How Many Places Could the Couch Really Be?

Prompt: Weird things you do when you're alone.

Well, for starters, we've already established that when I am home alone, I simply do not wear pants. Ever. I hate pants. I much prefer the comfort of my panties and a warm hooded sweatshirt and slippers (or a soft tank top in the summer time. I am just not a fan of wearing pants.

Weird thing number two, when I am home alone, I tend to talk to my cat, but I'm not sure that really qualifies as weird, as most of my friends talk baby talk to their cats and/or dogs. I think it'd be more weird if I expected a reply, which I don't. But I do talk to Juno, and more when we're alone than when people are over.

The real kicker, though, is when I am home by myself and am stressed out, I move furniture. Like, rearrange it. It's a strange form of stress relief, but it gets the job done. Maybe that's why I don't mind moving so often - because I enjoy breaking up my life stress with a need to rearrange furniture. And I am not talking about rearranging a few pictures or your books on a shelf; when I am stressed, I will rearrange the contents of my apartment, from furniture to closets to dishes in the cupboards.

There is something about finding a new place for something that just alleviates my stress. Like, maybe my life is in shambles, but at least my dishes make sense in the cabinets!

The same is true for work. When I have work stress, I cope by cleaning out my desk. The more stressed I am, the cleaner and more organized my office and work space are. It works for me.

There is something therapeutic and calming to me about having things look different. That really probably is part of why I don't mind moving, why I love to go new places, why I like to work at "takeover" properties and move around from job to job, and why I like to work at other people's properties; it alleviates my stress.

And if it helps me CTFC, it certainly can't be a bad thing, right?

Because I Love Carbs

Well it's official: I am an adult.

There are things we hide from our parents our entire childhood, and things that we still never admit to them because really, no matter what, they are still our parents. No matter how adult I get, I still do not discuss sex with my mom or dad. And even though I am not a kid anymore, I tend to avoid talking about money, spending, or financial responsibility.

And yet, after years of being under 21 trying to pretend in front of my mom that I was toooootally not drunk, I had her over at my new apartment last week and laughed hysterically as I told her I had recently spent a weekend snowed in at home, doing nothing but smoking weed and eating Cheerios.

 Now, I am not generally a pot smoker. Not because I don't like it, but because of how much it makes me eat. Specifically how many CARBS it makes me eat. Cheerios, even more specifically. My number one reason for not smoking weed on the regular is, how many Cheerios it makes me eat.

But, it was snowing. My car was broken down. I had not been to the grocery store. I was likely going to have to eat nothing but Cheerios anyway, as that was essentially all I had in the pantry. What choice did I have?

And so, because I had no other choice and because my arm was being clearly twisted by some higher power controlling the weather, I smoked weed. All weekend. And ate a lot of Cheerios.

In my defense, I also cleaned my apartment from top to bottom, watched a ton of TV, and napped several times. So it's not like ALL I was doing was eating cereal. But aside from the cleaning, I was incredibly unproductive and lazy, and essentially wasted 72 hours of my life being stoned in my pajamas, on the couch with Juno, in front of the fireplace and the boob tube.

And for someone who NEVER gets to slow the fuck down and chill, it was an epic time.

But, this blog is not intended to laugh at how lazy I was while stoned; but rather to laugh at the fact that I told my mom about it. Because no matter how old I get, I still somehow think I'm going to be in trouble. Like I'm going to get grounded for admitting to my mother that I was stoned for 3 straight days.


Life is much more fun when you realize your mom is your friend now. So go on, tell your mom the truth about something today. You won't get grounded. She'll probably shake her head and laugh. That's what my mom did. 

I Believe in a Beautiful Life

Writing Prompt: Ten things that I believe...

