THE ART OF NOT GIVING A FUCK

 

The older I get the less I give a fuck. There’s something incredibly freeing about knowing you have limited time left on this earth. I used to give a fuck. Often. About what men thought, family, peers. And then I realized these people had some very stringent ideas about who I should be. For them.

In my 20s I once dated a man who worked in politics in Washington DC. He continually expressed surprise any time I uttered a big word. “You know, you’re really very intelligent,” he’d say, as if intelligence and beauty were mutually exclusive. I got a subscription to the NY Times for him because he so valued intelligence despite me not giving a fuck about politics. Nowadays, I won’t even consider a date with someone who supports my opposing party.

Another boyfriend of mine was horrified I didn’t know the capital of each state. He gave me a list, told me to study hard, and then he’d pop quiz me out of the blue. Before a movie, before bed, “Psst, what’s the capital of Georgia?” I didn’t give a fuck about the capitals, but I performed like a good show dog does for treats. If I had a man do that to me now, I’d tell him to go fuck himself. In Atlanta.

I’ve been called “crazy” numerous times, because I’m passionate. Because I have a temper. Because I like to fuck in risqué places, because I don’t follow the status quo. My mother recently asked me what I planned to do about the family once I published my erotic romance. “Are you going to tell them about it? What will you do if they want to read it?”

I told her, “I don’t give a fuck whether they read it or not. I’m too old to be ashamed of what I do and if people want to judge me, let them.”

I’m done trying to please people. I’m done making excuses for who I am as a person, as offensive as that may be to those with more delicate aesthetics. I own my craziness, my passion, my sexuality, my uniqueness. For every quality that people shame, they don’t realize it contributes to the whole being. “If you weren’t “this way,” you also wouldn’t be “that way.”

Here’s what happened when my friend married a certain man primarily because he’d be a good father. He’s a great father, but as a husband and lover? Meh. Another friend of mine married a woman he knew would be a great mother and housewife. What a surprise they no longer have sex. Another man I know married someone for her efficient organizational skills in the hope that it would help him keep his shit together. “She’s organized all right, but she’s the meanest, most boring person alive,” he told me, “and everyone else thinks so, too, even our kids.”

My point? You can’t have the good without also accepting the bad. You can’t not marry a woman because you deem her “crazy,” and then a few years down the road want to have an affair with someone “crazy” because your wife is so freaking dull in bed. You can’t marry a conservative, stable man and then complain about him only wanting sex in the bedroom. You got what you bargained for, now deal with it.

OWN YOUR SHIT. And don’t ever let anyone else make you feel bad for it. For every thing that people tried to change in me, I wish I had been strong enough to tell them to fuck off. The right person “gets” you; the wrong person shames you. Be proud of your strengths; be proud of your weaknesses. Embrace everything as part of a whole, a yin/yang thing, if you will.

Those who truly love and respect you won’t want you to ever be something you’re not. I know many couples who’ve suppressed their innermost desires with their mates for fear of rejection or humiliation. At what cost, I wonder. I know a man whose girlfriend is fine with him being with another man sexually, but would flip out knowing he was with another woman. So, he lies about being with other women.

2 nights ago I ran in to this 27-year-old who’s been asking me out since he was 21. Finally, I said to him, “Look, being a mother is my first priority. I don’t date. I don’t bring men around my son. All my energies go toward raising him.”

I didn’t care how weird it might have sounded. I don’t care if people think I’m some crazy spinster who will accumulate more cats the older she gets. I’ll fall in love when I’m done raising my son. Or not.

Despite my vow of remaining relationship-less, I’m very open sexually. I love talking about sex. It amazes me how so many are uptight about discussing anything sexual when it’s as natural as eating or breathing. They wonder why they have problems in the bedroom. When you pull the stick out of your ass and actually communicate about your wants and desires without fear of losing the person, that’s when you’re truly liberated. So what if you lose your partner? Is it easier to live a lie? So many women long to be dominated sexually by their man (or men wanting to dominated by women) and yet, they can’t tell them. They’d rather remain frustrated, resentful, unfulfilled. All because they’re worried about losing the other person who they probably shouldn’t have married in the first place.

Stop giving so many fucks.

One life. Limited time. Think about it.

VANILLA, BDSM, WHO CARES?

I finally started a new novel. It’s an erotic romance, which is a complete departure from the 2 romantic comedies I have written. But my muse writes the story. I find I have very little control over which way it goes.

Unfortunately, the writing has been very slow going because the muse has chosen to add certain facets to the story I am completely unfamiliar with, resulting in me having to do a crapload of research. One of my heroes is an artist, another is a pediatric neurosurgeon. My heroine owns horses. She teaches Gothic architecture at a college. I know of none of this stuff. Write what you know, they say. There’s a reason for that. You get your book written in half the time.

But my muse is stubborn and her ideas are firm. She wants elements of BDSM. I groaned when she first informed me of this. “No, no, no, there are enough Fifty Shades of Grey knockoffs, for goodness sake,” I complained. But the bitch wants what she wants.

Now, researching the BDSM lifestyle is interesting because it has obviously exploded since the 3 Fifty books came out. I understand the BDSM community has felt misunderstood in the past, that outsiders think it’s all about abuse, and Fifty is in no way an accurate representation of an authentic Dom/sub relationship.

