Chicken Motherfucking Salad

 

You know how some mothers who are older seem to remember everything as being "tough but wonderful" and "it was hard, but so worth it" and my personal favorite, "Oh, cherish these moments, believe me, they'll be gone before you know it."  

Shut the fuck up. That comment is just asking for a twat swat.

Here is a little story that I'll never forget.  That when I'm old and gray (okay, gray-er...fuck off) I'll think of it whenever I see a young mother and I promise you I won't harken back and wish it were me.  

Also, I feel as though I should mention that my husband is handsome, funny and loving.  But once you have children, you forget to notice any of that.  

Your partner is boiled down to this one question... "What did you do?" 

You can change your inflection in order to denote your feelings about whatever they may or may not have done, but the question remains the same.  "What did you do?"

There is way too much to do, and this grinning asshat on the other side of the bed had better be getting some shit done.

When my son was a newborn there wasn't time for anything.  My kids are only a year apart and my daughter wasn't even walking when we got home from the hospital, so it was really tough to get anything done.

So, one day when my son was 2 weeks old, I was desperately juggling the two and I remember my husband saying that he'd be able to help me right after he had lunch.

I should also mention that I had gained 70 pounds with each baby, but the sheer stress of having a newborn made that weight melt off.  That and not having the ability to sit down for a meal.  So, in my mind, he was going to choke down a bowl of cereal, or grab a banana, at the very most he was going to make a pb&j and inhale it while throwing a load of laundry in the washer.

Not quite.

In any case, I headed out the backyard.  Newborn strapped to my chest, and toddler toddling in front of us,holding both my hands, trying not to fall.  We were outside for about 7 minutes.  My son, naturally, poops, and my daughter, exhausted from being forced to walk when in fact, she can't, sits on the ground and begins screaming.

Over all this, I hear...

tink.  tink.  tink...

And in the back of my mind, I'm thinking, what is that noise?  But I'm trying to change my son on the ground and keep my daughters hands from strangling him.  

And still I hear..

tink. tink. tink.

Important to note.  I'm in a full body sweat.  With a bjorn. And two babies.  One of whom smells like a Haitian gas station bathroom.

So, I get most of the poop wiped off.  (Don't judge me) And attempt to get him back in the bjorn while simultaneously carrying my daughter.  Limp back in the house, peek into the kitchen and....

There he is.  Humming.  

That mother fucker was humming.

And that tink,tink, tink?

That's what it sounds like when the person you sleep with is chopping a goddamn Granny Smith apple for their chicken salad sandwich.  Chicken. Motherfucking. Salad. Sandwich.  

So, I say, "What are you doing?"

He says, "Making lunch.  Chicken salad.  What?"

And I say, "Oh, you're making lunch? You're MAKING LUNCH?"

Then he says "Don't say it like that.  I told you I was going to have lunch, what did you think I was going to do?"

"What did I think you were going to do?" 

(And through teeth clenched so tight, I cracked a crown, I continued) "I thought you were going to take a protein bar, unwrap it and jam in your fucking face like I've been doing 24 hours a day for the past 2 weeks. If you don't get in the game in the next 20 seconds I'm going to cut you from neck to scrotum and I'll never go to jail because there will be at least one woman on that jury that will fucking rejoice in your death after she hears about you making a goddamn chicken salad sandwich. "

I think he said something after that.  But my legal game-plan is to maintain that I more or less blacked out. 

But what I do remember is him scraping that apple in the sink and mumbling some nonsense about "sole custody."

"Sole custody."  Is that a threat or a promise, you son of a bitch?

Someday, someday... I'll take a drag on my long, brown, skinny cigarette take a swig of my filthy dirty martini, and thank my lucky stars that those days are gone. 

Cherish this?  You must be out of your fucking mind.

 