1. I believe in working to live, not living to work. I have a job. I have a job that I enjoy, and a job that I am good at. I make a decent living wage, that would be better than decent had I not made financial mistakes in my early twenties. I have growth opportunities, and a boss who is supportive. That said, I do not focus my life around my job. It's a job. It might even be a career. But I look forward to my weekends, my time off, my vacations. I know that I have to have a job, and I am an independent woman; I will never want to not work and support myself financially. I am not looking for money in a partner so I can quit working. More power to ya if that's what you want, but I believe that working is a necessary part of my life.

2. I believe that family is not forever. I was raised in a big family. Lots of grandparents and a million aunts and uncles and cousins. Huge family holidays full of noise and games and love. I don't believe in that any more; it is no longer my reality. I believe in the family I do have, those ones who are forever, those ones who love me no matter what I think or feel or write. Growing up, I spent my days in the honey tree on Kelvin, or in the "jungle" on Monroe. My memories are vivid and powerful, and I still feel a deep rooted love between all 4 of my grandparents and the child I was. I will forever be grateful and will always miss those loud, crazy, hectic holidays; chaos as a large, loving family was what I knew and loved, and I'll always treasure those first 19 years of my life. My anger towards those who are no longer supportive or loving has faded into a hollow sadness, and with some, a true absence of emotion. And yet in this lesson, I have learned to be even more grateful for the family relationships I do have, because while I may have taken my family for granted in the past just thinking they'd be there no matter what, I now know that those are bonds I have to fight for, because family isn't always a lifetime commitment.

3. I believe that life is better when someone is next to me, making me laugh. I learned this from Zach, who despite his shortcomings as a boyfriend, excelled in being the one person in the room you could always be silly with. Zach was amazing. He made me smile. He made me laugh until I cried. He would stay the night at my apartment and we would lay in bed laughing and laughing, for hours. Nothing better than that. Life is truly too short to not find something to laugh at every day. My life was better in the short time Zach was a part of it, and I will never stop being grateful for everything he taught me about letting go of my pride and just being a goofball.

4. I believe that being "Auntie V" makes me a better person. I don't have babies of my own, and I can't picture having full time kids in my apartment. It's so clean and quiet here, and I know what kids do to that serenity. That said, I am deeply grateful for my relationship with my cousins' kids. I love these babies. I love to spoil them, have them over to my house to make messes and eat candy, watch movies with them, and read them books. I love when Blake calls me on the phone to tell me something he learned or something he did, like when he pooped in his potty. I love that I can curl up on the sofa holding Camille and just listening to her little snore. I love how afraid of me Oskar is and the way that Archer yells and runs. I love getting letters in the mail from Madelyn, and watching Lily and Eloise chase my cat around the house. The kids in my life are amazing. They are smart and awesome, and they have such distinct personalities; it's great. They make my life better. I want them to always call me and look up to me, and find safety with me when they run into trouble. Whether or not I ever have babies of my own, the little people in my life make me want to be better so they want to be like their Auntie V one day.

5. I believe that everyone would benefit from a little therapy. No need to elaborate too much here. I need it, you need it...we should all just give it a go!

6. I believe that Juno saved my life. You've all read the story. I don't need to retell it. If you missed it, HERE is where I give all the credit to a fluffy, little black kitten who saved me from the worst black hole I have ever fallen into. The next time you think I am spoiling the cat or seeming a bit crazy cat lady, remember that I don't love Juno because she's a cat; I love her because she rescued me from my really unhappy existence. And that's why I let her bite you when you come over.

7. I believe in my ability to write, and to write well. This blog has given me so much more confidence in the past year! I love that so many of my friends read it, and that so many strangers on the internet read it - it's such a compliment to me that people actually tune in daily to read what I have to say. The day I find out how to make a living wage on a blog, I will be a happy woman! I am so much more confident, and also so much more practiced, as a writer since starting this blog - I am less worried about what people think, more confident in my opinions and my ability to express them, and more excited about growing as a writer. So thank you for reading!!

