First of all If you reblog this post you help me, I help you and you help your readers, so everyone wins.. There are thousands of good blogs out there and think of all of that we are missing just b…
Source: Share your blog!
So my kid got into shit again at school. This time it was for stomping out of his classroom and walking home. He’s 6.
Of course, I got a call from his teacher asking me to come in. This was a very serious matter and needed to be addressed immediately.
When I rushed down the hallway towards the principal’s office, I saw him slumped over in a chair. His feet didn’t quite touch the ground and he just looked so small…
But this sentimentality is what turns normal, rational people into helicopter parents, which in turn turns kids into useless assholes, unable to take responsibility for their own fuck ups. So I sucked it up, got into character and marched towards him.
Before I could speak, the teacher and principal stepped out to meet me. They turned towards my sullen son and said,
“Are you aware that your son left his classroom without permission and walked home?”
“Apparently, he realized you were at work, so he walked back to school.”
“And then,” his teacher said. “When I asked him why did chose to do this, even though he knew it was against school rules, he told me…”
I braced myself, waiting for the ax to fall.
“He told me it was because he was ‘sick of our arbitrary rules.’”
If he’d used some terrible swear word, I’d assume it was really my fault, but the word arbitrary? Correctly in a sentence? I tried not to look proud, but what else could a mother feel?
“What,” the principal interrupted my thoughts. “Are you planning to do about this?” she said accusingly.
I was planning to take him home and give him a very stern talking to. I intended to make him write an apology to his teacher for scaring her and wasting her time. I was also for sure going to ground him from screen time for….I don’t know…a week?
But to them I said, “Well, first, I’m going to congratulate him on his correct use of the word arbitrary.” I then took my son by the hand and walked him home.
I publicly took his side, not because it was necessarily the right thing to do, but because it’s what I wished someone would have done for me when I was a spy.
At eight years-old, I was totally obsessed with the book Harriet The Spy. I read it like 100 times and so was inspired to convert my family’s abandoned rabbit hutch into a spy fort. I got myself a notebook, mapped out a spy route and got right to work. More than once my mother got calls from our neighbours:
“Can you please tell your daughter to stop looking through my bathroom window?”
But I couldn’t stop, it was all part of the job. And my commitment to spying soon paid off.
There was a Mac’s Convenience store at the corner of Dunbar and 38th, which I used to pass by regularly to record the goings on of the customers. One day I discovered that the workers ripped the covers off all their unsold magazines and tossed them into the dumpster behind the store on the last Wednesday of every month.
So, after dinner, when it got dark, I took my wagon down to the dumpster, climbed in and grabbed all the copies of Playboy, Hustler and Penthouse I could find, snuck them home, hid them under the floorboards of my spy fort and sent out the word.
Soon, I was the most popular girl in the neighbourhood – at least among the boys. Neither my mom or dad noticed the huge stash of Popeye Cigarettes or the pile of crumpled dollar bills shoved in my bedside table drawer. No one blinked an eye when Tony, who was nearly 13 at the time, regularly showed up at my front door and asked if I could come out to play. But it was the 70’s, so there you go.
Anyhow, I was rich and popular and loving every minute of it until Mike’s mother found the magazines hidden under his mattress. She dragged him into our kitchen by the ear and demanded to know why and how I’d sold her good, Catholic son (gasp) Pornography!! (more gasps all around).
I got the spanking of my life. My parents confiscated all my money and my cigarettes. My dad tore down my spy fort and I wasn’t allowed to play with anyone on our street for a really long time.
I wish I’d known then to tell my folks to stop focussing on the porn. The porn wasn’t the point. Why was everyone focusing on the porn? When they should have noticed the genius behind it all…that might have otherwise been directed in a more positive way.
Who knows where it might have led?
Do you(or your kids) use your powers for good?
Thanks for reading… hope you’ll share widely. xx
Do something BigThis is a long video. But it’s worth watching. The part that suggests real and excellent ways people who are concerned about the next four years can take action starts at 17:00.
