Ass-burningly grown-up

You know what burns my ass? Making one of those rubber-cement bouncy balls on my Trapper Keeper folder with my butt.

Did you ever do that? Not with your butt, I mean, but did you ever waste a lot of time making one of those disgusting balls that turn all gray because of your filthy child hands when you could have bought a bright, shiny red one for a quarter in the machine outside the grocery store?

Do you even remember playing with the gummy, gray rubber ball you made? No, of course you don't, because the fun was all in painting the folder with rubber cement and then rubbing it off repeatedly to form it into a big, lumpy ball.

You know what else was a stupid, childish thing to do? Not stepping on the green squares in the elementary school hallway because you might get Jimmy Germs. And then, when you did accidentally step on a square, it was also childish to touch the person next to you and say, "Jimmy Germs - no tradebacks." It would have been much smarter just to step on the squares every time, and then just wipe off all the germs on the library door at the end of the hallway.

Although, now that I think about it, you might have to check the rule books on that, because officially, that might not get rid of Jimmy Germs even though it makes sense. Does hand sanitizer kill Jimmy Germs? Could you use the librarian's?

You certainly don't want to be the kid who doesn't care if he gets Jimmy Germs. Because even though it sounds really grown-up and mature, everyone will know that you are just putting on airs because your mommy told you to be nice to the gross kid. You'll always revert, you'll always go back to caring about Jimmy Germs. There is not enough Lysol in the janitor's trash-can-on-wheels to disinfect the creepiness from those green tiles.

Unless you like it?
Do you?
Do you like those Jimmy Germs? You secretly step on them on purpose when you're in the hall by yourself after school or on your way to the bathroom, don't you?

What is it about those green squares? Is it your way of silently apologizing to Jimmy, cleansing your conscience for being so mean and so loud about being mean? Sure it is. Of course. It makes sense, you're a nice person, really, not someone who just goes around picking on other kids. Sometimes kids pick on you, too, and you know it feels bad. It's all about being a nice person who cares about other people's feelings.

But that's not really it, is it?

No, it's not. You love it. You roll around in those Jimmy Germs. You collect them, even putting your mouth over the water fountain because he does. You wish you could spray yourself with those slimy, booger balls of Jimmy Germs. You wipe them on your backpack, so you can save them for later when you're alone and you can lick the canvas. Do you save your Jimmy Germs with the boogers on the wall next to the bed where you sleep at Grandma's house?

I drew a picture of you. Want to see it?

Like it? I call it "Jimmy Germ Lover."

You can find it in the Guinness Book of World Records. It simply won "Awesomest ever," narrowly winning over the picture your ex best friend drew of your dog face after you decided Jimmy was your new best friend.

Ha!

...

Wonder what ever happened to ol' Germbag Jimmy? Wonder if he still eats his boogers. Wonder if he can still take constant abuse and never shed a tear.

Raising Catholic Children: A Parenting Guide

As a convert to Roman Catholicism and the daughter of a lapsed Catholic daughter of Catholics (got that?), not all of this Catholic parenting comes easily to me. Some days, I feel I'm stumbling my way through this holy life, but just as anyone can learn to be Catholic, so too can anyone learn to be a Catholic parent.

So far, I've mastered giving up ideals like equality and hope and understanding, and replaced them with fear, guilt and hate. I'm on my way, and you can be, too!

To become a Catholic parent, it helps to fill your home with lots of creepy Catholic things. Start your parenting with something simple and sweet, a nighttime prayer and a couple rounds of "Jesus Loves Me." A picture book with a fuzzy, teddy-bear cover also helps to bond your tiny, unscrupulous, idol worshiper to God and the Church.

Once they love Jesus, it's good to make sure the children have a visible reminder of their faith:

See that guy right there? He died a bloody, rotten death while his mommy cried so that you could be forgiven for grabbing that toy from your brother. If you really believe you deserve your cookies tonight, you may have them, but I want you to really think about it.