8. I believe in my best friends, their hearts and their souls, and that they are amazing people. I have the best friends I've ever had. I have learned from them the meaning of a true friend. It's not about how many friends you have or how often you get to see them. Some of my best friends, I very rarely actually see. Some of the people I see the most often or talk to fairly often, I know are not the ones who will be here for me long term. My best friends - Rachel, Kattie, Heather, Adelle - have taught me that whether you talk to someone once a day or once a month, friends are friends, and they're the ones you can always count on. I am lucky to have them, as coworkers, roommates, and especially as friends.

9. I believe that being at the beach reminds me to slow down and by happy. How can it not? How can the sun and the wind and the waves not just make you stop and think about how amazing life is? The beach is my happy place. Always has been. My grandparents lived there, and I was always running down to visit them on my days off work or on spring break or winter break. I do the same now; pack a book, a 6 pack, and Juno, and run down to curl up in the rocking chair for two days. It makes me happier than anything or anywhere else. When I publish my first best-seller, I'm gonna buy myself an oceanfront condo where I can spend the weekends whenever I want.

10. I believe in living in the moment. Be happy. Do whatever makes you happy. If you want to take a trip or stay in your jammies all weekend or go out dancing, it doesn't matter. Do it. Make it count. You never know when you might be living your last moment, or when someone close to you may be living theirs. Embrace that. Don't let it bog you down, but really cherish those moments with everyone who matters to you. Say good morning and kiss goodnight. Snuggle for 5 more minutes. Play toys, read books. Go somewhere. Try something new. See something different. And for the love, LAUGH about it! Just be happy with every passing moment; no regrets.

There Are Plenty of Fish in the Sea...But I Wish Some of Them Would Drown

Writing Prompt: Online Dating. Have you done it? How do you feel about it?

I met my last boyfriend online. On Match.com, specifically. I think online dating can be a legit way to meet people, to get your feet wet in the relationship pool, and to possibly, maybe eventually actually meet someone you really click with.

That said, there is definite risk - outside of the potential that you are about to encounter a serial killer, of course.

Recently, my counselor gave me a homework assignment to sign back up on Match. Not because I have turned into a hermit or anything, just because I am not making it a priority to meet anyone. And I'm really not. Because right now, I am my priority. My new apartment and making it a home. My job and learning/training/growing. My friends. My family. My health and fitness. I am being incredibly selfish with me "me" time...and that't not a bad thing. But I decided I could probably squeeze in some interaction with guys who want to take me out, and see where things went. We decided that it was a great lesson in how to continue to maintain that even if I am dating someone, or casually dating a few someones, I can still focus on myself and not lose that.

I went on the WORST date, ever, this week. This guy was a cocky ass. He was rude to the server, he was condescending of what I do for a living and how I support myself, and he seemed to be interviewing me much more than conversing with me. Needless to say, we've not spoken since. But what I realized, as I walked the opposite direction as this dude back to my own car to text Rachel and Kattie about what a dick he was, was that I am much stronger than I used to be.

I did not tell this guy I'd call him, nor did I give him any sign that I was interested. I very clearly wasn't. I shook his hand and thanked him for the beer, and made it clear I was parked this way and could walk myself there. Years ago, I would have played some song and dance, or let him walk me to my car, answered the phone if he called again - I would have let him believe he had a chance.

This guy had no chance, and he left knowing that.

I am happy and content, and I know that when it's the best time, I'll meet someone I don't want to punch in the face. And this way, at least I'll have some entertaining stories along the way!

I Can Take Care of Myself...But Sometimes I Don't Want To

I hate cleaning.

Hate it. I hate it so much that every 3 months, I get a new apartment to avoid having to do any real cleaning. You all think that I keep moving because of work or because of apartment floods or because of shitty management, but no...I move this often because I prefer packing, unpacking, and organizing, to scrubbing toilets or removing hair from the shower drain.