I’m a US citizen (well Dual, actually), but I owe my education to the US and I have many people there who I love and respect. So for their sake I’m going to translate my moaning and carrying on about how shocked and dismayed I am into actual action. I hope you’ll join me. Even my followers who live outside the US should be concerned enough to do something – because Trump’s anticipated policies will affect us all.
John Oliver suggests some great ways to make a real difference… He suggests donating to organizations that will help and advocate for groups that are sure to be under attack during the Trump administration.
Donate to Organizations like:
Planned Parenthood if you’re concerned with reproductive rights
International Refugee Assistance Project – for those who don’t believe in deporting people based on ethnicity
NRDC – for those who care about protecting environment
NWAC Legal Defence Fund – for those who care about racial justice
Trevor Project – to advocate for and protect LGBT Youth
Mexican American Legal Defence and Education Fund – because you know there’s going to be a wall … or at least a fence.
I’d also like you to join me in no longer getting news from Social Media. Today I will subscribe to the New York Times. Maybe even the Washington Post. I’d love to hear about some excellent and reputable news blogs, if you’d like to share.
My Blog has been renamed and has moved to www.myrestingbitchface.ca
That’s why you haven’t you haven’t heard from me in a while. Please go there to read the real post that has actual working links. And please ignore the pop up and pretty pretty please resubscribe to my blog so we can keep this lovely conversation going. Hugs
Nothing has the power to bring me crashing back to earth faster than pissing my pants in public.
I was feeling pretty good on the day I stood in line at the bank to get some forms signed. Pretty good until I started coughing at the exact moment the line moved and I stepped forward.
It wasn’t a soaker, but there was definitely a gush and since I had no idea how I looked from the back, I bolted from the line and sped walked home. Feeling like a moron. A middle-aged moron with a floppy, stretched out bladder.
Why oh why did I push for natural childbirth? It wasn’t so great and now I piss my pants. Is this one of those fucked up punishments for being a woman because a million years ago some ignorant chick ate an apple? You have to admit, that particular decision-maker is one messed up dude.“It’s because you have a weak core,” Alice informed me when I called looking for sympathy.
So there I am sitting on the toilet, peeling off my pants, when it suddenly occurs to me: My weak pelvic core is just a metaphor. For me and all my mental weakness.
Someone gets pissed off at me and I flap around, trying to figure out what I did wrong or justify why I was right.
Something I do doesn’t turn out right and I flap around feeling sorry for myself, berating myself for failing, searching for a hole to climb into.
I say something stupid and question my very existence.
Where is my core? The part of me that knows who I am, what my intentions are, what I’m capable of. That part that may sway a bit, but doesn’t bend over or break.
Because I’m breaking all the time, which is really the equivalent of pissing my pants in the grocery store.
This realization leads me to the sex store in search for the ben wa ball. The moment I walk into the store, which is located on a really seedy street, where frat boys and crazy people piss in the doorways when the clubs let out – I can feel the shop worker sizing me up. This is the kind of thing my core-less brain loves to grab onto.
“Oh my god! He’s looking at me thinking I’m some lame middle aged woman who just read 50 Shades of Gray and is trying to bring some vanilla thrills into her vanilla life.”
I consider leaving, but instead duck behind the giant black dildos trying not to make eye contact.
“Oh my god!” My brain, which has no roots grounding it in reality, starts to yammer. “He assumes I’m hiding because I’ve never been in a sex shop before because I’m a super lame woman who lives alone with her 50 cats.”
So I straighten up and try to move through the isles like I own the place. Just to prove my point, I hold up and thoughtfully compare a couple of butt plugs. Hmmm, my facial expression reads, this might just do the trick.
But my attention is immediately diverted to this product called Pussy in a Can. It is an actual can, filled with this pink substance that when examined from the right angle does indeed look like a younger woman’s un-ruined vagina. I stick my finger in it. It does feel pretty amazing. But I admit – total judgement towards a guy who’d buy one.