Mean Girl vs. Batman

There are things that you hope that your children learn from you.  And things that you pray to God they don't.  What I didn't realize is that there is some horrible shit that just gets into their DNA and there is almost nothing you can do to stop it.
Case in point, my son.  He is almost 3.  He is awesome.  Those aren't my words.  They're his.  He has this ever-present, shit-eating grin.
Take my truck?
I got another, no worries.
Push me down?
Hey dude, I get it!  It's the push down game! My turn!
Don't want to play with me in the sand?
Fuck it.  Your loss, loser.
My daughter is 4.  She is a beautiful, gentle soul who empathizes with everything from homeless dudes asking for money to the spiders that I make her father kill.
She takes everything so seriously.
If you ask her to scoot over, her bottom lip quivers.
Why don't you want to sit by me?
If you take the last cookie?
It's okay.  I guess I'll get one next year when Mom bakes.
If you tell her you don't want to be her friend?
Don't do that.  Please.  It'll take years off her life.
Shit hits this kid hard is what I'm saying.
I've always known these differences between them exist.  I see them play out every day.
Now, what you may or may not know about me (depending on what year we met) is that I used to have a bit of what some people might call an "anger issue".  I may (or may not) have attended anger management classes. Twice. I may (or may not) have been mandated by the court to do so.
Point being?  Before the intervention of professionals, this mom would cut a bitch.
But after motherhood, I've made concerted efforts to "use my words",  "visualize the after effects", and above all "breathe before reacting".
I thought I'd done a pretty good job of shielding my two precious little people from the bitch that dwells within me.
That all changed last week.
We were at one of those god-awful play areas in the mall.  You know, the ones that have all the climbing structures that must hide some sort of magnetic field that attracts undisciplined and/or contagious kids?
That place.
I had to go to Sephora, so I considered visiting the playspace beforehand a penance.  I sit here and watch them put their sweaty little hands where other germy kids have their sweaty little hands and then I get to buy a $38 lip gloss.  As Bille Jean would say "Fair is fair."
But this day at the play space was a special sort of awful.  There were a group of brothers there with their toddler sister.  The oldest boy was about 16.  He spent the majority of the time scratching himself.  Meanwhile, the girl.  Oh, the girl.  I know I already sound like a bitch, so I'm just gonna say it.
Dirty. Mean. Feral.
As mentioned, these places are usually full of these kinds of kids, so at first, I didn't even flinch.  But then I started noticing a trend. Specifically a trend of her kicking my son in the head.  Not hitting him.  Walking up to him, sitting down on the ground to get a good angle, then kicking her foot straight at his head.  I heard him say "Hey!  I don't wike that!"  And then "Stop it! I gonna kick you!" And right before he had to get a tetanus shot, I corralled them and we left.
That night at dinner, my son says, "That little girl was mean.  She kicked me in da head."
I say, "You're right. She was mean."
He says, "I bet Santa not gonna give her any pwesents. She's a meanie."
At this point, my daughter, who unbeknownst to me, had seen the whole thing at the play space, says "You know, I bet she's mean BECAUSE Santa doesn't give her any presents.  I think she must be sad.  Maybe WE should give her something, Mama?"
And I think to myself "Who is this kid?  How did she wind up with me as her mother? And when her real mother shows up, I'm hiding and keeping her."
But what I say out loud is, "That is a really sweet idea, honey.  What would we get her?  We don't even know her."
She says, "Well, she's mean.  And probably kind of strong.  I dunno.  Maybe she'd like a bat?"
My son thinks about this for about 8 seconds then adds,
"Yeah, let's get her a bat."
And for a split second I think that my awfulness has skipped a generation!
But then (my right hand to God) my son adds, "And then I hit her in the face with that bat! Meanie."
Blood is thick, man.  Real thick.

Balls Are The New Vagina

For all my talk of punching ladies in the twat, it should be noted that I'm a raging feminist.
And no fellas, that doesn't make me a lesbian.
Being a feminist in today's society is defined (by me) as "a woman who is amazed that women, who are more disciplined, more perceptive, more passionate, more intelligent and oh yeah, WE HAVE THE ABILITY TO GESTATE OTHER HUMAN BEINGS don't run this planet and everything on it."
I mean it, I'm amazed almost every single day that we aren't in charge. So when the opportunity arises for me to deal with a man who treats all women as subordinate (car salesmen, IT guys, old white men, auto repairmen, Armenian guys, jewelers, personal trainers, electricians, the idiots who wear orange vests at Home Depot, tire salesmen, prepubescent Jewish boys, etc) it's the equivalent of an athlete who has been training 6 days a week, 3 hours a day for 2 years just to go play in a softball league at the Y.
It's just not a fair fight for these numb nuts.
For example, the last time I bought a car the guy in that tiny hot room made the mistake of taking his little pen out and making the little diagram on the paper to show me what my payment would be.
"Oh wow, gee mister, you're really smart! You just added all those numbers! And so strong! Do you work out?"
So after he walked across the room to pick up his little pen and paper, stormed out, and sent his manager in, the manager said to me "I'm starting to understand why your husband sent you here alone to buy."
But getting to deal with an actual misogynist is such a gift. I mean, usually, I'm just reading online news where a man has an opinion about abortion (No, you don't get one. Okay, you can have one, but no one should care what it is) or listening to some fucktard on CNN muse about the inequality of pay for women (did plantation owners ever have totally awesome thoughts about emancipation?) and there is not one guilty male around that I can punch. 

Which reminds me, my car is almost out of warranty.
Beware, jack offs, I aim low.

Time Out, Mama.

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Carry On, You Fucktard.

I know what you're thinking.
"It's not my fault they changed the rules."
"It's 50 bucks."
"I might want to change my shoes mid-flight."
Or maybe you've got a stash of pork rinds in there and you just know you're gonna get hungry.