I’ve been reading tons of blogs. I’ve talked to both men and women involved in the lifestyle. I’ve joined private groups on Facebook, and followed many pages of Doms, Dommes, subs, and littles. Private groups on Facebook, and even certain blogs on Tumblr portray the lifestyle pretty accurately. Their main objective is to provide accurate information, which is vital so participants don’t get taken advantage of, or worse, injured.

The public fan pages on Facebook mystify me though. Obviously, erotic authors have professional fan pages with provocative photos and/or relevant articles related to whatever they’re writing about, but this is done to sell books. I can’t figure out why any Dom or a Mistress would create a fan page just for the hell of it. Entertainment? A creative outlet? Ego? And they have tons of followers, mind you. We’re talking thousands. It’s like they’re celebrities.

Dommes post erotic photos (within FB guidelines), which are like the clean version of porn stills, so the comments are all by middle-aged to older men wishing it was them being stepped on with spike heels or paddled or walked outside with a leash. “Yes, Mistress,” Please, Mistress,” “I love you, Mistress.” But Mistresses make it clear they’re not to be solicited for business.

Dom pages are even worse, because women as a whole seem to be particularly vulnerable to men who come across as assertively sexy or provocative. Doesn’t matter that these women have no idea what the man looks like. Hell, he could be posting while sitting on a dirty, ripped couch in stained underwear, swigging a Bud, but if they portray themselves as sensitive and in touch with women’s feelings (while being DOMINANT, of course), women swoon like prepubescent girls paging through Tiger Beat Magazine.

“Oh, Sir, if only I could find a man like you.” “Sir, your words hit me right in my solar plexus.” “Sir, Sir, Sir…”

It feels a little cult-like to me. Why should a stranger call someone they don’t know “Sir” if he’s not your Sir. No one addresses a “Daddy” as such. It’s way too personal a title. Another thing I’ve noticed is a lot of middle-aged Doms prefer emotionally-broken 20-somethings. I’m not sure if this is because they feel they can save them or mold them, or what. And FFS, does every Dom have to be a polygamist and an exhibitionist? Seems like their most important pastime in life is going to dungeon parties, picking out a new, young impressionable thing, getting her up on a St. Andrew’s cross and going to town on her.

It’s bad enough practically every single kinky picture involves young, thin, and firm. (Isn’t this what “vanilla” people complain about all the time?) In a lifestyle claiming diversity and open-mindedness, where the fuck is the diversity? Where are all the middle-aged, thick women? Surely, there are plenty. And in a community that preaches non-judgment, they’re pretty freaking judgmental when it comes to a vanilla lifestyle. If a couple wants to have vanilla sex and it’s satisfying to them, who is anyone to judge? Just because someone enjoys being whipped or humiliated or tied up doesn’t make them any more edgy than someone who prefers being vanilla. (Oh, how I despise that banal term.)

I guess what I’m questioning is the need for some people to have their sexuality right out there in the open. Is it really anyone’s business what their kinks are? Why do they feel the need to share them with the rest of the world? If I came out as a lesbian, I don’t think I’d start a public Facebook page and only post things regarding homosexuality. By making it your sole identity, it goes against what gay people ultimately want—to be like everyone else by not having their sexuality singled out.

I dunno. Maybe I’m just a cranky, private, introverted, non-exhibitionist monogamist.

I’d love to hear anyone’s views on the subject.

MY NEW LEAF IS STILL A LITTLE BROWN

Even though I don’t make resolutions per se, I always try to start off the year with a new and improved clean slate. After all, who doesn’t need some form of self-improvement?

I’m trying to adopt a more positive attitude in my life. Some people have this crazy notion that I’m a pessimist. I correct them by saying I’m a realist; there’s a difference. But once they start showing me all the ways I’m negative, I naturally become defensive and tell them if they were a fellow New Yorker, they’d “get” me in a way that only sarcastic, pragmatic New Yorkers can, then we end up arguing, and I eventually tell them to go fuck themselves if they think I’m such a horrible person, to which they exclaim, “See?! Negativity right there!”

So for all you fellow pess-, I mean, realists out there who want to improve your outlook a little (but only to get the people in your life off your back, NOT because you need an attitude adjustment), I’ll show you how I’m doing so far.

Today was Sunday—the perfect opportunity to sleep in. Only the dogs, the cats, and the birds didn’t see it that way. So every half hour starting at 7am, either the dog would lick my face or the cat would sit on my face while the birds loudly squawked in the background.

Finally, at 11 I hauled my butt out of bed. I hate mornings. So my first thought was, Ugh, I feel like crap. Mornings suck. Damn these animals.

But then I concentrated on how much I love my pets, even though they insist on puking all over the only 3-inch square of carpet that remains in our home, rather than on the 1300-square foot of floor. Or that every year the cats feel the need to mark the Christmas tree, leaving the delightful seasonal aroma of pine and piss throughout the house. Bodily fluid infractions aside, they bring me joy 98% of the time and that’s enough to be grateful for.

Already, I was happier. Until I remembered I had to walk the dog before my morning coffee. Going outside before I’ve had my first cup of coffee is akin to getting a tooth filled without Novocain. Annoyingly painful. But I’ve been written up so many times by management for letting the diva run loose to pee that we’re now at the “You have 7 days to get rid of your dog or we’ll evict you” stage.

However, my new and improved 2016 attitude realizes they’re just doing their job, and I needed to let go of the plan to make voodoo dolls in their likeness.