Finally, I get to the Ben Wa display and select a pair that are on sale with adjustable ball sizes in a “fashionable” pink color. I take them to the counter.
For just a second, I feel the need to offer an explanation: “ Ha Ha Ha. These aren’t for me. I have a friend…”
But why lie? “My marriage is certainly not boring, it’s just that I now piss my pants whenever I cough or laugh.”
At the last minute, I come to my senses. No one needs a fucking explanation. I’m doing this for me and that’s all that matters. “Screw you, judgmental sex shop worker!”
I give my vagina a little squeeze while paying for my balls. “Here’s to building that strong core.”
What do you do to keep yourself planted?
Please share or like send me a note. Because until these balls start working, I depend on your approval.
Thanks a million
You haven’t heard from me for a couple weeks. This is because I’ve been lost in a morass of self-doubt and fear. I think I was waiting to find a funny angle before I could write it out, but no matter how I tell it, there just isn’t any humour there. The timing couldn’t have been worse because after my last blog, my loving and patient husband laid down the law: “Every time you write about me, you make me seem like such an asshole. Really? You don’t have anything else to say?”
I realized that I didn’t actually. And this was enough to create a huge writers block.
Desperate to pull myself out and keep my blogging momentum going, I tested out humorous versions of this story with Alice, who berated me for trying way too hard.
“Why not just do something to change your focus. Do something that makes you feel good.”
She convinced me to join her at the Synagogue.
“But, Alice, we’re not even Jewish.”
When we got there, Alice insisted we sit in the first row.
“Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”
A few minutes later a shortish man with just the hint of a receding hairline walked out and stood at the front of the room. His head was lowered and his demeanor, meditative. “Oh shit,” I thought. “A fucking religious self-help talk.”
But then the man raised his head and began to chant. I couldn’t understand the words, but in a moment it was clear why Alice brought me. She always has the best ideas.
The man’s voice was deep and completely filled the room. When he hit the low notes, the resonance of his voice hit me right in the clit. I looked over at Alice. She had her eyes closed and a little smile. I then glanced around me and noticed that the first three rows were entirely filled with women.
“So this is why people get into organized religion…” My last thoughts before I allowed the sensation to overtake me.
Today, I feel much better.
This morning I talked to my husband about converting to Judaism, but that’s another blog post.
So. You may remember that I quit my shitty job. Well, you’ll be happy to know that through my amazing powers of manifestation, I managed to land two great contracts. I’m feeling all like I’ve totally mastered the “Power of Now,” because I can see that I’ve made a brave choice, processed all the lessons I needed to learn at that place and have now moved on to a better position as a more evolved person.
Ta Da, MotherFuckers!
But then it turns out I actually have a whole new set of personal challenges and limitations, which will create all kinds of unhappy shit in my life until I figure that stuff out. I have no idea where this originated, but whenever someone yells at me or uses some I can’t believe I thought you could be trusted, voice, I completely crumble. I forget that there were well thought out and reasonable, even smart reasons why I made the decisions I did. Instead of just pushing back and saying all that good stuff, I get apologetic and start flapping around trying to please everyone and of course, pleasing no one.
I know this is unacceptable, but before I take any real action, I must first complete my ritual of self-flagellation. Which I’m in the middle of doing when I get a call from my husband.
Now before I continue with this story, I must tell you that because I’ve been making my mid-life crisis look so fun, my husband has decided to have one of his own. He quit his job and has also rejected all oppressive tasks that just keep him trapped in old ways of thinking, like cooking and cleaning.
I would be completely fine with this if he used his time wisely by getting really very good at sex. But no, my husband has decided to fully dedicate himself to our children’ s competitive swimming careers and also to doing all the fun, cool stuff I used to do with them – back in the day when I had time and energy.
Do I sound selfish and bitter? I know. It’s one of my many faults. I don’t get a total monopoly on irresponsible behaviour. I know this mentally, but inside I can feel something beginning to bubble.
So today, after a week of harsh lessons, my husband calls me from the car. I can hear the kids fighting in the background. Someone is screaming.