The thing about me and cleaning is, I have a legit case of OCD, thanks to my dad and his genetic makeup. So while all of the tips out there are like, telling me to clean 15 minutes a day to always have a clean house, that shit just does not work for me. I'm an all or nothing type lady. If I start to clean, I can't sit, sleep, eat, or pee until I'm done. So for me, a deep clean really does take an entire day...there's laundry, bathrooms, vacuuming cat hair...and then because of how weird I am, there is also organizing the closet, alphabetizing soup cans in the pantry, and rearranging my living room furniture.

I try to be fairly responsible with my money now that I'm old, and I try to make better financial choices. I know that I need to keep contributing to a 401k, whatever that is, and I make sure I have some emergency savings money before I pay for another tattoo. But there are some things that are worth every penny. And for me, that is a house cleaner.

I'll wait for all you judgy bitches to shut up.

...
....
.....
....
...

Ok. Yes I said it. I believe that paying someone to clean my house is worth it. And by house, I do mean apartment. Small apartment. That I live alone in. I don't care. I know it's all my mess, and all my dust, and I know that all the hair on the bathroom floor came out of my head (in other news, how I am not bald with all of that falling out of my head, I will never know). I don't care. I simply don't have time to do it myself.

762 square feet is a lot of dusting. It's a lot of vacuuming. It's a lot of work that I have no desire to do. Scrub baseboards? No! Dust windowsills? Nah, I'm good.

I have been told that I have no idea what I am talking about because I live in a teeny place, all alone, with no husband and no kids, and no muddy-pawed dog to clean up after. And that's true. I don't have those things. But I do have a cat that sheds almost as much as I do. And I do have a full time, demanding job that often exhausts me more emotionally than anything else. And really, more than anything else, I just don't think anyone should spend an entire day doing anything that they hate as much as I hate to deep clean.

Truth be told, I want nothing to do with cleaning. I don't mind doing my own laundry, and I will organize the shit out of any closet ever, but when it comes to a deep clean, I am just not interested. BUT, I want a clean apartment. I don't like Juno fur collecting in corners or toothpaste in the sink. But I also don't hate it enough to scrub it on the weekend. The weekend is my time, and on my time, I don't clean up messes. I clean up messes 40-50 hours a week; it's what I get paid to do, clean up after people who can't take care of their own lives.

And so, a house cleaner for $20 an hour once a month. WORTH IT.

I may not get my hair cut and colored on a regular basis because I don't have fifty bucks, and I may not get my toes done as often as I'd like...but now that I've found someone I trust to do good work and not steal from me, you better believe this will be my splurge.

So when you come visit me, please know two things: One, I organized my own book shelf, by height, thickness, genre, and alphabetical order by author. And Two, I didn't dust that shit myself. 

Is That a Gun in Your Pocket, or Are You Just Happy to See Me??

It's been a little while since I have posted a legit, over the top rant about something that seriously pisses me off.

Well, put on your seat belts, cause I am on one tonight!

Today I saw on the news that some local public schools are banning leggings from their dress codes for female students because "they are distracting to our male students." Aca scuse me?!? What?? Since when is it MY fucking responsibility to dress in a way that keeps a boy's tongue in his mouth instead of hanging out of his head like a drooling, horny dog?!?

Oh. Since fucking ALWAYS!

I forgot for a moment that as a woman, I am solely responsible for any penis in a 5 mile radius. They cannot be trusted with the boy they are attached to, of course. How fucking insulting!! Insulting to women that we are expected to monitor our looks or our actions, and insulting to men to imply that they cannot be trusted to keep their own dick in their pants at the sight of a lady in *gasp* leggings!

When a woman is assaulted, someone always asks what she was wearing. Or what she was drinking. Or what she was doing out at night by herself. When a woman is attacked, someone always asks what she could have done to protect herself - what mace she should have been toting in her bag, or what self defense tool it was too bad she didn't know.

No one ever stands up and says, guess what, world, it is NOT my responsibility to carry a gun to ward off horny douchebags who think they have some animalistic right to my vagina! It doesn't matter what I am wearing or if I had 5 drinks instead of 3, or if I think I should be able to walk back to my own dorm room after a party. Why the FUCK are we not focused on raising MEN who don't think they have a right to attack some innocent woman because she was "distracting" in a pair of tight pants.