So I snapped the leash on the damn dog, er, my beloved dog, and we went for a walk. First person I saw was the man who filed a false complaint with management a few months ago over my dog. He claimed my dog pooped on his lawn, he told me to pick it up, and I refused. Even I’m not enough of an asshat to do something like that. The real story was my dog did in fact, unexpectedly take a dump on his lawn, his wife yelled at me through the window, I apologized profusely, ran to my house to get a bag, then returned to pick it up.

A few weeks ago, I may or may not have confronted him on the issue, peppering my verbal assault with some choice F-bombs, but that was still no reason for him to call the cops on me (3 of them! Who thankfully didn’t charge me with anything, but let me off with a warning to stay away from him).

In any case, this lovely morning the old me would have confronted him yet again to tell him that his damn cat has been on my property every day, eating my cat food, prompting fights with my cats, and taking numerous huge dumps on my property, and did he “know the definition of IRONY? Because that’s what this fucking situation is—Ironic!”

But alas, the brand spanking new me doesn’t want to get arrested no matter how much the experience may enhance my writing, so I calmly turned and strolled in the opposite direction, thank you very much.  See that? A positive, non-confrontational response to a potentially explosive and negative situation.

And that’s about all the grateful, optimistic energy I could muster up this morning, because after looking around at all the crap I needed to do, I realized if I weren’t a single mother I’d have some help with this never-ending mountain of crap, which then made me curse my loser of an ex for leaving and ruining my life, even though it was my own pathetic fault for choosing the deadbeat in the first place, and if I weren’t such an idiot my life would be so much better…

…but I digress.

Baby steps.

AN APOLOGY TO SKINNY BITCHES

I rag constantly on models, actresses, and skinny bitches in general, because, well, they’re skinny…and obviously disciplined (or neurotic, bulimic, or anorexic). But I’ve a newfound respect for them. I’ve come to learn it’s really hard to be a skinny bitch—especially after 40.

I have always been somewhat obsessed with my weight. Not to the point of compulsively dieting or working out, but always mentally obsessing. Because I despise exercise, a quick fix to lose a few pounds would be to just not eat. No biggie, since food doesn’t excite me all that much, and I’m not a stress eater. I much prefer to chew my nails and make other people’s lives miserable when I’m stressed out.

I’ve never had a weight problem per se, but I’ve never been a skinny bitch either. I’m half Italian and half Polish, which explains why excess carbs go straight to my ass. I grew hips at 16 when I went on the Pill and they’ve been with me ever since. I fell in love with my son’s father when he uttered those 3 words I always longed to hear: “You’re too skinny.” He liked thick women with big asses. Who wouldn’t love that in a man?

It wasn’t until my ex up and left me with a 1 year old and I started fantasizing about driving head-on into traffic that I began taking happy pills which packed on the pounds. I didn’t care—better to be fat and (somewhat) happy, rather than thin and batshit crazy. I did manage to eventually lose the 30 pounds I had accumulated from eating bagels drenched in butter, much to the delight of literally everyone around me, including the mailman. You never realize how fat you’ve gotten until you A. See yourself in photos and B. Receive congratulatory comments about how much weight you’ve lost from people whose name you don’t even know.

Weight management is like being bipolar—sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down, but there’s always fluctuation. So when I stopped working out regularly once again and began eating crap like salty snack mixes, Almond Joys, and pizza, the pounds crept back on. Here’s the frightening thing though. While I may have always had thighs, hips, and an ass, what I NEVER had before was a stomach. So when all of a sudden I had this fucking muffin top hanging over my waistband, I was horrified. According to my rules of karma, everyone should have 1 area of their body that doesn’t give them a problem no matter how much they eat or drink.

After a few months of whining and feeling sorry for myself, I started working out regularly again. No results. Then I started eating slightly smaller portions. Nothing. I cursed my 46-year-old metabolism, and saw myself turning into this flabby, middle-aged potato-shaped woman with a lot of cats. I became depressed. I napped a lot. I took the Why bother? approach. Summer crept closer and closer, which meant shorts and tank tops. I knew a burka just wouldn’t go over in my neighborhood.

So I finally, finally got my ass in gear and took charge. Made a goal, started getting B-12 shots in my ass for energy, bought some green detox powder that tastes like mowed grass, plus a high-quality meal replacement drink that becomes gluey paste if it sits too long. I started exercising and using little 5-pound weights. But I did not actually start noticing a distinct change in my body until I took drastic measures. What did I have to do? I had to go to Hell and stay there. In fact, I’m still there, because I’m 6 pounds away from my goal.

For the last month, I have been working out every. freaking. day. I have NEVER done that in my life. I drink that green crap for breakfast, a meal replacement for lunch, and have a salad with maybe some tuna in it for dinner. I dish out lasagna and pizza for my son while biting my fist in frustration, but I have not caved yet. I went to a 4th of July party and didn’t drink alcohol or eat dessert. I had guacamole without the chips, and chicken instead of beef.

Sure I may feel great, but are you kidding me? This is no way to live. How do the skinny bitches do it? I mean, yeah, I’ve lost weight, but I had cherry tomatoes for dessert last night when I was craving something sweet. Fucking cherry tomatoes! That’s insane to have to do that all the time. In order to be skinny, you have to omit carbs (the good ones, anyway) which means you can never eat a goddamn sandwich or a burger. Certainly no chips. Or tortillas. No to sugar. And steak. And pasta. And potatoes. And what you do eat has to be in minute amounts. Plus, you have to exercise like 2 hours a day!