What's that you ask? What is that necklace hanging from the crucifix? That's only the Rosary, dear heathen child, something good people pray every day. The carvings on the stones are shamrocks, a symbol of our Irish heritage, which we celebrate because our ancestors nearly starved to death when a blight killed the potato crops, and then our great-great-great grandparents had to sail on a big, big boat to the United States where you now beg for McDonald's before you've finished your organic hot chocolate from Starbucks. How would you feel if you only had potatoes to eat? Hm? What about if the potatoes didn't grow? Still hungry? You want apple dippers or french fried potatoes?

Next, you'll want to reinforce those feelings of guilt and low self worth with a few reminders of people who are much better than your children. For example:

St. Francis of the Swiffer Wet Jet for Wood

Patron Saint of Hiding the Dead Spiders in the Corner the Vacuum Can't Reach

St. Francis of Assisi is the Patron Saint of Animals and the Environment. He died of an eye disease and stigmata, which is a condition in which really good people - really, only the best people - get bleeding, pus-filled wounds just like Jesus had when He was nailed by his wrists and ankles to a large wooden cross. He died while singing a Psalm.


I'm sorry you have the sniffles, honey, but don't you think you should recycle your orange juice carton? After all, St. Francis always loved the environment, even as he was dying a bloody, painful death while singing praise to Our Lord and Savior. You make your own decision, sweetie.

Another good example is St. Jude.

St. Jude is the Patron Saint of Hopeless Cases, which means even when God is sick of your shit, St. Jude will try to help. Lord knows why they gave him those cases instead of something better. The man was present at the Pentecost, the birthday of the Catholic Church, when the Holy Spirit gave all the apostles little flames on their heads because back then they didn't have sweat shops in China for tiny orphans to make those Lightning McQueen birthday party hats you like so much.. You know, some children have Holy birthday party themes. I'm sure someone could make you a Judas Iscariot pinata. You know, if you were interested. 'Sup to you.


I'm sure Jesus wants whatever makes you happy.


After the saints, introduce something sweet and cherubic: Angels! Everyone loves them, and they are available year round in the form of pins, wall hangings, bumper stickers and sweatshirts your Grandma buys God-knows-where.

Angels are special winged creatures of God who bring to our lives the music of Heaven and protect us in our times of need. Think of them as God's winged warriors.


Once upon a time, one angel fucked with God, sweetie, and things didn't go so well for that angel.

According to the Book of Charlie Daniels, that angel became the Devil, who went down to Georgia, where Johnny showed the devil how it was done. We are never to enter into conversation with the devil, but fiddle competitions are allowable.

All of the above will give you a good start as a Catholic parent, but there are some handy tools on the market to help keep your household Godly, guilt-ridden, and righteous. Maybe Baptists think it's idol-worship, but we Catholics say, "Phooey." Whatever keeps your children miserable is good enough for us!

My favorite is the Elf on the Shelf. He's a little Santa's elf who sits in your house year-round and watches your children and lets Santa know if your children have been naughty or nice.

Some holidays, especially those involving candy, can be difficult for children. It's important to motivate them not to become gluttons or thieves. Giving in to temptation is exactly like nailing Christ to a cross.

Place the elf in a place where children could get in trouble. For example, the candy-filled dining room.

The devil left you unattended candy.

No one can see you.

One little cherry-vanilla Nib wouldn't hurt anyone, would it? Would it be exactly like jabbing the hanging Jesus in the side with a sharp stick? Maybe, maybe not.

In a situation like this, a kid sure could use something to help make the right decision.

Something that appeals to a child's natural evil - the greed, the gluttony that overrules the desire for candy.

Christmas presents.

Not a saint or an angel or a son of God, but pretty fucking scary nonetheless.

By now, you're well on your way to being an effective Catholic parent. Any day now, you'll start working off those minutes in purgatory. God speed.

Romance

After Rapejoke Sunday (new regular feature? could be funzies!), we could use a palette cleanser.