Fuck that.

The most appalling part of the whole new story was, as always, the comments under the article talking about how it's unfair for girls to wear tight pants and expect to not receive that kind of attention, that these girls need to pay attention to what they are offering to these poor boys by dressing like that...and these comments were from women!! MOMS! Umm...someone immediately remove the daughters (and sons, for that matter) from these ignorant, archaic ass holes. You have got to be kidding me, lady - I can't wear leggings to school (or work, in my case) because some idiot can't control his hard on? Give me a break.

Perhaps we could address the sexism that exists in dress codes as a whole. Did you know that I work for a company that requires at least a 2 inch heel on all women's shoes but does not require that men wear a tie? Sexist as fuck. If I have to wear uncomfortable shoes because they look professional (and by professional, I do of course mean that they make my legs look sexier), then the least you could do is throw us a bone and make these boys put something awkward around their neck. But no. Can't do that.

Male dress code: Pants. Shirt. Shoes. And deodorant.
Female dress code: See pages 2-17.

The same goes for schools, because we have to get on the sexism train as early as possible. When I was in high school, we weren't allowed to wear tank tops. Because, you know, a 16 year old boy simply cannot keep his penis to himself with my shoulders hanging out all over the place like that. The poor boys are just simply so distracted.

Never mind the sagging thing, though, where the boys get to drop their jeans to their knees. Because that doesn't turn us ladies on (I mean, really it doesn't, because face it guys, you look stupid as fuck like that). Point being, I wasn't allowed to have my shoulders exposed on a hot day, but my male counterpart was allowed to let his balls hang out of the belt loops of his jeans should he so choose.

I went to a Catholic school though, so they probably just assumed that us ladies didn't get horny. Ever. Until we were married. And then only when we wanted to lay in missionary position to create life.

Barf.

But I digress.

If I want to wear leggings, I am going to wear leggings. You morons and your leggings aren't pants campaign need to shut up and buy a bigger size. Leggings are pants. They have a waistband and 2 leg holes and a crotch and room for your ass. That is literally the definition of pants. If you can see through the fabric in the ass, it is not because they are not pants; it's because they're too small. Kinda like when your side boob is popping out of your bikini top? That doesn't mean it's not a swim suit - it means your tits need a bigger size. Same shit, different body part.

For the record, the more shit I read on the news about schools and dress code and bull shit about how girls are ruining the lives of boys everywhere by dressing like whores and then not welcoming a physical or sexual assault, the happier I am to not have to raise a child. I mean, how could I put this blog into a G-rated version suitable for my own son or daughter? Dear son, please don't ever attack a woman at a party and then blame it on her yoga pants or the tequila shot you saw her take at the beer pong table. And darling daughter, please feel free to wear whatever the fuck you want whenever the fuck you want, and take a guy's dick off with your stiletto if he comes at you.

Parent of the year award goes to *drum roll* ME!

In all reality, we live in a sexist world where women are held responsible for anything that happens to us. If I get raped outside a bar, someone on the news report will inevitably question why I was wearing something so low cut? To that I say, listen bitch, I wore that because it's what I like. It's what looks good on me. It's what I choose to wear. I did not at any point approach some horn dog and request to be fondled against my will. If one of my friends is assaulted by someone, some news report will question how drunk she was and what she was doing out so late. Guess what, my friends can stay out as late as they damn well please. I'm not a victim, and I'm not friends with victims.

The reality is, until enough women stand up and refuse to take on the responsibility for the disgusting slime balls out there, and refuse to let other ignorant women blame our yoga pants and bikinis for the shit that happens to us, nothing will change. Where are we at on that, ladies? Are you really gonna let some uptight, horny high school principal who can't get laid on his own tell you that your daughter can't come to school in leggings and "distract" the boys? Are you prepared for that same principal to tell you that your daughter shouldn't have been out by herself after that movie if she didn't want a guy to approach her in the dark? I wouldn't be. Bitches please, that administrator is lucky I'm not the parent walking into his office to talk about this new dress code. I'd be the mom staging the yoga pant sit-in with every girl in school. Bare those beautiful butt cheeks, ladies!!

