Yes, I Judged A Kid Today. I’ll Do It Again Tomorrow.

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I am a believer in a lot of things. They range from really stupid things, like what color nail polish is appropriate to wear to a funeral (the answer is: clear); to very big and grandiose things, like whether or not God exists. If I learned one thing in graduate school, it’s that we  all have to have beliefs. It’s essential to our success as functional and happy human beings.

On the bigger side of things, I believe in love, compassion, and understanding. I believe in a universal “right” and “wrong.” I believe in not judging a book by its cover, most of the time. And I believe in boundaries.

I would go as far to say that I’m a big believer in boundaries; in fact, I believe so much in my belief in boundaries that I place boundaries on my beliefs.

I talk a lot on this blog about being understanding and compassionate towards others, especially parents. I want to understand that friends put their newborns in front of the television – knowing that TV is bad for developing infant brains – for a reason that is understandable and explainable. I bite my tongue often when I hear of friends birthing at home, rather than in the safety and security of a hospital or hospital-affiliated birthing center. I struggle to not judge other mothers, or other women or men even, for the choices they make: to work instead of attend a child’s school play; to bottle-feed over breastfeed; to serve McDonald’s night after night instead of healthier, at-home options. I try very hard to not look at a situation and say “what a shitty parent” over anything, even the most horrifying offenses (i.e. drug use, alcoholism, listening to Pitchfork) – I am not living in that person’s shoes and have no idea what they may or may not be going through. As with many parents in particular, my first instinct is to judge; my second instinct is to put that judge-y shit in check and act with love and compassion.

But then there are instances such as today, when I placed a boundary on my beliefs in compassion and decided to let the judgment out.

Yes, I judged a kid today. I’ll do it again tomorrow.

Last night I was bored and couldn’t sleep, so went through the typical humor sites to keep my wandering mind occupied, since my Kindle was dead so my book was unaccessible. A couple of pages into the most recent EpicFail.com posts and I came across this: a photo titled “Respect Fail” of a kid flipping off his teacher.

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My first mistake in putting boundaries on my compassion and making my judgment was to post it on my personal Facebook page and call the kid a dickhole. Let’s be clear: this kid is a fucking asshole. I don’t care what the circumstance was for him to do this – it was wrong. There is a line of right and wrong, and this crossed it so far into the territory of wrong, there is not a single fucking excuse on this planet that could even set it on the fence.

But posting that brought out the Mama Bears and the Papa Bears, very likely defensive about their own choices to parent in a way that would excuse this behavior of their own children for reasons they believe to be valid. It brought out the non-conformists who want to understand and fuck the man and be punk rock parents that are all about ending the corruption of authority, all that other happy horse shit that could otherwise be described as an unrealistic view of what it is to help our children enter the world well-adjusted.

Then it turned to being about how I’m a hypocrite and I live in a shitty town in California where people repress children’s feelings and create psychopaths that don’t know how to stand up to authority. My yoga pants were mentioned no less than five times (whateverthefuck that has to do with anything). Someone said “shame on you” because I obviously have no idea what some kids have been through – maybe that kid just lost a parent and is a total douche now because he’s really hurting!

All of the debate and the very sad statements aside, there is one thing I want to address, and one thing only:

Yes, I judged a kid today.

I judged that kid because regardless of whatever is going on in his life, he is a symptom of the bigger problem of our culture. Our excuse-making, back-patting, nobody-fails, everyone gets an award for participating, blame the teachers, scream at authority, fuck the man, it’s everybody else’s fault but my own – culture. A culture where people don’t want to call things as they are, and pussy-foot around it in the name of being nice and understanding.

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When I was ten years old, my mom abandoned my father and I to move across the country with a guy who was still married (and subsequently went back with his wife a few years later). No one let me get away with bullshit like this because of that. If I spoke to my dad disrespectfully, I got grounded. If I got bad grades, I didn’t get to go to pool parties in the summer.

