Me, uncensored.
Much to the dismay of Canadians everywhere, many Americans feel like Canada is just another US state. A kinder, gentler, more apologetic US state, but a US state nonetheless. (Maybe it’s all of the beer, weed, and Tim Horton’s coffee y’all got up there, eh?)
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That’s me. Flipping off the haters.
Recently, I taught a course called “Selling Yourself, Not Your Soul” at a blogging conference in the D.C. area. It was not, in fact, a presentation about being a spiritual prostitute.
As you might expect, however, I swore a lot, told some dirty jokes, and was, at times, completely inappropriate. Because I’m Klassy as fuck. (I think I want that on my tombstone.)
Seriously though, I was just being true to myself. And that, not-so-coincidentally, was the theme of my presentation: Be yourself. Fuck the haters. (Not literally though—please don’t have sex with the meanies.)
On my flight back home, I got to thinking about how these lessons apply to everyone, not just the blogging community. They are universal in nature.
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My mother almost died a few weeks ago. Like—was rushed by ambulance to the ER, spent nine days in the hospital, needed multiple transfusions in the ICU—almost died.
To say the experience was scary and stressful is an understatement. But, we also had some fun. And, because I’m nothing if not helpful, I’ve compiled a list of ways you can have fun while your mom (or another loved one) is in ICU as well.
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Parenting books seem to focus on the very basic aspects of raising babies and toddlers and gloss over the really important things—like how to change a squirming child in the back of your minivan after a diaper blowout and how to deal with teenage angst and heartbreak.
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There comes a time in your life when you’re required to make a circus-themed centerpiece. Maybe it’s a decoration for a child’s birthday party. Or a get-well present. Or an anniversary gift. I mean, really, what represents marriage better than mayhem and pandemonium?
And you know what evil lurks at the circus, right? CLOWNS. Fucking clowns infest the circus. And our nightmares. No circus-themed centerpiece is complete without a clown. And I’m here to show you how to make one. I’m nothing if not sick twisted helpful.
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If you have followed my blog for any length of time, you are probably familiar with my stance on clowns. I hate them. Not a normal level of hate, mind you. I loathe everything about them. Their beady little eyes (that bore straight into your soul). Their expressive eyebrows (that signal to their hounds of hell to go in for the kill). Their pasty, white skin (that never sees the light of day because they hunt at night). Their big, red noses (that, let’s face it, probably need some sort of antibiotic ointment—I don’t even want to imagine where those noses have been).
My friend Ashley constantly teases me about my level of disdain for the painted archangels of the circus.
Ashley: How can you not like clowns? They’re so fun and happy.
Me: They’re vile and evil and full of dark, murderous plans.
Ashley: What?! They’re full of joy!
Me: They are harbingers of the apocalypse.
Ashley: You’re crazy. Clowns are wonderful. You can’t make me dislike them.
Me: CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.
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Everyone needs a brand-new dress every once in a while, right? Something special and fun that makes you feel fabulous? Like glitter and rainbows? (That’s exactly why I’m in the market for a new dress, not because I’ve gained five… okay, ten… FINE, I’ve put on fifteen pounds sitting on my ass writing a book and drinking wine for the past two years.)
Now, we all have certain styles that look better than others on us. Me? I’ve got a straight waist and a flat butt so I tend to look better in empire waisted and/or fit & flare dresses so as to give me the illusion of a waistline. And an ass.
I’ve been doing some online shopping at Nordstrom, of course. Why would I actually go to a store when I can peruse the racks in my pajamas while drinking wine? I mean, I guess I could do that at the store too, but the last time I did, Security asked me to leave.
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The first time I used a public restroom with my father, who had recently transitioned to a woman, was—quite frankly—unsettling. Not because I was afraid any crime would occur, rather, because for the first twenty-four years of my life, she (then he) had used the men’s restroom. Walking arm-in-arm with her into the ladies room was a surreal experience for me. (Probably for her too.)
If any other women in the bathroom noticed, none of them commented. All of us gals went about our business of attending to nature’s call, and my once-male-now-female parental unit felt secure. Imagine what it would have been like for her—a woman—to use the men’s restroom? At best, there would have been looks, comments, and/or ridicule. At worst, she could have been in real danger.
Naturally, I rejoiced when Target issued a formal policy allowing patrons to select whichever bathroom and/or fitting room aligns with their gender identity. I feel it keeps our transgender community comfortable and safe, and I applaud Target for continuing to stand for equality, respect, and inclusivity.
But—let’s be brutally honest—there are indeed crimes that happen in public restrooms. Some horrid ones. So I created my own list of rules to address those heinous acts.
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As the youngest of six kids, I was farted on a lot. At least once a week, one of my brothers would sit on my head and let one rip. Eventually, I learned to recognize the warning signs—the glint in their eyes, the snickers, the less-than-stealthy movements—and I’d scramble behind the couch before a stinky butt made contact with my face.
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Remember the good ole days when you could send your child to the computer or television to play a video game instead of parenting as a reward for good behavior?
Well, straightforward video games just don’t exist anymore. You can’t just make a single purchase and let your children play until their eyes bleed for thirty minutes. Activision, Disney, Lego, and other video game companies have turned a simple babysitter activity into a parental torture system designed to steal our money, sanity, and souls.
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