Let's talk about romance. I thought I got PHubby the best Valentine ever (I can't tell you about it because I'm writing about it before I give it to him), but he made me three e-cards that are all even better than the one card that cost money.

Also, he never told me you can make free e-cards of your very own on someecards. Apparently, he did it for the first time for Mother's Day and told me about it. Somehow I wasn't listening, and I'm pretty sure that's because he's always trying to tell me stuff when I'm purposely tuning him out.

Lately, he's been texting more than he used to. His favorite text shtick is "I love you more than ..."

So far, he loves me more than fat kids love insulin, more than midgets love Baby Gap, and more than Todd Palin loves happy endings.

And now this ...







Click here for other PHubby-created cards. (Why didn't he tell me about this back when I was fiddling with the site that doesn't have free stuff?)

So, anyway, I recently told my mother about the blog. Again, sorry, mom. PHubby didn't want me to post his cards because he was worried about you reading them and thinking ill of him.

For readers, here's a little story about my mother's best friend:

When I was pregnant, my friends and family members threw one big baby shower, which was really convenient and it was in a nice little restaurant close to my parents' house. Everything was pretty and sweet. I mean, really, the salad had strawberries in it. How quaint, right?

One of my friends had two cakes made (one for each baby in my uterus) that looked like little knit baby sweaters, which was extra super cute because BFF's mom knitted baby sweaters for the twins. Just a sweet, classy day.

At the end of the shower, PHubby showed up to help us load the gifts and his gigantic wife into the car. Some guests had already left, but many were still mingling, enjoying drinks or oohing and aahing over the baby gifts.

PHubby quietly walked in the door to the room and was spotted by Mom's friend, who in front of PHubby's mother immediately said, "Hey! I know you! You're the one who left it in too long."

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. Go forth and multiply or, if you're alone, keep a lid on the weeping so the rest of us can enjoy our chocolates and sex. No matter what the singles say, or what the bitter ex-singles who still hate Valentine's Day say, Valentine's Day is super special except when you have your period.

His gentle strangulation lulled her into a deep sleep

This is the story of a man and his cat. (To be technical, she was my cat, but then he and I formed a special, perfect union in the eyes of God and shared an address, and then he peed all over my cat and now she's his. I can't have anything he covets - he always pees on it.)

(The parenthetical portion of the above paragraph is all bullshit.)

This is the story of a man and his cat.

A cat who used to be mine, a cat I knew. As a tiny kitten, she came into my home, which was a shabby second-floor-and-attic with thin taupe carpeting and a linoleum bedroom floor. I was sad, alone, and a senior in college, living by myself when PHubby and I broke up.

*sob*

My mother, concerned of course that I would probably die an old maid still crying over that irrationally thin rugby kid I brought home a couple summers in college, suggested I get a cat. My dad wanted to be angry about the new pet, I could tell, but my mother took the fall.

I was aware of that dynamic, but I pretended to ignore it by acting happier than I actually was about being a single 21-year-old living alone with a cat. Because at least I had a cat.

Isabella was a tiny little alley cat, mostly black with a white bib and white paws. Her ears were impossibly huge. A classmate of mine tried to save her but the mewing all night was driving her crazy. I was just the sort of sad, pathetic break-up mess that needed something new to obsess over and a warm body to snuggle at bedtime.

PHubby watched her while I bought some new pet supplies. Even though he was my ex. Because I asked him to watch my kitten - a really awkward question because I knew how it seemed.

Unfortunately, I was in a jam because I had not prepared at all for the new cat - starting with the cat carrier. The error soon revealed itself because Isabella, as a 2-month-old kitten, repeatedly and violently flung herself at the windshield of my navy blue '86 Mustang convertible.

After driving her the five blocks to my apartment and taking her upstairs, I was pleased she survived the drive and seemed to like the joint. Soon, she would need to use a litter box, and I didn't have one. I did, however, have a 2-pound furry psycho who was willing to fling herself repeatedly against a windshield, a bucket of bleach in the kitchen, and a lot of dangerous small spaces.