When I was in middle school and high school, kids did stuff like this all the time, for no reason other than that they were disrespectful pricks who needed a lesson in respect. They got in trouble for it. I remember my friends’ moms grounding them for ditching school; I can think of countless times that people were yelled at by their parents, rather than their parents yelling at their teachers. I remember a boyfriend’s mom calling him a jerk…she said “you’re really becoming a jerk, you know that?” Maybe it was right, maybe it was wrong for her to name call him. But you know what? He was being a jerk. A big one.

But today I say what anyone would have said years ago – that this kid is a dick and needs to learn respect, effective dissent, and appropriate conduct towards authority, and everyone loses their fucking minds. People are taking it personally – attacks on them, attacks on their kids. Just another sign that I am a mean, heartless person who should not even be allowed near children with a ten foot poll.

In the end, I think this all boils down to something bigger than all of us; something that all of our free-loving hippy shit about being compassionate and loving and understanding does not apply. It’s about bullying, it’s about respect, it’s about authority, it’s about responsibility. First and foremost, it’s about us. We – as parents and adults, leaving our children a world much different than it was forty or fifty years ago – owe it to our children, to the little dickwad in that picture, to stand up and say this behavior is wrong. To say that maybe our behavior that allows it or contributes to it, or maybe even models it, is wrong. To look at other things that happen – kids destroying grocery stores; toddlers being allowed to crawl all over million dollar art installations at museums – and consider just when the fuck children became the masters and commanders of society. To admit our flaws and move forward together to make better people who would never – not in a million years, no matter how awful the teacher may be – think about flipping off a teacher while friends laugh and take photos of it with their camera phones. To give our children the tools of respect for others and themselves, and the resources to effective and healthy dissent and expression of their feelings.

Maybe I’m just as bad, because I’m calling this poor innocent child names. Maybe I’m the asshole for not understanding the context-less nature of the photograph. Yes, I judged a kid today.

For this, I’ll do it again tomorrow.

Destroying Your Carpool: A Tutorial

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Be it a carpool for work, extra-curriculars with the kids, vacations, school – you name it, there are a lot of reasons people carpool. If everyone in the carpool is on the same page, it’s great. But for every carpooling success story out there on the Internet, there are about ten times that in horror stories. It’s as if these people are actually hellbent on destroying their carpool from the start; or, they just don’t care about anyone but themselves.

I’ve mentioned a few times, both in recent blog posts and on my blog’s Facebook page, that my husband has been in a carpool from hell for a little over a month now. What made the situation that much worse was that my husband just thought it was the next best thing to my vagina and a bowl of pistachio-flavored ice cream. The woman he was carpooling with was in the exact, same sector of the film industry as him, so he just lapped that shit up like a lost puppy dog wandering the streets in search of anything. I imagine that every day they sat there and just blew their editorial, industry bullshit up each other’s assholes the whole way to and from work (well, that is when they actually carpooled on the days they were supposed to carpool). I fully believe at this point that were that woman single, I would have had something to worry about. Maybe I still did (or do). That is the depth to which Poor Nick seemed to be taking this relationship, and what he was willing to sacrifice to maintain it. In the end, the carpool is no more, though. Too many things stacked up against their woe-begotten arrangement, which has led me to throw together this little tutorial on how to destroy your own carpool.

Because that bitch didn’t just destroy their carpool. She dropped a fucking nuclear bomb on it.

Let’s go step by step on how you – too – can lay waste to your own carpools. We’ll use film industry ass can lady as our tutor.

Always Show Up Late In the First Leg Of Your Carpool

Doesn’t matter what you are carpooling to, if you want to fuck your carpool up worse than you fucked up your marriage, just always show up late in the first leg of your carpool. By “first leg,” I mean the “to” part; so if you are driving to work (for example), I mean driving there.

Never let the other person or people know you are running late either. When you get there twenty minutes late, act as if there is nothing wrong with you being late.