“You’ve got to get home now! The kids are starving and even though I’ve asked Naomi to stop using her high pitched, screechy voice in the car, she won’t stop and I’m sick and tired of being….”
I just hung up the phone. I turned it off. I then crossed the street and settled myself into a seat at the nearest patio bar and ordered a double gin and soda. I pulled out my journal to sort out my thoughts. Since I couldn’t, I called Alice.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” I wept into the phone.
“I’m going to text you a number. Call it and tell her that I sent you. You CAN NOT tell anyone about this. But she’ll help you out. Just call her.”
So I called. “Tell me what the problem is,” the voice said over the phone. I could hear a child talking in the background. I told her everything. She asked several probing questions and then told me, “You want to know how to improve your current situation so you can have more time for your family and be more patient with your husband.” Yes. Yes. That’s pretty much what I want right now. She grew silent for a while. I could tell she was walking. Once I heard the sound of a door closing, she explained:
“Ok the way I work is like this: Tonight when I’m mastrubating, I’ll weave your wish into my fantasy. I can’t tell you exactly what this will look like, but the more detailed and exciting, the better the results. Then at the moment when I cum, an answer will come into my head. I’ll call you with it tomorrow.”
“How much do you charge?” I asked without thinking.
“Jesus! Nothing. I’m not a whore.” And she hung up the phone.
Yaletown has a sexual psychic. You’d never guess to look at the shimmery high rises, manicured dog parks and abundance of sports wear worn as normal clothing – that somewhere behind one of those windows a woman is solving my life’s problems armed only with a vibrator and some great imagination. Somehow it makes me feel comforted – even connected to another, more ancient time.
I got her call early the next morning. “When you find ways to say No, your life will open up. You must find your voice for the right situation and everything will fall into place.” She hung up.
“She’s always right,” Alice tells me when I relay the experience. “She’s got a real gift.”
I wonder if this gift is just isolated to her or if it’s something every woman can access if so dedicated to learning this craft. None the less. I’m thinking of suggesting a gift certificate for our next school silent auction. I think it would make a killing.
How are your truths revealed to you? Don’t be ashamed if it’s all perverted, illegal or just weird. It’s obviously all, all good.
My kids are six and eight years old. I am aware that this is considered the “sweet spot” in the whole parenting journey. This is the time when they’re independent, but still love to cuddle and hang out with me. Now they’re getting into cool stuff, have interesting conversations, while still believing all my lies – we can just enjoy each other’s company.
I know this and yet, I continuously choose to be overly concerned by how they’ve only eaten half the pizza on their plates, leaving the crust and all the actually nutritious bits – rather than adding my two cents to the debate over which is cooler: Nerf water guns or the rocket launcher looking ones from the dollar store.
Why do I care so much if my kid goes to every single one of his soccer practices (“Do you have any idea how much those classes cost?) Or if they’re late for Kindergarten? Really who gives a shit??? And yet, I continuously choose to make this the focus of my attention – over just enjoying their crazy and wonderful little minds.
The problem stems from my brain getting fucked whenever I try to be too responsible. The pressure to helicopter parent is turning me into someone I don’t like and that asshole is raising my children. I know this, but my awareness is so delayed, I only realize my missed opportunity after I’ve done it all wrong.
I am ready to admit that the only way to prevent myself from turning into a tight-assed, lame parent, lies in the responsible usage of marijuana. I have a legal prescription for medical-grade pot to address my anxiety and insomnia. But I find it even more effective as a parenting tool.
For those of you who are judging me or who are reaching for your phones to dial Social Services – consider this: what would it take for you to get on the floor with your six year old son to play dinosaurs versus lego ninjas – and actually really enjoy yourself? The answer for me is two long hits on a vaporizer.
“Mom? Is Jar Jar Binks bad?”
“Well,” I answer thoughtfully. Because now I’m his intellectual equal.
“He’s good in that he’s supposed to be a Jedi Master, but he’s bad because he sucks and his stupid character ruined the entire movie.”
