Keep Your Head Up

Keep your head up.  Not so you can let your hair down.  So you can accurately counter Life’s punches with a kick to the throat.  AAAAAnd so that everyone can see how pretty you look while you kick arse.

I wonder if Mother Nature has sought treatment for her bipolar disorder…

There’s the way it’s supposed to be done, the way you tell me to do it, and the way I’m going to do it.

Washi tape is amazing.

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Feminist Schiminist

I never thought of myself as a “feminist”.  Feminist is a baaaad word.  It applies to females who douse themselves in patchouli oil and don’t shave their pits.  These creatures are too busy angrily screaming about men while teaching Women’s Studies at the community college to be taken seriously.  Feminist??? Me??? Gross.

excerpt from cartoon on
excerpt from cartoon on
Up front, I’ll be the first to admit that I have a severe aversion to being labeled.  It makes me feel too controlled, too confined.  Something I maybe should have considered before joining drama in high school or cheerleading or competing in pageants or a joining a sorority in college.

Don’t call me a sorority girl.  I have a name.  Don’t lump me with 60 other people just because we belong to the same club.  Although, it is a pretty awesome club.

{Oh, you’re an Eata Krappa Pie???  You must be a private school girl.}

Recently, however, I’ve realized that maybe I do buy in to the beliefs of feminism.

Merriam-Webster defines “feminism” as “The belief that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities.”

If that’s all there is to it, why not?  Everyone should have equal opportunities as long as the bar doesn’t have to be lowered to be considered equal.

{Give me what I want.  Do it. I can’t earn it on my own so you should just give it to me because it isn’t fair that I can’t have it.  Work harder???  No.  I won’t do that.  That’s stupid.}

Don’t accept me into an Ivy League school with a subpar GPA because I’m a girl.  Make me earn it.  Let me prove I’m better than your expectation.

We grow up screaming “Anything you can do I can do better!” at the top of our lungs but then what?  Too often we stop short of proving it.

{I can jump higher.  I’m not going to show you because I don’t want to embarrass you.}

I’ve always been competitive.  I knew from an early age that whatever I did in life I wanted to be the best.  But I’m also deeply afraid of failure.  So much so that it’s crippling to think of putting myself out there.  As a measure of self-preservation I stopped trying.

{What if no one likes me, what if no one takes my ideas seriously, what if no one reads the random thoughts I piece together and call a blog?????  Ha, that’s funny.  Everyone will read my blog.}

I don’t think I’m the only one in the world who feels this type of fear.

What I do know is that I’m tired of being afraid all the time.  Who cares if I fail at something I’m passionate about?!?  Who cares what other people think.  I know I’m awesome.

I spent my first marriage trying to convince someone that I’m worth being with when I should have been convincing myself.  If I know I’m great, those who don’t can suck it.

Girls are given mixed messages.  We can be whatever we want.  We can have it all.  As long as we marry a prince.  But first we’ll have to scale an icy mountain, draw blood on a needle, survive a poisoning, get turned into a frog, and escape a kidnapper/shoe thief.  If we succeed he’ll save us from our evil step-mothers and we’ll live happily ever after.

Um, wake up, Sleeping Beauty.  Your Prince snores, he doesn’t clean up after himself, and he lives with his dad.

{Hey, Snow, I have a zit on my back that I can’t reach.  Imma need you to pop that for me after I blow this snot rocket on the shower wall that I won’t clean up because I know  you’ll  clean it if I leave it there long enough.}

I checked Snow White’s Twitter account shortly after she married Prince Charming.  It said, “Hashtag, notwhatIsignedupfor” and rumor has it she’s back living with the Dwarfs (oh, sorry… “little people”).

Here’s my point: as a woman, we will always have to work harder for less.  There is no amount of shouting that can change it.  When we fought to enter an equal workforce we didn’t stipulate that we wanted to work in place of caring for a family.  The family duties are still there.

We are inundated with the opinions of everyone else.  You’re horrible if you work outside the home.  If you don’t work outside the home, you don’t work the “right way”.

Women judge other women.  Women judge themselves.  Women look to men to solve their problems and we all know that just creates worse problemsGenerally speaking, men create the problems that only women can effectively clean up.  It’s like asking a muddy dog to mop the floor.

Stop.  It.  (that’s what she said)

Also, stop priding yourself in how much you can take on.

{I founded the “Women Who Are Better than You Because They Multitask” Club.  I run 2 companies, have 4 kids, AND I go to night school for my PhD.  Thaaaaat pretty much proves I’m better than you.}

I have 2 kids, I work full-time, I coach cheerleading for 4 months out of the year, I have 2 dogs, and I’m married.  AND I’M EXHAUSTED.  There are days that I don’t think I can do it all.  There are days I don’t want to do it all.  I am grateful for my job but there are days I resent it.