And just think, my life goal for 2014 is to own a gun before Christmas! Yea I'm wearing yoga pants...and yes sir that sure is a pistol...you can see it because my pants are too tight, just how I like them. Back the fuck off...I said no.

It's Either a Big Tattoo, or You Got Attacked by a Shark

It is no secret that I love tattoos. Tattoos have a way of making people more attractive. Or at least to me they do. I just love them. I love getting them, looking at them, talking about them...and apparently, sitting and watching my girlfriend get one that takes 2 days and a total of almost 7 hours.

Because I have nothing else to do.

Not really. But really, because I enjoy the whole art of tattooing.

Tattoos are sexy. It's just the truth in my universe.

Rachel got a BIG tattoo this month. And I watched her get it. And it put the bees on my side, which I thought were pretty big, into the meh, kinda tiny, tattoo category. You can read about her painful experience, right here.

 

We thought it would be kinda entertaining to share my experience of her giant tattoo, so here goes...

Day One: We arrived to do line work and shading, and we had everything we needed to stay distracted for up to 3 hours. Water, gum, and the internet. Seems simple enough. I sat and chatted with Rachel and Travis, the ah-mazing tattoo artist at Tron City Tattoo, about music and movies. I knew that Rachel would want to relive this painful experience, so I snapped several photos of her - without telling her, of course - as the process went on. At some point about 2 and a half hours in, I just stopped talking, because neither of them was up to keep talking. Rachel was clenching her teeth, and was clearly still lying there based solely on sheer willpower. And Travis was, well, it was 10pm, he was tired. It was hard to tell from my standpoint who was more done - she was certainly in more paint, but he was yawning and stretching a whole lot.

And me? I was just ready to get some dinner and get to bed. Three hours is a long time to sit still while your best friend's boobs are showing!

Day Two: We took a girl's day Saturday to get the color done...tattoo in the afternoon, followed by drinks and hanging out. This time was a little less than 3 hours of sitting. The shop was pretty empty, and I read aloud a lot of Buzzfeed before we got to the level of pain where I stopped talking and Rachel cried - I wasn't sure if she was crying because the tattoo hurt or because she was biting through her own hand flesh, but I can only assume it was tattoo related.

I should add that red tattoo ink will in fact make it look as though you are bleeding to death on the table. We did have some laughs about that, because Travis looked more like a surgeon with blood all over his gloves than anything.

All in all, watching someone get a tattoo did 2 things for me. One, it made me want to never get my hip bone tattooed. And two, it made me want to get everything but my hip bone tattooed.

That's the thing with tattoos. You can't have just one - they are addicting little things! 

You Just Don't Exist

To put it simply, you don't fucking matter to me in the slightest.

I think it's funny how much I still matter to you. 

I don't care about you anymore.

I never will care about you again.

You simply no longer exist to me.

Have I made myself clear?

Be the Tornado, Not the Tree the Tornado Destroys

Why do women hate their bodies? And I don't mean, complain about needing to lose 10 pounds or whine about putting on a bikini at the start of the summer. I mean a genetically, deep-rooted hatred for our bodies. A true disdain when we look in the mirror, a legitimate inability to find anything beautiful about out naked selves. Women are taught to hate themselves from the outside, in.

It's true. When asked what my most attractive body part is, I don't know what to say. I get awkward and uncomfortable, and I feel like I am being asked a question in a foreign language that I cannot piece together the words for. I know that I wish I still had the body I had when I was in high school, which is unrealistic and self destructive, as no one should ever continue to look the way they did when they were teenagers. I know that I should be able to look at myself naked in a mirror and find something that I know looks good. I know what my girlfriends compliment me on or claim to be jealous of. I know what the guys I date (or sleep with) vocalize that they appreciate. I know what I should find attractive about myself.