I applaud all you skinny bitches, because it’s damn hard to stay skinny. The will power and discipline needed is enormous and commendable. I think it was Julia Roberts who once said that in order to be thin you have to say no a lot when it comes to food. Yeesh.

So Brava to all the skinny bitches out there! I’ve decided I don’t want to join your masochistic club (the dues and obligations are way too high), so I’ll be admiring you from afar, instead.

How many of you are skinny bitches? And how in the hell do you stay that way?

DEPRESSION IS

“Nighthawks” by Edward Hopper

WARNING: The following post is NOT warm and fuzzy. Proceed at your own discretion.

Depression is a fickle bitch.

It’s PMS, road rage, PTSD after returning from Iraq, or staring down at your beautiful newborn and feeling…nothing. It’s partial paralysis after a stroke, a blown-out knee, an unwritten novel, failed dreams. Constant pain from a herniated disc, dialysis, gluttony, the inability to leave the womb-like safety of your home.

Depression is the faded ink stain on your favorite shirt, the dormant stage of a daffodil bulb. Or a zombie apocalypse.

Depression is the dress you buy for when you’re 5 pounds thinner, only to find it years later crumpled on the floor in the back of your closet.

Depression is failure for not being able to “snap out of it.” It’s unfulfilled potential, too many hours of sleep, and medical bills for undiagnosed ailments. Relationships gone sour, regurgitated food, clogged arteries, and one too many glasses of wine.

Depression says No before getting smacked across the face by a parent. Depression says No to the babysitter who molested you, the assailant who raped you. Depression says No to the men you try to please to fill the hole. No to extra work hours in place of family. No to your child about…well, anything.

Depression says You’re Not Worthy. How could you be with Hep B-tainted blood, tract marks on your arms, semen deep inside you from someone who shares your DNA? Or simply that your sexual preference is different from mine.

Depression says It’ll Never Get Better. Because you’ve tried everything. Because the meds can only do so much. Because cognitive therapy doesn’t work when your words and thoughts are diseased. And in response to all those success stories about others who have overcome this beast, you scream, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”

Depression says I Don’t Love You. I never wanted you. I wish I had aborted you. I beat you for your own good. It’s how I was raised. It’s the only way I know. It runs in the family.

Depression says You Could Have Done Better. Because a B+ is not an A, 2nd Place is no Winner, and if only you had worked harder…If only… If only you were thinner, smarter, taller…

Depression seduces, giving you that tingly feeling in your groin. It brings you to that moment when morals, doubts, marital statuses are forgotten. Depression gets you completely naked, ready, and willing…and then whispers, “I don’t want you,” before slinking away.

Depression leaves scars in the form of cutting, tattoos, or grooves in the brain like well-trodden areas of carpet. It can be obvious and deafening like angry feedback during a concert. Silent and seething like a small gas leak. Or brains splattered all over the wallpaper you never wanted in the first place.

It’s selfish and maddening and sensitive and organic. It’s suffocating, lacking in compassion, intuitive and creative. It’s paralyzing and hopeless and cerebral and methodical. It’s both powerless and powerful. Bright light when you remember how you once were; darkness over how you are now. It’s prison, then parole. Purgatory. An apathetic Heaven or Hell.

It’s the underachieving, New Age pessimist and the overachieving, Mensa tyrant. The insanely talented Oxycontin-addicted Narcissist. The gold-medal winning, anal-retentive introvert who wonders, What now?

Depression is Jim Carrey, Eric Clapton, Agatha Cristie, Edgar Degas, and Princess Di. It’s Reddit co-founder, Aaron Swartz, J.K. Rowling, Marilyn Monroe, John Hinkley, Jr. It’s “That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger” Nietzsche, (but if it does end up killing us, it’s only because we’re desperate for the pain to go away). Depression is Mike Tyson, Mike Wallace, Terry Bradshaw, and Oscar-winning director, Malik Bendjelloul.

Depression is the doctor, the artist, the addict, the mother, the Vet, the student, the Walmart cashier.

Depression is the unemployed and the employed, the psychiatrist who treats you for symptoms, the terminally ill, the convict, the mortician who will dress your dead body. Depression is your parent, your child, your spouse, your grandfather.

Depression is a petulant child throwing a tantrum in the middle of the supermarket on a dog day afternoon. “See me,” it cries, before retreating once again into invisibility.

WHAT YOU TALKIN BOUT GWYNETH?

It took me a while to gather my thoughts for this post. I had to first gather the pieces of my exploded head and put them all back together again. What made my head explode? Not men this time, no. It was the asinine comments made by a celebrity. Usually I ignore what a celebrity has to say. About anything. Unless it’s George Takai or Morgan Freeman. Or my future husband, Al Pacino. As for every other celebrity and/or model, they need to understand that the general public doesn’t respect anything that comes out of their mouths simply because they make too much damn money. Anyone who spends more on a child’s birthday party than what an average home costs in California is not rooted in reality.