{I noticed you were out with a sick child last week.  You are missing too much work.  Can’t your husband help?}

Truth is, I don’t want to be considered equal.  I want to be considered awesome.  I’m done trying to be perfect and I’m done trying to be better.  Look at how happy Elsa was when she “Let it Go”.

I’m just gonna Keep Calm and Stay Pretty.  Cuz THAT I can do.

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Funny Girl

Everyone in a group has a role.  Within a group of friends, there is usually an organized friend to be sure everyone is on time, a reasonable one to keep everyone from fighting, a crazy one to make it interesting, and a funny one to cut the tension.  Sometimes one person encompasses more than one role but they’re all there.  Every movie captures this idea so it must be true.

Recently it came to my attention that (in one group, at least) I’m the funny one.  When you’re known as the “funny” friend, a lot of expectation accompanies the title.  It’s surprising, I know.  Most expect the “funny” friend to be like the class clown that does stupid shat to get everyone off topic and frustrate the teacher.

Not gonna lie, I’m REALLY good at throwing others into a tangent.  And at causing frustration.

{Mrs. Francis Freedman: “Ok cla-us.  Today we aw gunna read tha ma-sta-piece known as Sidhawtha”.  Me: Um, I’m a masterpiece… can we please take a moment to discuss me?  Class: giggle, giggle  Mrs. Francis Freedman, “Miss Humphries, please see me afta class.”  Me:  Dam.}

But then what about when we aren’t in school?  Huh?

Hey, E, my grandma just died.  Would you come over?  All my family is here and we’re all really sad.  You’re so funny.  You’d cheer everyone up.

No.  No, I won’t.  Ever been to a funeral with me?  I get extremely uncomfortable with all the crying.  I’ll make wildly inappropriate comments that leave all of your family members wondering when the floor will open up and drop me to Hell.  Want an example?

{You: I’m going to miss her so much.  Me: Well, at least now your hands can air out from the nightly Bengay applications, ammirite???}

And I don’t say inappropriate things on purpose.  It just happens.  Kind of like being “funny”.  I just say stuffs.  Some of it garners a laugh.  Most of it doesn’t.  That’s why I mumble a lot.

{Huh?  Oh, nothing.}

Be funny all the time on demand.  DANCE, MONKEY!  DANCE!  Um… no.  In defiance, I refuse to be funny.  Gah, no I don’t.  I’m such a laugh whore.

I’ve noticed that when I’m trying to be serious, people still think I’m trying to be funny.  That’s the problem with these roles.  Abandoning them throws the group’s energy off.  The whole balance is lost.  The chubby friend loses weight, the ugly friend gets a nose job, the funny friend gets divorced… this is serious shat.  I’ve seen entire groups collapse under this type of pressure.

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE being called “funny”.  To me, it’s more gratifying than being told I’m pretty.  Being pretty can also be used to describe a no-so-great thing.  “We’re so glad you accepted the position.  I think you’ll do really well here.  To be honest, though, you may have some issues with the other women here because you’re so pretty.”  Uh- Thank you??  To date, I haven’t experienced that with the adjective “funny”.

Just don’t say these roles out loud.  Audibly recognizing what we all already know makes the pressure real.  It says, “The only reason you are here is to be funny.  Outside of that, you have no purpose.”  Then I think, “Oh!  I have to step up my game!”  And then I say things like, “Dying isn’t bad!  You get to go to Heaven, hopefully!”  Or, “you’re barren?  Think of all the money you’ll save on diapers!”  And my fave, “Congratulations on getting married!  Don’t worry.  If it doesn’t work out, divorce is survivable.”  Yes, all things I’ve said.  And reasons I should never be allowed out of the house.

So, if your chubby friend drops 100 lbs. tell her how proud you are!  Your beautiful friend tattoos her face?  Awesome!  Just don’t acknowledge the wrench that’s been tossed in the middle of your circle.  The old roles are dead and there is nothing you can do to bring them back.  Saying them out loud will just push your friends away.  Maybe show up with a new beautiful friend to invite into the group so the tattooed one can become the crazy one.  Hashtag Problem Solved.

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Unsanitary Protection

The point of disposable toilet covers is to provide a more sanitary public bathroom experience.  However, that point becomes moot when said cover either gets stuck on the rim forcing you to scoot it into the bowl (with your foot if you are flexible enough) or when said cover falls into the bowl as you are sitting down.  Gross.  Hashtag girl problems.

covers stink 2
That’s me threatening to punch them if they don’t cooperate. I’m so tough.

covers stink
Of course, they never do…

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The Artist Formerly Known as Bea Arthur

I loved that Prince channeled his inner Bea Arthur at the Grammy’s.

Bitch, please.
Bitch, please.

Does anyone else wonder why no adults found golden tickets in the Wonka Bars?

Why do celebrities feel the need to explain why they don’t have a nanny? Congratulations, you are actually taking care of your child like a normal person. I assume you want an Oscar?