But ask me what I like the least about my body, and I certainly have answers. Ridiculous ones. Ones that my logical brain cringes at, but that my inner raised-to-believe-we-are-all-ugly-and-fat brain sees as hard fact. Answers that make no sense based on reality, but make total sense with my perception of reality. What I see in the mirror is not what the rest of the world sees. And this sadly seems to be true for more women than not. And it's because women have an inner mean girl. My cousin expressed it perfectly when blogging about her inner mean girl; that inner voice we all have telling us we're several horrible forms of the word fat. What a bitch that inner mean girl is, right? Why does she continue to win, every time, with every woman?

Because of SHIT like this:

And SHIT like this:

And also this:

Look at the woman in the pink lingerie - look at the amount of fucked up photoshopping that went into that...her body doesn't even line up accurately for Christ sake!

Example: Thigh gap. A thigh gap is literally an unattainable trait. You cannot create what is simply not there. You cannot alter your bone structure, and your bone structure - not your weight - is the only thing that creates the thigh gap. And yet, here we are, feeling fat because we can't make it happen. And yet, here we are, with it photoshopped in our fucking face. Want to wear a Target bikini and look hot? You better take a hacksaw to your thighs. And apparently, to your vagina! What. The. Fuck. The girl in the jeans actually looks better in the image on the left, what the hell did we need to shave off half her middle for?

In a recent poll - taken among some of my most intoxicated girlfriends - I learned that most women would prefer to watch pornography involving women than men. Say what? It's true. Not because we are all secretly lesbians, but because women have more attractive bodies while naked. A woman's body is soft and pretty, while a man's is, well, not really. So, despite thinking we are disgusting fat slobs, we would still prefer to watch another woman naked than a man. Because a woman's body is sexier. Does this not seem to add up for anyone else? I'm confused. Don't get me wrong, I want to have sex with men, not women. But if I am looking at smut, which I don't often but occasionally do, I am more turned on by an attractive woman. And yet I can't point out one thing about my own body that I find sexy. Why is this?

Oh yea, because I was raised to hate myself.

Not by my mom, mind you. By the whole world. My mom was also raised to hate herself. Not by her mom, but by the whole world. It's sad. And it's wrong. And despite the seemingly impossible uphill battle, I see itty bitty glimpses of the vitally important change in my friends who are raising daughters. And the change has to start somewhere. Even though it's tiny steps, even though it's hard, even though it's near impossible to shield young girls from these media hyped images of sex and beauty and how you have to be skinny and look a certain way, and how in order to be a princess you have to bat your big round doe eyes...despite it all, I see my friends raising strong, brave, smart daughters, not meek, timid ones.

I have used my friend Ashley as an example more than once. Her daughter Bea is like a tornado. She rips through the house. She's loud. She can palm a basketball and she just learned to walk. She's feisty and tough - and they embrace it. No one is trying to quiet her down or pretty her up (not that she isn't beautiful, but you know what I mean). No one is trying to smother her gale force winds. Her mom and dad are just loving her, encouraging her, and being proud of all of her might. She's a tornado. And she should be proud to be a tornado her whole life. I hope she never hates who she is.

You can't complain about what you can change, unless you are willing to change it. Women need to stop bitching about being fat and stop talking about everything that is wrong with their bodies. What do you love about yourself when you're naked? There's something, you just don't see it because you're busy calling yourself hateful versions of horrible things. You're busy looking at cellulite and stretch marks and boobs that aren't quite the same size. You're sidetracked by your thighs touching and your large ass and your bony shoulders.

Stop hating who you are. There's nothing there to hate. Stop comparing your body to what you know is a computer generated image, and compare yourself to nothing else but yourself. And not your high school self either, that isn't fair. Stop worrying about the number on the scale, the size of your jeans, the numbers. Start focusing on what you love. You're a woman. You're beautiful. Women are beautiful and sexy, no matter the shape or size.