Let’s take Gwyneth Paltrow for example—the celeb who made my head explode. I already dislike her, because 1. She’s blonde and I’m not, and 2. She’s super skinny and I’m not, and 3. She’s very rich and I’m not. So the bitch already has 3 strikes against her. As if those weren’t reasons enough, I started to really despise her when I discovered this funny little piece written by Jamila Rizvi (who I don’t know, but I automatically like because she looks more like me). Gwyneth is a health and fitness fanatic who I’m guessing doesn’t consume more than 50,000 calories in a year. During the holidays she admitted she splurges a little, which probably means she consumed 5 salted cashews and a handful of popcorn with butter. That’s certainly enough sodium to make anyone gain half an ounce in water weight. So what’s Gwyneth’s solution to getting back on track after all that gluttonous splurging? A cleanse, of course—a cleanse that’s “warming, filling and doesn’t feel like a sacrifice.”

Great! Sign me up, because I’m positive I must have 17 pounds of chocolate and Christmas cookies impacted in my colon.

Gwyneth explains, “Our winter detox has looser guidelines and restrictions than ones we’ve done in the past but here is what we’re avoiding: dairy, gluten, shellfish, anything processed (including all soy products), nightshades (potatoes, tomatoes, peppers and eggplant), condiments, sugar, alcohol, caffeine and soda.”

Wait, what?

Breakfast is a cup of freaking herbal tea. Fine, I might be able to hang with that, but come lunch time I’ll be ready to eat my own arm, so what’s to eat? 6 cups of hot water with chickpeas. I stopped reading after that, because while she suggested things to do to make you less hungry (Wearing socks and drinking MORE herbal tea), my guess is she must eat her money to stay full, since no human can remain conscious on a mere 300 calories a day. But stars and models are a special kind of breed so I’ll forgive the insane dieting rituals they must put themselves through to remain emaciated.

Then came the announcement last week of Gwyneth and Chris Martin’s separation—no, wait, “conscious uncoupling.” Gwyneth introduced the term many of us hadn’t ever heard before. It’s basically a new-age, no-drama approach to the splitsville process coined by the psychotherapist, Katherine Woodward Thomas. “The process of conscious uncoupling involves breathing exercises and a lot of self-reflection to ‘break up victimization,’” Ms. Thomas said. Right. So instead of wallowing in self-pity for years like I did, lamenting the fact that I was a complete dumbass for choosing my dysfunctional partner in the first place, or going the no-drama route as opposed to say, having to call 911 because he threatened to kill me, I imagine Gwyneth and Chris sat down to dinner one night and in between Gwyneth asking Chris to pass the brussel sprouts without any seasoning, butter, or oil, she asked him for a divorce as well. Now that’s what I call congeniality.

Now again, I can forgive Gwyneth for being an airy fairy head, because let’s face it, you have to be somewhat kooky to survive Hollywood; what I can’t forgive is her making ignorant and downright stupid remarks over something she knows nothing about. On Page Six of the NY Post, she talks about wanting to spend more time with her kids—a noble gesture, only she should have stopped there, because she goes on to say “things are more difficult for her than other moms, because of the demanding nature and unpredictable schedule of her acting career.”

Uh-huh. Do tell, Gwyneth.

“I think to have a regular job and be a mom is not as, of course there are challenges, but it’s not like being on set,” Paltrow said.

You’re damn right it’s not like being on set. You want to know what it’s like being on set? I’ll tell you, because I have, in fact, been on set and it sure as hell doesn’t give you varicose veins from sitting all day for a stinking office job. When you’re a lead actress, you roll out of bed and in to the hair and makeup chair. Then you go back to your private trailer and wait until they’re ready for you. You see, all the tedious work is done by a stand-in (which I’ve been) so the lead doesn’t have to stand on her feet for hours under hot lights while the crew sets up the shot. As soon as things are ready, the actress comes out, does her scene, and returns to her trailer where she is free to do whatever she wants—have sex, sleep, exercise, eat then vomit, get a massage, yap on the phone, online shop, fart around on Facebook…she can even have her kids with her if she so chooses because there are on-set tutors!

Gwyneth bitches about not being able to do a routine with her kids because, “When you’re shooting a movie, they’re like, ‘We need you to go to Wisconsin for two weeks,’ and then you work 14 hours a day, and that part of it is very difficult.”

Yes, it is indeed very difficult to have to work 14-hour days for only two weeks out of the year when you could be working 9 to 5 every day, and then rushing home to make a box of Mac n Cheese before soccer practice, racing home after that to get homework done, a shower, bedtime, after which you collapse from exhaustion into bed yourself. That’s my idea of quality time with the kids X 100. (Check out this delicious open letter to Gwyneth from a working mom.)

What do you mean that’s NOT the routine you were referring to, Gwyneth? Your nanny does all that crap for you? You just wanted to be home to kiss the kids good night? Why didn’t you say so? It’s extremely stressful to have the nanny thrown off her schedule. Everyone knows that. So next time, Gwyneth, let’s have your nanny make these comments instead of you, because as I said before, no one wants to hear complaining from someone who has probably never had a “regular” job and makes more money in a second than they’ll ever see in a lifetime. Mmmkay?

BAD BOYS MAKE CRAPPY HUSBANDS

Last week a friend of mine claimed that a lot of women were idiots when it came to men, not only for choosing losers, but sticking with them long after they should. There wasn’t really anything I could say to defend myself and my gender, because sadly, he’s right.

I think there are 2 main reasons for why women like bad boys (aka Losers, since I’ve never met a bad boy who wasn’t a loser). One reason is what I like to call the Florence Nightingale Syndrome. Florence Nightingale became a nurse during the 1800s against her family’s wishes. She was from an upper class family and nursing was something people from lower class families did. Now Florence didn’t actually fall in love with any of her patients; she simply cared deeply for them and had a great passion for nursing.

