Dear douche with a blog

I have a bit of a phone obsession. Some people crochet or paint or do yoga or meth; I stare at my phone cross-eyed. Sometimes I think I should just staple it to my face – then I could stare at it all the time and have two hands free to do activities. But that is a stupid idea because I can’t find staples that will penetrate aluminosilicate glass.

But there are always people trying to rain on my parade. My smartphone parade. Telling me that my eeny-weeny addiction is bad. Bullshit. Unlike meth heads (or members of a certain knitting circle), I’ve never offered Joe Blow a half and half for 20 minutes of Facebook time.

One of these such party poopers wrote this tasty little tidbit quite a while ago, but I’m slow and generally not topical in my writing obv. If you’re not all pointy and clicky, I’ll break it down for you: It’s basically some douche who wrote an awful poem telling moms to get off their iPhones and start interacting with their kids more. At the root, a pretty good message. Makes you just want to be a better person, right?

When Mr. T points, you listen

When Mr. T points, you listen

No, not at all. I’d like to have a conversation with this woman, though I would have to shout for her to hear me all the way up on her high horse. And God forbid I text her and take my eyes off of my precious offspring for thirty seconds. I might miss her laughing or twirling or crapping her pants.

As a stay at home mom who takes mental breaks from my girl throughout the day, I find this crap to be, well, the crappiest of crap. And I’m curious how Super Mom is able to notice all these sub-par-excuses-for-moms ignoring their poor children when her Super Head is so far up her kids’ asses all the time? That would really obstruct one’s peripheral vision.

Gentle Reader, whether you agree with me or not, I think that it’s high time that all parents stop with the judging and one-upping. Stop focusing on my parenting skills and start perfecting your own. Instead of being enemies and pointing fingers, we can all be a community. A community of parents and caregivers who learn and grow from each other, all while crushing Pearl’s Bejeweled Blitz score. As Whitney Houston, many American Idol contestants and endless amounts of vacuous pageant queens have said, “I believe the children are our future.”

Though I guess that’s what social media outlets are all about. At least what they have come to be: a way to show all your “friends” how you are better than they are, how you are supposedly doing things they wish they could do. I am a better person than you because I can afford shmancy vacations. I am better than you because I work out every day. My marriage is healthier than yours, I can cook whatever’s in this picture, lotsa people like me and I am a way better parent than you will ever be. We will never say it to one another’s face, but we will passively aggressively shout it from the rooftops, in 140 characters or less.

Whatever.

And btw, Miss Judgy Pants, I only answer to one judge. And his name is Randy Jackson.

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TV is for winners

Hello, gentle reader. You may or may not have noticed that I took a late summer/early fall hiatus or sabbatical or what have you. In that time I was able to enjoy some QT with family, general R&R as well as some good old fashioned CBD (crippling bouts of depression). But now I’m back and ready to produce more drivel to help fill in the blanks of your day; between your required reading for book club and your daily surfing for porn. Find some time for me in there. Because I’m back – until increased activity in my amygdala compels me to take a six hour nap and give up on things I love. Bon appétit!

When people are excited to tell me that they do NOT watch television AT ALL, it makes me excited to roundhouse them in their temple. Generally, these are people whom I do not really want to have a conversation with, but I do because I feel as though it is my responsibility as a citizen. So the exchange goes a little something like this:

Me: Hi, how are you?

Jackass: Oh, you know. I’m upset/sad/witless because of work/school/pets/hemorrhoids and I feel like I should complain to random acquaintances about it. Possibly for pity or attention or both. Both would be the best scenario.

M: Wow, that’s too bad. This weather is a little loopy lately, eh?

J: Yeah, it’s really irritating my trick knee/tuberculosis/ hemorrhoids.

[Now, at this point, I’m looking for any topic in the free world that will not remind this person about his or her hemorrhoids. Anything at all will do. Television! That’s something most people in civilized society have in common.]

M: Dude, did you see the premiere of the “The Walking Dead”?

Choices B & C: eye fucking the camera

Choices B & C: eye fucking the camera

J: OH NO, I DON’T watch television.

This is it. This is the time that I give up and walk away. Mostly because it is not acceptable this day and age to Jet Li someone in the face unless they’re coming at you with a weapon or trying to stomp on your Yorkie. Also, because this person is either even more boring than I imagined OR a liar.

I could ask what he or she prefers to do instead of watching the evil, brain-rotting moving pictures on the small screen. But I’m sure I know what the answer is: reading. I’m not knocking it. I love reading! But spending all of one’s free time curled up on the couch, reading a non-fiction selection from the local library and sipping on a steaming mug of whatever? It sounds like it sucks. A lot. Abraham Lincoln called and wants his pastime back. Our founding fathers didn’t bust their asses to create modern marvels like electricity and Xfinity and True Blood so that pompous assholes like you could read by candlelight.

Now I have to go take some Imitrex and Benzodiazepine and sit in the dark with an ice pack on my skull for a while. My eye sockets hurt from watching too much television.