Film industry ass can lady was the best at doing this. Once I had to use my husband’s car when mine was in the shop and she knew we would be sitting there waiting – half asleep and waiting to go back home – and that bitch showed up twenty-five fucking minutes late. To make matters worse, she was disheveled and her kid was in the car with her. Which leads me to our next lesson in destroying your carpool …

Expect Your Carpool Mates To Run Your Personal Errands

I always thought that no matter what a carpool was for, it was totally tacky to run errands and shit while your carpool mates are in the car. Say you are carpooling a group of kids and their moms to a soccer game. Would you stop at Ralphs and pick up some bread on your way there, then pick up your dry cleaning too (I mean, it is on the way..)? Fuck no, you wouldn’t run your bullshit errands while you are carpooling. It’s rude and reeks of the notion that others have nothing better to do with their time but sit in the fucking car for no reason.

So film industry ass can cunt lady would sometimes have my husband go along with to drop her kid off at school. Happy fucking family that they were: dropping the daughter off to preschool and waving good-bye on their way to pursue their illustrious careers in film industry ass can cunting. I asked my husband where the fuck this lady’s husband was, to which I got no response.

Indeed. Run your fucking errands into the motherfucking ground if you want to destroy your carpool.

Never Do What You Say You Are Going To Do

This must be a film industry thing, because my husband often does not do what he says he is going to do either. I mean with regards to me.

They agreed to meet at the carpool point near her home on days that she drove, and at the carpool point near our home on the days that he drove. He drove a lot of fucking times. I mean a lot. She met at the carpool point near our home once. He went to her every other fucking time.

If you want to bury your carpool, never do what you say you’re going to do. If you say you are going to meet in one place, meet in another. If you say you are going to leave earlier, leave later. Always expect others to cater to you when you don’t do what you said you would do too.

End the Carpool Day By Expecting Everyone To Wait For You

At the end of a long day, I think the last thing I ever want to do is sit around and wait for people. At the end of a long vacation, the last thing I want to do is be delayed in getting back to my regular routine too. I could go on with every scenario in which one might carpool; you faithful blog followers get the point. The real surefire way to destroy your carpool like film industry ass can bitch cunt lady did is to always make people wait for you at the end of the day.

This bitch was so ballsy about it. She’d just show up forty-five minutes after they were supposed to leave, and act like there was nothing wrong with it. Once it was an hour and a half. The worst was when she kept telling my husband to wait for her until it ended up being two hours after the work day ended. He got home that night at 10:15. Family? Household responsibilities? No such thing can exist or be considered for anyone in the carpool, if you want to destroy your carpool.

In the end, the real kicker was that driving to and from this woman’s work in city traffic from my husband’s work, as well as to and from her home since she could never make it down fairly for him, added our gas bill up to such a point that he spent more money on gas in the month he carpooled than in the months he drove himself. Between the extra driving, and the many times she just never showed up, this was the end of this cuntly behavior affecting our lives.

He has yet to tell her she destroyed the carpool. They are off carpool this week and he is probably coming up with ways to justify continuing to do the carpool anyway. I’m sure he’ll blame me, like he always does. Not to emasculate my husband, but he doesn’t really seem to even want to have the cajones to be honest with anyone. But me, of course. If it were me he would have told me I was a film industry ass can bitch cunt face and that the carpool was off on the second day (which is another blog post altogether).

If you want to destroy your carpool, I highly suggest you follow that broad’s behavior, with her nappy ass hair and her disrespect for anyone’s priorities other than hers.

Good riddance, carpool!

Reasons I Have No Dignity

The majority of this post is funny; although the intention and last reason is probably depressing. Who cares, I am who I am and remember my post-vacation commitment to myself: I’m not going to let others shame me for being me. One of those things is brutally honest. Not rude. Not a dick. Honest. Get over it, here’s my list:

1. I’m a fucking slob. I don’t mean a cute slob, I mean a slob like no one should love me-slob. Today I have spilled on my shirt a total of three times. The first was soda. Didn’t change, just zipped up my hoodie. The second was teriyaki sauce. I licked it off. The third was right now, within moments of beginning to type. I dropped the crunchy chow mein noodles I was emotionally eating down my shirt. I then proceeded to pull them out of my bra top tank top, and for consumption. That’s right, I ate them. La Choy Boob Noodles: yum.