Women who fall in love with bad boys take on the role of caretaker, nurturer, doormat. They think they can change him, make him a “better” person, kiss away the demons that haunt him. They truly believe he’s misunderstood, rough around the edges (with a little TLC we can smooth those out), and been dealt a bad hand in life. They know with all their hearts that he’s simply a victim of circumstances: “If only he didn’t have that bitch ex-wife demanding child support for their 6 kids.” “If only his father hadn’t been an alcoholic womanizer, he might have gone to college, instead of joining a gang.” And the excuses go on and on.

We women love to make excuses for our men. We make excuses for their bad behavior. I did it all the time for my ex. “He didn’t have a proper role model growing up to show him the right way to do things,” I’d tell people. So I took on the task of showing him how to take responsibility for his life. I was 29, and honestly believed men could change with just a little “guidance.” The problem was once I took on the role of caretaker, it became my role for the life of the relationship. The dynamics never changed. So when I popped out my son and suddenly had this little being completely dependent on me 24/7, guess what happened? I didn’t want to take care of a man-boy anymore; I needed him to step up and be 100% man. But because I had always treated him like a little boy, he didn’t know how to be one.

Lesson learned: It’s okay to take care of your man in the kitchen and the bedroom. Other than that, he’s on his own. He has demons? His demonic ass needs to go to therapy. He doesn’t know how to manage money? There’s this beautiful thing called Google—Have him Google “Money Management Skills.” Bitch ex-wife? Try Mediation through the Courts. Felony on his record? You’re on your own for dating him in the first place.

I have since learned to never take on more than I should—life is just too damn hard. I didn’t win any medals for being a super great person. And my ex won’t be at my bedside when I die.

The second reason women fall for bad boys is because they want some excitement in their mundane, bogged-down-by-routine lives. Bad boys are unpredictable. You never know when, or if they’ll show up. And we all know how hot it is to be treated like crap, especially if we’re used to those boring, nice guys, right? And the best part of bad boys? The sex. There’s nothing like passionate, angry make-up sex up against a concrete wall in the middle of a dark alley.

But here’s the thing: The bad boy is so good at sex because 1) He has lots of practice, all the time, with lots of different women, and 2) That’s what he puts his energy toward, instead of a career, education, or cooking classes.

The moral of my diatribe? Bad boys are fun in your 20s (as long as there are condoms involved); They should be used infrequently in your 30s, until you finally realize through lots of therapy that whatever behavior you allow will continue, so you kick him to the curb; And if you’re still dallying with bad boys in your 40s or 50s, you need to think of them like disposable douches—to be used once and then promptly thrown away.

WORRY SHOULD BE A FOUR-LETTER WORD

I’m a worrywart. I am. I worry about everything. I’ll worry about the grasshopper brought in by my cat that’s missing a leg and wonder how he’ll manage in the world once I set him free. I’ll worry that the sudden tightness in my chest is a heart attack, and then I’ll start worrying even more about my family sifting through my stuff once I’m dead and being shocked by what they find.

Maybe I have my Polish Nana to thank. She worried about me living alone in New York in my 20s. Nana watched the news every night and heard horrible, horrible stories, which she’d recount to me in detail. “Ring me 3 times as soon as you get home,” she’d tell me as I boarded the Greyhound from New Jersey back to my Brooklyn apartment. “And don’t forget to always lock your door. Single women can’t be too safe nowadays.” (Yes, I was single even back then.)

Nana worried herself into a tizzy all the years I had a boa constrictor. She was convinced it would kill me in my sleep. She’d send me article after article clipped from newspapers: “9-foot snake wrapped around pregnant woman’s belly” and “12-foot snake bites woman and knocks her down.” She even offered to pay me $500 to get rid of it, which I finally did, but only because the huge rats I was going to have to start feeding her required a bonk on the head first with a hammer to stun them into submission, and that’s where I drew the line. (I refuse to bonk any animal on the head with a hammer.)

After I gave birth, Nana sent me clippings regarding the dangers of having a cat around a baby: “6-week-old boy dies after family cat falls asleep on his face” and “Cat sucks breath from baby.” For the record, I did not get rid of my cat, and I’m convinced these tragedies happened because cats are attracted to the sweetness of milk on a baby’s lips. Even though I do believe cats are plotting to kill all adult humans so they can take over the world, they are not however, trying to purposely smother infants. It’s against their belief system. Besides, their modus operandi is way more stealthy than that. They much prefer to trip an adult into oncoming traffic.

I know Nana meant well by all these horror stories, but is it any surprise I’m neurotic? My neurosis isn’t logical or cut-and-dried though. It’s not based on any rational, cause and effect notion, like, “Uh-oh. If my son climbs that fence, he’s going to fall, crack his head open and need stitches.” A more complicated, irrational formula is involved:

My Mood + Innocent Inciting Event = Complete Spiraling Out of Control = Panic Attack

For example, I write a weekly blog post for an insurance company and I’m focusing on ObamaCare and the changes in healthcare it will bring. (WAKE UP! I’m not done telling my story.) While I hate to use PMS as an excuse for being a little bit crazy and overly sensitive, I will, because I’m a slave to my hormones. So I’m in the midst of PMSing while writing a post on insurance (MOOD + Innocent Inciting Event).

