Quitcher bitchin’

Everyday it’s the same thing as I scroll through Facebook (I can’t quit you, Facebook!) Someone is upset about something. Someone is offended and enraged and indignant and literate enough to write an entire article about it. I am being attacked, my deeply-held beliefs are under attack, I am being shamed. Shame, shame, shame – it’s everywhere! Fat shaming, skinny shaming, short shaming, slut shaming, smart shaming, poor shaming, woman shaming, mime shaming, puppy shaming, whale shaming I am so fucking sick of these terms aaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!!

Let’s all agree on this one central idea, this keystone of the human condition: it’s no mystery that there are a lot of d-bags out there. I encounter several just on a five minute trip to Starbucks. Very much like a moo-moo on Old McDonald’s farm, they’re here, they’re there, they’re everywhere. And because it’s our right afforded to us by the Constitution of this great nation (which everyone seems really, really well-versed in these days) we have the unique freedom to say whatever the hell it is that pops into our d-bag brains. Isn’t that magical? I can spout off all day long about economics, thermodynamics, thigh gaps, carbohydrates, the military, the common core, Creationism, evolution, whatever it is that I may know little or nothing about. I can do that and create a hashtag for it and link to an article on Upworthy and attach a picture of a sad, abused animal. That’s some 21st century shit right there.

And what are you going to do about it? I bet your blood pressure is going to go up a little bit when someone says that you have no idea what religious liberty ACTUALLY MEANS or that the Earth has only been around for a few thousand years or that Bill Clinton was the best president we’ve had in decades. What are you going to do about it? You’re going to waah waah waah all over a piece of paper and pitch it to Thought Catalog. Or how about, HOW ABOUT we stop allowing ourselves to become offended? How about we control the only thing we can in these situations, which is how we react to the billions upon billions of opinions everywhere in the world? Right?!

Anybody want a peanut?

Anybody want a peanut?

I’m working on it, I truly am. And I hope others will, too. Think of the shitload of free time you’ll have when you’re suddenly not compelled to write all those angry articles or rude comments or hateful letters to faceless corporations. All that time you spent furrowing your brow and foaming at the mouth could’ve been spent drinking moderate amounts of whiskey and catching up on The Walking Dead before Season 5 premieres. Sounds like more fun to me, especially since those new people they met at Terminus are totally cannibals. Plus that’s really going to free up my Facebook feed for more videos of cats trying to jump onto things and failing.

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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.