2. I blog, oftentimes about my own personal life. I am out there for the entire world to see. I often share things about myself and my family that only someone with no sense of dignity would share. Like the thing about the La Choy Boob Noodles. And the fact that my mom is married to a trailer-dwelling hillbilly. If my husband had one ball I would probably share that with all of you too.

3. I have no shame when it comes to talking about things like sex. There are always people sharing this on Facebook and shit, as if we aren’t supposed to know what’s going on when someone “checks in” at “My Bed” with another person. Please! They want us to know they’re doing it, but in such a vague way that we don’t really know so as to elicit comments and questions and attention. Well, I’ll just talk about it and as such I have no dignity. No, I won’t talk about it for myself (I’m married, come on … there is a ten foot wall between my husband and myself), but I will most certainly discuss when I believe something is awry. Like all the people I think are paying for some nookie in the apartment directly above ours; or the prostitution ring I think is going down at my nail salon. I’m entirely un-skiddish about discussing the nail lady deep throating a banana.

4. Those of you that have been long-time, faithful blog followers know that I have a weird obsession with PhotoShopping my head into precarious photographs. I’ve done quite a few – my head on the body of a drugged up Courtney Love; my head on the body of a 1950s housewife … the list goes on. One of my favorites from the last few months was when I made a Ten Commandments version of myself.

5. I am perfectly fine with being honest about things, all the time. I actually believe that lying is one of the worst things a person could do – when I do lie, I agonize over it. As a result of this, I am honest about stuff like “yeah, I haven’t shaved my legs in six weeks,” or “that lady who just said three hot dogs is a nice ‘morning snack’ is what’s wrong with America.” I don’t mind explaining away my bitchy behavior with being on the rag, either. I could probably do that right now, actually…

6. On the note of my little, red sister, I have no problem discussing her. It isn’t that I have a period that I think makes me have no dignity, though; what does is that I always take it too far out of a sort of contempt for the fact that people seem to act as though women should be ashamed for menstruation. Every time a man says “ewww gross” an uncontrollable fire lights within me and I completely lose my cool. One of my recent tirades was directed at my father, actually. We were running errands and he came along; of course, by “came along” I mean he drove so we could stop for cocktails since I was in a particularly pissy, period-driven mood. The last stop was Target to buy maxi pads and Always included some sort of a free “hide your tampons and maxis in here”-bag. Of course, I proceeded to yell in the car all the way to BJ’s (for dollar beers) about how ashamed I must be to be a woman that I would have to hide my tampons.

7. Sadly, the end of this is not as fun or hilarious as La Choy Boob Noodles, or Periods Gone Wild. The last reason I have no dignity – which is probably the real reason – is that I continue to allow myself to be dragged through the sludge and the mire of life by people that don’t love me for me. Even after committing to be myself and not let others shame me, I spend entirely too much time worrying about what other people say or think. I’m realizing more now than ever that I am surrounded by a lot of people that find many things wrong with me. Or that are bullies. Or just that aren’t very good people. For whatever reason, my husband and I have a lot of people in our lives that judge, bully, and always feel they have a right to tell us what is wrong with us, what we could be doing better, or how we need to change. Last night my husband and I were talking about some of these things and he says he prefers to live is life pretending that those things aren’t going on. That he isn’t being told he’s wrong, or that he needs to change. That people (like family) haven’t disapproved (and let him know just how much) more often than said they were proud of him or thought he was a good person. He would prefer to ignore the drama, rather than deal with it. For a long time I have done this as well, but a few years ago I made a conscious decision not to do that anymore. I think it’s time to finally act on that decision.

Life and relationships are about setting boundaries, and if you don’t you have no one to blame for the fact that you have absolutely no dignity but yourself. Today I am committing to take back my dignity when it comes to this last point. I’m taking back my dignity when it comes to other people – friends, family, and acquaintances. With teriyaki sauce all over my shirt; my little, red sister spewing her venom everywhere; La Choy Boob Noodles coming out the top and heading into the mouth, and tales of what should be the most humiliating things out there trailing behind me, I’m taking a stand.