did then we might be together because when I met him an angel told me that he was The One, but he ruined it because he doesn’t know his head from his ass when it comes to dating and now I might be lost forever to him, and now he’ll never get laid by me. Ever. Ever! (I forgot to mention that I was kind of in a serious relationship with someone else when I told him this. That dude should never have let me go out drunk by myself). But that guy wasn’t The One. And BD was and I felt strongly that The One should be made aware of how much he was fucking with destiny. But I don’t know how much game I had if I told a guy I went on three dates with that an angel told me he was The One. In front of his friends. That is creepy. But I don’t have a good friend like me who is willing to tell me about all the mistakes I make. Luckily, when BD is drunk, he is quite tolerant of women talking about having sex with him, so he listened. And we got married.  So its not like its all bad, right?

So I will make an offer to the internet populace – if you want my opinion on something, I will promise to drink my requisite two glasses of wine and ponder your question. And I will tell you what I think. Exactly. Send me pictures or inquiries to lovenotestomyego@yahoo.com and I will let you know. For real. Because I love you.

Oh, and Oprah – because I love you the most of all, I will continue to supply you with all of my thoughts about you via this blog. You needn’t email because I already know all of your problems and awesomeness that Gayle will not, cannot, reveal to you for fear you will kick her ass to the curb. I’m just keepin’ it real. Because I love you too.

I did not breastfeed my babies because I don’t really love them

…and also I wanted them to have lower IQs than all of the carefully breastfed, loved kids.

I think that you are reading the blog of the only upper middle class, well educated, white woman who did not even try to breastfeed. Wow. That didn’t take long – I can already feel the judgment, and the blind rage that I am so despicable to my children!  I know you think I’m unfit.  Maybe I am.  Did I tell you that I let my 2 year old drink a juice box once in awhile? Yeah. Didn’t even water it down. And while I’m airing all my dirty laundry, the yogurt I feed them isn’t organic, nor is it sugar free. Its the Yoplait kind. That adults buy. And they watch TV. Everyday. And sometimes I lose my shit and yell at them. Okay and sometimes I pretend its their bedtime an hour earlier than it actually is.   So I’m not going to be on the cover of any parenting magazines soon. But Oprah didn’t breastfeed either, so I’m still holding out hope for a shot at “O”.  I’m just lucky that the La Leche League hasn’t made it a federal crime not to breastfeed.

I know a lot of women that wanted desperately to breastfeed their children and then for whatever reason it didn’t work out much to their horror and chagrin.  You know exactly who these women are because they will immediately tell you all of the medical reasons it was impossible and apologize incessantly for their failures as a person and a mother, but they just want to make sure you don’t think they are one of those terrible mothers that would actually feed their babies formula on purpose. Like me.  I fed my babies formula because I just didn’t love them that much and I was hoping that if they were born with any native intelligence, this would make it disappear instantaneously.  And because I don’t love them. Have I said that yet?

Let the record reflect that I respect women who love their children/breastfeed them. There is a lot of fuzzy science research and good, documented reasons to go that route.  Except if that “baby” is four fucking years old. That is disgusting and yes, I will sign the petition making that a federal crime. Twice the penalty if they pull it out in public and lift up their shirt so their four year old can feed as he fondles his transformer.

But I’m not really that judge-y. Really. Not like you. Who hates me because my kids that you don’t know and will never know didn’t suck on my little sad boobs.  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about breastfeeding. I made a little pros and cons list.  It went as follows:

Pros of breastfeeding:

  • Big boobs (finally!)
  • Elite playgroups will invite me to join, despite the fact I work full time. Maybe. Wait – that may be a con.
  • My children will be 8 or 34 times smarter, 90 times healthier and 637 times more loved than they will be if they take infant formula from a bottle.

Cons of breastfeeding:

  • Another hungry human (that will eventually get teeth) will want to suck on my boob all. the. fucking. time. this includes 2am, 3am, 4am, 5am. All hours that I am very unpleasant to be with, if awake.
  • My babies might get hungry in public.
  • I might have to whip it out and have that smug look on my face as everybody notices my boob hanging out at the mall and I’ll feel all righteous that they are so ignorant not to rejoice in nature and give me a special breastfeeding bench to show off what a good mother I am.
  • BD gets off scott free. Isn’t 40 weeks of being hormonal and fat and peeing all the time and having indigestion and people commenting “are you sure you’re not having TWINS” and giving up alcohol and sushi enough sacrifice for one person? Oh yes, and then there is the pleasantness of delivery. Shouldn’t a father be given an opportunity to do penance for all the crap I had to endure ease the burden and bond early with his new baby?
  • I will be bitter and angry at all times.
  • If I want to go anywhere by myself,  I’ll have to carry around a big backpack and hook up myself up to a loud machine with big suction cups, that looks like a medieval torture device to pump out milk that I’ll fret about keeping chilly. And then clean the whole damn thing when I get home.
  • And hate my life.
  • And my husband.
  • And secretly think that this “mom thing” is a pain in the ass.

So my favorite kind of women are the ones that figure out what is best for themselves and their kids.  They don’t worry about what me and my kids are doing, because it doesn’t make one fucking bit of difference to their lives whether I breastfed my kids or not.  And I know this might be hard to believe, but I do love my kids.  Honestly. Really. And myself too except when battling an excruciatingly large stress zit.

So regular breastfeeding moms, I love you. Judgy breastfeeding moms, I love you, albeit a lot less than the others. Don’t worry Oprah – I didn’t forget about you. I love you too.  Formula feeding moms that would have preferred to breastfeed, stop apologizing. You’re cool. Formula feeding as a first choice moms — I’ll see you in hell. But its best if we all stop judging and become friends although we all know that will never happen – because lets face it – we are all total experts at raising children and we know a bad mom when we see one.

So I won’t judge you even though I really want to. Oh wait, there is a caveat. I will mercilessly judge any person pulling the whole whipping-out-a-boob-in-a-public-place-to-feed-large-children-old-enough-to-have-mastered-the-monkey-bars. Yes. I have witnessed this. Yes. When I got over the shock and awe of it I threw up in my mouth a little. Yes. I have been scarred for life. Yes. I guess I’m judgy. Yes. These people are fucking nuts. But I will practice compassion for these women because I am forever grateful to them for not inviting me to their playgroup.

Infants are 64 times more likely to be maimed or killed in cars displaying a “Baby on Board” sign

The study concluded that other drivers are more likely to want to create a head on collision scenario with cars that have such a sign displayed. The study was done by me today as I was driving through the school parking lot. Really, people?

I’m sorry, but big fucking deal you have a baby in the car. Lots of people do. They also have hot coffee, autistic teenagers, glow in the dark rosaries and pet iguanas and you don’t see them running around with signs.  Baby on Board signs are the worst invention for cars since Truck Nutz for three reasons: 1) They incite road rage,  2) Oprah does not endorse them and 3) they kill babies.

Now, if pedophiles and serial killers would just put signs on their cars that say “Child Molester”, “Serial Killer”, “Sex Offender” or “Someone fucking hammered on board” signs, that would be helpful.  And because I’m a patriot, I won’t even charge for that big MBA idea.

A helpful sign

A helpful sign

Normally I don’t dispense free advice, but parents, I strongly urge you to  keep  your babies alive by not being fucking obnoxious. Lay down the signs and get yourself some Xanax.  Seriously. Please.