While I understand all of it (except the pork rinds) we really need to stick together on this.
So, since no one else seems willing to tell you, I guess it's my job.
Check your fucking suitcase, you ass monkey. It's not a carry on. You know how I know?
Because you CAN'T CARRY IT! If the wheels on that behemoth broke, you'd be shit outta luck.
Dear god, what has happened to us as a society? When given the choice between spending 50 bucks or becoming human cholesterol, clogging the arteries of every aisle, bathroom, and checkpoint, most of you defiantly chose the latter.
It's a sad fact that the vast majority of mouth breathers will happily cram every piece of their shit in a bag the size of a twin bed and then stand slack jawed as some poor flight attendant tells them that "No, shockingly, your 315 pound, three square foot box won't fit under your seat. You'll have to check it."  This will be after you've inconvenienced every poor soul who forked over the money, and now you'll get stuck with paying for your shit-box anyway.
And yes, the airlines should have the common fucking decency to just bury the charge in the ticket price like they used to and let us all fool ourselves into thinking its for free. But let's face it, people who work for he airlines were hardly the forward thinkers of their generation, now were they? Going to work at a shitty diner in the sky was most likely never the dream of our valedictorians.
Therefore, I'm afraid we're going to have to handle this problem from the ground up.
So, while we're still here on the ground allow me to reiterate..."If your carry on bag is neither a purse nor an iPad, I'm going to punch you in the vagina and steal your neckpillow, fuckface."

An Open Letter to Breastfeeding Mothers Everywhere (the Repost)

*I originally posted this on Facebook, but since most of you milky bitches never passed the word on (at least that is what my own personal run-ins with lactating fuckwits would indicate) I've decided to give it another go.

Dear Breastfeeding mothers,
First, this note is not for most of you, but I write to you all in hopes that you will perhaps pass my sentiments to your pals at your next La Leche meeting, in the nursing bra department of Target, or near the fenugreek supplements at Whole Foods.

In short, we bottle feeding mothers are fed the fuck up with your bullshit.
#1. It’s none of your business.
#2.  Some of us CAN’T breastfeed.  Did you understand that?  It’s not that we’re NOT breastfeeding.  It’s that we CAN’T.  And for those of us who choose NOT to, even if we can, please see #1.
#3. To ask a woman who is feeding her child formula if she “tried” to breastfeed may get you punched in the mouth or worse.  If it’s me you’re asking, I’ll punch you in the vagina.  But to each her own.
#4.  I don’t care what you do for you child.  Supplement with formula? Give one bottle a day? A year? Call your mother and tell her all about it, I’d rather cut my ear off and nail it to a tree than listen to all the things that you think we “have in common.”
#5. Have I thought about all the benefits?  No, of course not.  I don’t think about anything other than how well rested I look when my husband does all the night feedings.
#6. Oh, you know a great lactation consultant?  I’ve never heard of those.  What do they do?  Really? Thank you so much for telling me.  What with living in LOS FUCKING ANGELES I’m really so out of touch with all the resources available. Dipshit.
#7. Yes, I was breastfed. And my sister was not.  I have allergies, she does not. And she scored higher on her ACT and her IQ test.  Clearly, my mother did me a disservice.
#8. I somehow managed to lose all of my baby weight without waiting for my children to drain it out of my nipples.
#9. Just because my kid is next to your kid in the sandpit does not make us girlfriends.
#10. I’ve got 2 kids under the age of 2, I’m exhausted and irritated before you ever begin speaking.  And just so we’re clear, I’m dying to punch one of you “holier than thou” broads in the vag.

Lots of store-bought powdered love,
Tisha

p.s. #11. Please don't expect us not to stare and look horrified when your toddler puts his mouth on your boob after saying "Milk, Mommy" and unbuttoning your shirt.  He's too old.  And you were clearly fucked too young.  Get some therapy and leave that poor child alone.  Yes, lady at Fashion Square this past Friday at 1:20pm outside Banana Republic, I mean you.

¿Cómo se dice "twat swat"?

Okay, so here's the deal.  I love immigrants (legal and otherwise). I don't care if you spent years dedicated to the paperwork and interviews to gain your status or if you rode here in the trunk of a Subaru. I don't care if your parents were illegal but you were born here.  I don't care if you gave birth while running across the border and dropped one twin in Mexico and one in Texas and they both wave the American flag, congratulations and bienvenida.  Here is the only thing that I do care about, if you live in America please speak just enough English so that when I tell you to "Go fuck yourself" it'll really hit home.  It pains me to spend time out of my day telling you what a jackhole you're being only for you to smile at me and murmur some variation of "No English."  
If you ask me, there should a one page Citizenship test with only three simple questions. 
#1. Please translate "Go fuck yourself" (native slang is permissible).
#2. A picture of the middle finger extended. Beneath it put a smiley face and a frowny face. Please circle the corresponding emotion.
3. If someone threatens to punch you in the vagina, would you say you're being a good citizen or total fuckwit?  (You can write on the back of this page).
You're welcome, America.