Luckily, I also had an ex-boyfriend (PHubby) with a cat of his own (with litterbox) who lived in walking distance.

I swallowed my pride and called PHubby, who kindly watched the cat for 20 minutes while I went out and bought supplies.

Now, long story short, a few weeks later, PHubby wooed me back with blueberry pie and coffee at the Amish truck stop and a screening of Orgazmo in my apartment.

I know what you're thinking: God, that's romantic. But that's only because you don't know the most romantic thing PHubby's ever done, which was to yell "Yahtzee" during climax. We can all agree that was not only extremely sexy, but also thoughtful and kind of epic. (Happy V-Day, baby. This one's for you.) (Also, sorry Mom.)

That was the day Isabella first showed herself to be a traitor, because she was all over him while I was trying to play hard to get.

Isabella is a lap cat. She likes to sleep at the foot of the bed, and she particularly enjoys face pets. Pick her up, and she turns into a fierce shredding machine. She sincerely believes if she is picked up, she will be skinned alive and her still-wriggling body will be seared on a barbecue grill. And, let's face it, if she claws me like that one more fucking time, she might be right.

A few years ago, PHubby decided he'd have none of that. He would pick her up and she would like it.

For a few seconds at a time, he would hold her firmly in his arms and pet her. Then, he'd put her down and she'd run away. He slowly increased the length of time he would hold her.

Now, she'll stay in his arms as long as he determines.

She prefers him. She loves me, but if she's looking for a can of wet food or a nice long petting session, she goes to him. (To be fair, he has impeccable tension and rhythm with head pets.)

She was my kitten. My sweet little Halloween cat who liked to be scared and was forever arching her back. She snuggled me all the time, and chirped at the birds she saw at the window. Now, she loves him more. Her affections lay elsewhere.

He says people should hire him to condition cats. He says he won her over with "a series of rape snuggles."

I say she has Stockholm Syndrome, and maybe that's insensitive of me because I heard Jaycee Dugard totally had it, and really regrets it. She was kidnapped from her bus stop at age 11 by Phillip Garrido and then was rescued 18 years and two kids later.

But, to be fair, if you have positive feelings for an old dude who kidnapped you from your suburban family at age 11 and repeatedly raped you and made you live under a tarp in the backyard,  it's probably because you were asking for it with your sexy Osh Kosh overalls.

Anyway, everything worked out for Belle in "Beauty and the Beast," so it's probably fine.

Yay! I won the most passive-aggressive award ever!

Thank you! I mean, you suck. Wait.

I won an award. Thank you!

An award for a blogger voters wish would post more.

This is exactly like the time the gym teacher wrote on my report card I wasn't working up to my full potential because I didn't see the point of changing socks for gym class and kept getting points docked from my grade for my expressive footwear. So petty. I aced the sit-and-reach.

Anyway, thanks to those who voted for the blog. That was really, really cool of you, and I was really excited to have made the list. (I finally get the whole "honor to be nominated" thing because the other bloggers on the lists are really great and I felt like I was hanging out at the cool kids' table, and it was a lot like that because when it was over, I went home and added a new decoration to my booger wall and made out with a David Bowie poster for a little while. Great day, top to bottom.)

Sweet. Jesus.

Also, thanks Studio30Plus for being actually fun and worthwhile. I'm not a blog-group joiner, but they've been offering a quality place for bloggers over 30 to go to bitch about the uppity little chippies in their 20s who think they can blog and then get movie deals and free sex toys and stuff because bloggers over 30 are way more mature and so above all that, really. So, thanks Jules, Jerrod, Kelly and Jen O. for your hard work.

I also want to acknowledge Didactic Pirate who is rad and gave me one of those blogger-to-blogger awards last week, which I don't post as a rule due to an overwhelming paranoia that someone could accidentally be left off the list and feel snubbed, and things would start getting weird between us, and then it will become this whole cycle of insecurity and misunderstandings. But, because it's coming so close to the Studio Thirty Plus award thing, I don't want him to think I'm just snooty about it.