The more I read about ObamaCare, the more freaked out I get. I notice that a single person who earns $33,500 annually will have to pay $258 a month in premiums and I begin to panic. $258 a month? How in the hell will I be able to afford that? (Mind you, it makes no difference that I’m not making $33,500 presently, nor plan on seeing that kind of money anytime soon.) $258 a month is the reason I didn’t purchase my Honda dream car! $258 a month means my son and I will have to eat Mac n’ cheese even more than we do now! (Note the spiraling out of control. Here comes the panic attack…)

This is all because I’m not married. If I were married, I’d be able to be on my spouse’s health plan. But wait—it says right here in this article that in 6 years insurance companies want to do away with spousal coverage altogether. What the hell is the point of getting married if you can’t be on your spouse’s health plan? It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m never getting married. Who’ll ever want to marry a neurotic bitch like me? And on and on it goes.

Sometimes it’s exhausting being me.

Is anyone else a worry wackjob?

CRAPTASTIC TALENT

I discovered this very, very funny site a few weeks ago: http://crappypictures.com. Obviously, anything with “crappy” in the title is going to get my attention, and even more so when it involves crappy things having to do with parenting. Amber Dusick not only details the many hilariously crappy aspects of the whole parenting experience in her posts, she illustrates them with stick figures.

When I first found her, I could only read one of her archive posts a day. She’s almost too funny in that way that makes my head hurt. Whenever I encounter people who are way too talented for their own good, I’m often overcome by a seething jealousy that makes me want to hate that person. It’s easy to do when it’s someone famous like say, Gwyneth Paltrow, who not only can act well, but has a damn good voice to boot. Or Justin Timberlake, who found much success as a singer, and turns out to be not only a great actor, but a freakishly talented funnyman.

What’s up with that? Were they in line more than once when God was handing out talent? Are they luckier than most? Good karma? It’s just not fair that one person should have more than one outstanding talent in life. It’s like winning the lottery twice. There’s no need for it.

Anyway, back to Amber, who mind you, is also young and pretty. I tried to find something to dislike about her, I did. But sadly, I couldn’t. She’s humble, even when she’s promoting her new book—a feat not easy to pull off as all of us on Twitter can attest to. Usually, I can dislike someone based on the fact that they’re just. too. talented. I can’t stand feeling unworthy in the face of another person’s tremendous gifts. But alas, I cannot despise Amber, because she’s just so spot on with her observations and she makes me laugh out loud.

Here’s an example:
http://crappypictures.com/the-uppers-downers-of-parenting-or-coffee-wine/

If you found that funny, we could be friends. If you don’t find Amber funny at all, then you probably shouldn’t be reading my blog. You may be one of the people in an uproar over Amber’s new book. Seems these folks think if you’re not ecstatic, grateful, and Zenlike over every aspect of being a parent, you’re the equivalent of Mama Britney Spears.
http://now.msn.com/amber-dusicks-i-quit-parenting-comics-are-controvesial/

Who hasn’t secretly longed for their single + 1 cat days while waiting out their child’s tantrum?
Who hasn’t wished they could leaf through a magazine while sitting on the toilet without seeing tiny fingers poking under the bathroom door?
Who wishes the word “quickie” was used to describe a cleaning wipe instead of your sex life?

Come on, Society, have a sense of humor! Being a parent sucks. Sure, it’s rewarding and fulfilling at times, but those times aren’t usually acknowledged until your kid graduates with honors from Yale and is going on to medical school. Parenting isn’t fun, (unless endless laundry, homework, and constant defiance happen to be your thing), but to admit that doesn’t mean you love your kid any less (it just means you’re counting the days until they’re out of the house).

My son went to Knott’s Berry Farm yesterday from 8 am to 9 pm. I made love to my peace and quiet like a long-lost lover. But come 6 pm, I missed the little f**ker and I couldn’t wait for him to come home. However, the next morning when he was demanding breakfast and asking me to Google something online before I had even had my first cup of coffee (while mauling the Diva, and causing her to bark nonstop), I kinda wished another trip to Knott’s was on the agenda for him that day.

This was the comment I left regarding that MSN article: “Any parent who doesn’t secretly think any of this stuff or that their kid’s s**t doesn’t stink is either delusional, heavily medicated, or a Stepford.”

A BLIND WIFE AND A DEAF HUSBAND

Photo by Bob Doran

A good marriage would be between a blind wife and a deaf husband.               –Michel de Montaigne

Marriage is something I can’t seem to understand—like Sudoku, fluorescent colors coming back in style, and what Lance Armstrong hoped to accomplish in his interview with Oprah. Oh, I understand the concept “in theory”; it’s the reality of it that makes me want to repeatedly bang my head against a wall.

Now, I’m not married; I’ve never been married; I doubt I’ll ever marry. I’ve been in love, sure, but I’ve never met anyone I believed I could spend the rest of my life with. That’s A LOT of years. To be with ONE person. FOREVER. Until I DIE.

The closest I’ve ever come to marriage is with a few girlfriends of mine. I used to tell them, “If I could find the male version of you, I’d get married.” And I meant it, because these girlfriends were like my sisters, and we spent mucho time together without ever wanting to strangle one other. I thought we’d be friends always.