Make the change for all the baby girls who are bombarded with images of reasons they should hate themselves. Make the change for the teenage girls bombarded with images of reasons they are fat. Make the change for all the young women who are uncomfortable in their own skin because of the way the media tells them they should look. Make the change for you.

Be a tornado. Because you're too strong not to be.

You're the Queen of Ass Holes

What is it about pushing a baby out of your vagina that makes you think you know everything?

Why do so many women think that after they have a baby, they are suddenly the expert on all things baby?

Guess what, ladies, you're not an expert! You don't know all there is to know on how to raise a baby The Right Way. You simply know all there is to know on how to raise YOUR baby The Right Way. That phrase, mama knows best? Yea, it applies to ALL mamas, not just you. Focus on your own crying, screaming, poop machine, and let everyone else do the same.

Nobody named you the Queen of Babies when you shoved that tiny human through your vag. So stop acting like it. It's annoying. And actually, it makes people hate you, and also hate your kids a little bit too.

Last night, I was met with the perfect example of two parents who respect each other's parenting styles, and it was a great reminder of why I only like some people and their kids, and why some people are not allowed to bring children to my house. Seriously. Some people's kids don't get invited to my house. And it's probably because they have a mother who likes to tell me what to do. I know I don't actually have a child, but I do know which way to hold it, even though there's no this end up sticker on it.

Sidebar: The same goes for babysitting, by the way. When I babysit for people, I expect them to understand that while I will keep their children safe, fed, and happy, I won't do everything the same way they do. I'm the fun aunt. If you don't want your kid to get to eat candy, don't ask me to babysit. If you don't want me to keep them up past bedtime or take them outside to stomp in mud puddles, or watch TV on the couch all day snuggling, ask someone else to watch your kid. We do things in my house the fun way and the easy way. Because I am not responsible for the future well being of your kid, I am only responsible for getting through the next few hours with a child that does not belong to me. Don't get your panties twisted about it.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand. Opposing parental views playing out in my living room.

Rachel swears in front of her child. GASP, I know!! He's ten. He knows he is not allowed to swear. This is because when he was little, Rachel taught him the difference between grown up words and everybody words. I have never heard her son use a bad word, except the one day that he got to have "Dammit Day" where he was allowed to say dammit while we made Christmas cookies. And I could tell he never swears, because every time he said dammit, he giggled and started blushing. And sorta glanced at Rachel like he was about to get slapped. So even though Rachel swears in front of him, he knows he better not copycat her.

Bridgett gives her daughter a quarter every time she swears in front of her. Her daughter is six. Her daughter catches her saying bad words and demands a quarter as punishment, and surrenders a quarter when she says words she's not allowed to say. Also makes sense. I don't think her daughter has ever celebrated Dammit Day.

This came up last night while Rachel, Bridgett, and their respective children were at my apartment for dinner. Rachel said dammit in front of the kids, and Bridgett's daughter said she had to give her a quarter. Now, because my friends are both good moms, and because they are respectful, normal, functioning women who are not standing on a soap box, they laughed about it and moved on. I have friends who would have fought about who was right. I know women who would have actually been mad about this.

Mind your own business. Calm the fuck down. Guess what...your kids are going to be fine, but so are everyone else's. Stop judging the mom who swats their kid's butt in the grocery store, just like you wouldn't want to be judged for using a time out stool instead. Stop berating moms who don't breastfeed or who use disposable diapers; cloth diapers and breastfeeding are not always the best choice - especially for kids in day care. And if you use Huggies, don't talk about how gross cloth diapers are; it's not on your ass so don't worry about it. Stop being a bitch about working mothers. This is fucking 2014. People work. Even people without penises. And then, don't harp on stay at home moms either; not everyone chooses to work and go the day care route. It doesn't shouldn't matter to you - it's not your kid!

Stop trying to always be right. Everybody's different, and that's actually a good thing.