Gawd, neuroticism is my cross to bear. Neuroticism and a fatal crush on David Bowie.

Really? You want more of this? Masochistic of you, but I'll try.

(And by try, I mean actually try, not obey your fascist dress code.)

Book Reviews About Books I Didn't Read: Tiger Moms

Here's an idea. I like to form opinions about books I haven't read. Here, I will share them with you, so you can pick your reading list based on my opinions which are based on general ideas, whether the cover is cute, and what media outlets are saying about the book. It's like the Cliff's Notes for Cliff's Notes. With awesome opinions.

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Moms by Amy Chua

Tiger Moms is a book written by a Chinese American lady who is kind of racist against Chinese American ladies because it's a parody of how to be a really mean mom, which is what all Chinese American mothers are because they beat their children's knuckles until they practice piano for five years straight until the children decide to be perfect or die.

I disagree with that form of parenting. It's better to raise children like White American moms do. Henceforth, we will call them White Tiger Moms because that feels appropriately wrong.

Lots of people have been taking this book seriously because it's certainly not just the best marketing campaign ever. But no one is really talking about the race issues, which are just below the surface. This book is a straight-up throw-down challenge, and White Tiger Moms are nothing if not fighters. Ever heard that country song about wearing K-Mart underwear and saying "hey y'all?" It's pretty kick-ass, and that's how white women do things. I'm pretty sure.

That's what white women do on television shows anyway, because that's how I know about how to be a white lady. I watched lots of TV as a child when I should have been screaming out of stress at my mother to please let me stop practicing my abacus long enough to wipe the blood off my hands, because my mother was very lazy and didn't want me to be successful. That's why she snuggled me and read me stories. That bitch.

So, I think the best way to raise children is the White Tiger Mom way. Everyone knows being a lazy, pothead parent produces the best children.

It is only out of sheer neglect and abundance of resources children of White Tiger Moms get laid much earlier than their Tiger-Mom-raised counterparts. Furthermore, children of White Tiger Moms cost less over time.

A top mathematician who is absolutely real and not a figment of the author's imagination described the phenomenon:

You see, an investment in high-quality, vitamin-enriched baby formula diluted with nutritionally perfect breast milk instead of water, with an Omega-3 brain-booster shot of ground sardines and flaxseed, which is what all Chinese American Mothers do and we know that, because that's what one Chinese American lady who went to Yale wrote in a book one time, is much better for gray matter than cheese curls saturated with Mountain Dew, the traditional diet of the White Tiger Mom children.

The Tiger Mother's baby's brain grows bigger, allowing more information in, increasing the chances the child will be accepted into an ivy league school, where the administration is likely to take advantage of the parents' desire for the children to attend and not offer any financial aid.

Meanwhile, the White Tiger Mom's kid gets adult-onset diabetes at age 4 and cannot play sports ever again. The White Tiger child then gets an amphetemine called Adderall prescribed for hyperactivity and coasts through the teen years drinking beer on the weekends, not turning in all his homework, on B-minuses.

But, because the child is "learning disabled," the state university is happy to take it to meet diversity standards and will even pat it on the back for trying so hard by giving the White Tiger child a scholarship for being not-retarded but still slow enough for the special class.

This is when the White Tiger Mom's plan really takes hold.

Underachieving White Tiger Mom's kid goes off to discounted state school and meets Inferiority Complex Tiger Mother's child who didn't make it in to the ivy league school and has very low self-worth. The low self-worth makes the Tiger kid fall in love with the White Tiger kid, and it's a match.

White Tiger child achieved the same things as the Tiger child with a third of the work and a third of the money.

And White Tiger mothers? We get to use the leftover time and funds on obvious highlights and skinny jeans. Target run, bitches! Go, Team Aniston.

Ball's in your court, Tiger bitch.