We spend the rest of the evening lying on the floor philosophizing about Jedi powers and the proper and effective usage of them, while dinner dishes go unwashed and wet laundry moulders in the machine. It is also hands down my favourite night in recent memory.
These days, I’m experimenting with a new medicine. Its ingredients include: one thinly rolled joint, two cups of epson salts, some relaxing music, a copy of Vanity Fair and a hot tub of bathwater.
Last night, I barely wait for both kids to get into bed before I indulge. A feeling of deep relaxation and bliss begins to wash over my tired muscles and over-taxed brain when I feel someone in the room staring at me. Felix is standing just out of reach. Normally, I would start hollering threats. “Get to bed now or I’ll….(fill in the blank).” But he’s aware that the effects of my medicine have kicked in. He knows nothing he does will pull me out of the tub, so he sits on the toilet and asks,
“Mom, where does inspiration come from?”
In my current state (hell, in any state) I am powerless to ignore this line of questioning. So we start to talk. Suddenly it’s 11:30pm on a school night and I realize that little fucker has totally played me.
Normally I would be mad, but I’m pleasantly medicated and so I decide just to enjoy. And anyhow it’s my husband’s turn to get the kids ready for school the next day.
What’s working for you right now??
It’s the eve of my fifth wedding anniversary. I like to begin some mental preparation in advance of the actual date because every year I create little secret amendments to our wedding vows.
This year I’m wondering why we didn’t rewrite the originals to swap out “from death to us part” or “cherish and obey” to “I will make every effort to initiate exciting and surprising sex until we can no longer physically have sex.” Or “When I feel a relationship rut coming on, I will use this an opportunity to deepen intimacy between us in some cost effective, yet lovely way.”
I know it’s a total boner-killer to announce that these are the new relationship objectives and then demand my husband do his bit to meet them. (sometimes it would be so much easier if my marriage was much less democratic) But it’s also foolish to think that I can get anywhere without his buy in. I also notice that I’ve got to renew my own spiciness before I can bring it into the bedroom (or the shower, or the kitchen table).
For these sorts of things feng shui is the most useful tool I’ve found so far.
For those of you who are unfamiliar, feng shui is the ancient Chinese art of placement. Although I’ve noted that every culture has their own form, I believe feng shui is the only formalized, widely practiced version… Please, tell me if I’m wrong.
Anyhow, it basically operates on the idea that our homes are a direct metaphor of our internal landscapes. For this reason, changes made to our living spaces, impact our energy, feelings and attitudes, which then attracts things, opportunities and people who reflect back your own energy, feelings and attitudes. Basically, it’s a very powerful tool for manifesting.
All you have to do is lay this Bagua Map over your floor plan. Line it up so your front door opens into Knowledge, Career or Travel. Then choose one or two areas you’d like to improve.
First, I look at what’s there and how it makes me feel to look at it or be in the space. Then I make an objective assessment if this is an accurate reflection of the quality of my experiences in that area.
For an example: This is what my relationship corner looks like this morning. It used to have our pee-stained couch in it, but we had it taken away and now the space is filled with this nearly-broken lamp and an assortment of kid’s toys. Next to the basket of toys, is a table which houses our cable box and iTV.
So clearly there are some issues.
Now, I’ve got to create a space in my relationship area that makes me feel the same quality of energy I want to create in that area of my life.
It is also possible to fuck this part up. Alice called me over to her place a few weeks ago. She was feeling intensely frustrated by the men she was currently dating. “They either put me up on some insane pedestal and then get all pissed off when I turn out to be human or they are just super immature. It’s like they’re looking for someone to look after and mother them.”
Alice had three framed pieces of art work hanging over a single arm chair.
When I asked her how the paintings made her feel, she said, “Sad and lonely, but they’re so beautiful. I just love them.”
Turns this is exactly how she felt about the men she’d chosen.
My space feels neglected and pieced together, but it is in transition. So I’ll keep you posted.
What’s in your relationship corner? Is it an accurate metaphor?