The fact that we’re not contributes to why I view marriage the way I do—I was as close to these girls as two people can be, minus the sex, always believed they’d be in my life, but now they’re not. Poof, gone. I’ve since learned it’s an unrealistic expectation to think two people can change together over 20, 30, 40 years to the point where they still enjoy each other’s company. For example, I adore my son, but I sure as hell don’t want to live with him for the next twenty-five years.

What astonishes me is how many folks still take the plunge. Even knowing the horrible odds involved. Let’s take having children out of the equation for a moment. What compels a man to want to get married? Especially when men are such admitted commitmentphobes. Regular sex? We all know once you’re married sex becomes as frequent as something intelligent coming out of Kim Kardashian’s mouth. Societal acceptance? Peer pressure? All you need to do is talk to your married friends to find out how miserable they are. Comfort? Security? Maid/house cleaner/babysitter? Okay, so the maid/house cleaner/babysitter would probably tempt me, too.

Love? Don’t be ridiculous. Men are way more practical than that.

For me, a future husband would need to score in 3 categories:
1. We need to have similar core beliefs and values. I’m not saying he needs to be a Democrat, but if he kicks dogs when he walks by them, or shoplifts, litters, consumes fried pork rinds while guzzling Mountain Dew, and then thinks burping the alphabet is a talent, then NO.

2. We need to get along and have fun together—be able to hang out for hours on end, especially while sober. He doesn’t need to be my best friend. That’s what a girlfriend is for, or a gay male friend. My husband should be my husband. God knows, he doesn’t need the pressure to be my “best girlfriend” also. “Husband” already has enough obligations to it.
If he’s sitting on the sofa all night, playing video games and chatting with his online buddies, then no, thank you. One son who does that is enough.

3. We need to have sexual chemistry. I recently read this thread where men were bitching about their wives never giving them blowjobs. One man actually said while he and his wife were dating, she never went down on him once, but he thought once they were married, she’d start. After I unstuck the fork from my eye, I literally wanted to crawl into the thread, find the guy and shake the stupid out of him.
If I’m going to be sentenced to sex with ONE person for the rest of my existence (and I’m having a panic attack simply writing those words), then we sure as hell better rock each other’s world, because once I see him hurl, poop, or cut his toenails in bed (and inevitably I will if we’re living together), my sexual desire for him is going to go down–so it better go down from a 10 to a 7, instead of from a 7 to a 4. If desire goes down to a 4, that ain’t gonna get us through the next 30 years.

I don’t think these three things should be that difficult to find. And yet, finding them in one man has eluded me. Certainly I’ve had at least two of them while involved in a relationship, but NEVER all three. Which explains why I’m not married.

For those who are married, help me out here. Are my three needs unreasonable? If not, why is it so hard to find? Or am I just cursed? Do you think most people settle? Is the “institution” of marriage becoming an antiquated notion?

As Groucho Marx said, “Marriage is a wonderful institution, but who wants to live in an institution?”

HOW DO YOU DECIDE WHO TO MARRY?
All these answers are by children.

1. You got to find somebody who likes the same stuff. Like, if you like sports, she should like it that you like sports, and she should keep the chips and dip coming.
>Alan, age 10
2. No person really decides before they grow up who they’re going to marry. God decides it all way before, and you get to find out later who you’re stuck with.
>Kirsten, age 10

WHAT IS THE RIGHT AGE TO GET MARRIED?
1. Twenty-three is the best age because you know the person FOREVER by then.
>Camille, age 10
2. No age is good to get married at. You got to be a fool to get married.
>Freddie, age 6 (very wise for his age)

HOW CAN A STRANGER TELL IF TWO PEOPLE ARE MARRIED?
1. You might have to guess, based on whether they seem to be yelling at the same kids.
>Derrick, age 8

WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR MOM AND DAD HAVE IN COMMON?
1. Both don’t want any more kids.
>Lori, age 8

WHAT DO MOST PEOPLE DO ON A DATE?
1. Dates are for having fun, and people should use them to get to know each other. Even boys have something to say if you listen long enough.
>Lynnette, age 8
2. On the first date, they just tell each other lies and that usually gets them interested enough to go for a second date.
>Martin, age 10

WHAT WOULD YOU DO ON A FIRST DATE THAT WAS TURNING SOUR?
1. I’d run home and play dead. The next day I would call all the newspapers and make sure they wrote about me in all the dead columns.
>Craig, age 9

WHEN IS IT OKAY TO KISS SOMEONE?
1. When they’re rich.
>Pam, age 7
2. The law says you have to be eighteen, so I wouldn’t want to mess with that.
>Curt, age 7
3. The rule goes like this: If you kiss someone, then you should marry them and have kids with them. It’s the right thing to do.
>Howard, age 8

IS IT BETTER TO BE SINGLE OR MARRIED?
1. I don’t know which is better, but I’ll tell you one thing; I’m never going to have sex with my wife. I don’t want to be all grossed out.
>Theodore, age 8
2. It’s better for girls to be single but not for boys. Boys need someone to clean up after them.
>Anita, age 9

HOW WOULD THE WORLD BE DIFFERENT IF PEOPLE DIDN’T GET MARRIED?
1. There sure would be a lot of kids to explain, wouldn’t there?
>Kelvin, age 8

And the Favorite is……..
HOW WOULD YOU MAKE A MARRIAGE WORK?
1. Tell your wife that she looks pretty, even if she looks like a truck.
>Ricky, age 10