Yesterday I heard a radio DJ say that Monty Python is no longer relevant because the humor is too intelligent for kids today. That tells me 2 things: 1) I’m irrelevant 2) I’m a genius.

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How to Look Like an Idiot at the Bank

Friday afternoon I got my hair cut, paid with my bank card, and was on my way.  A few hours later I went to Michael’s to pick up some last minute things to finish Bella’s wedding birthday cake.  I whipped out the bank card…


What?  I just used it!

Thinking it was a fluke I used a different card and successfully paid my tab.  But it worried me.  What if someone somehow got my card info and the bank froze my account as a precaution… what if someone got my card info and changed my PIN number?  What IF!?

Later that night I had to run to the grocery store.  Again tried to use my card, again denied.  Now I was really freaked out.  It was too late to call the bank.  Plus, I hate calling the number.  It takes forever.  I’ll just go to a branch as soon as they open on Saturday.

And that’s just what I did.  I marched myself in the bank, card in hand, and explained the situation.  The very nice lady behind the desk said, “Ma’am, my records show this card was closed in December.”

That can’t be!  I JUST used the card Friday afternoon!

I told her that I’d received this card in response to the Home Depot data breach.  And then I remembered… I never cut up the old card.  I was in a hurry when the new card came in the mail so I slipped the old one in my wallet behind my Costco card and put the new one front and center.

After getting my hair cut I just dropped the card in my Mary Poppins bag and frolicked to my car, oblivious to the embarrassment that was about to engulf me, then grabbed the old one at Michael’s mistakenly thinking I’d had enough sense to put my active card back in my wallet.

After sheepishly searching my huge duffle bag purse while in the nice lady’s office, I found the active card.  I gave her the closed one so she could shred it.  Oops.

Today’s take-away: always cut up an old card immediately. Or you’ll embarrass yourself at the bank. 

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La Bella Bella

Seven years ago today I was blessed with a perfect gift.

sleepy baby

{Being from God and all.}

She was born amid chaos and brokenness.  She was born amid instability and uncertainty.  And she saved me.

When I found out I was going to have a baby, I was over the moon.

{Yes, just like a cow.  Shut up.}

In my eyes, my life was starting.

And then it ended.  But God knew what he was doing.

There I was, on my own with a 10 week old baby Bella.

But I wasn’t scared.


{Yeah, me either, Mom… you gotta plan?  I feel like you need one.}

I somehow knew we’d be ok.  Better than ok.  I was free.  I felt exonerated. And I freed Bella from that life.

baby bella

{Free at last!  Mom, I knew you had a plan.}

I’m in no way a perfect mother.  Unfortunately, I had to do a lot of on-the-job learning.

{So… wanna cheeseburger?  Can 7-month-olds eat a cheeseburger?  How does this work?}

But it’s the job I am by far the most proud of.  Being a mom is my dream job.

{And I get paid in kisses, hugs, and unconditional love.  Eat that, Corporate America.}

If it were up to me, Bella and I would spend all day, every day, every second of every minute together.  I genuinely could never get enough of her.  When I look at her I see a better, improved version of myself.  E 2.0.  Isn’t that what our kids are supposed to be?  Like us, only better?

Bella has been her own person literally from day 1.  She defied all parenting books, milestones, and guidelines.

{“No, ma’am.  I’m sure your baby can’t roll off of my exam table.  She’s 2 month- ahhhhhhh!”  Good catch, doc.  You’re fired.}

She has a drum beat in her head that only she can hear.  And she dances to it beautifully.

dancing queen 2dancing queen 1

She sets her own rules.  She does what SHE thinks is the right thing to do.  She is head strong, stubborn, and leads the way.

{“Mom,  Mrs. Kirshner told me to stop walking on the ice.  But I didn’t so I got in trouble.  I was just trying to break it up so no one else slipped on it.”  Good job, baby.}

She craves approval just as much as any other child but this one doesn’t change a thing if she doesn’t get it.

She’s an individual.

If she has trouble in life, it will only be because there is no mold for her.  If there ever were, she’s already broken it.

She doesn’t think outside the box.  For her the box doesn’t exist.

Her smile is a beacon.  Her raspy, big voice is like a trumpet played by the most talented Jazz player.

She is the best big sister, and she is the BEST daughter.

best big sis

I can’t wait to see what she does to the world.  I know it is already better because she’s in it.

Happy birthday to my funny, beautiful, talented Bella.  To me you will always be my tiny, 6 lbs. of perfect.

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Get In My Head

The other day I saw a truck driving around Alpharetta.  Not unusual, right?  The strange part: on the back of the truck were the words: “DUDE!  Like, Jesus loves you… Ever think about that?”  Just seems to target a very specific audience.  I didn’t realize so many surfers lived in Alpharetta.  But hey, I’m sure they need Jesus, too.

Yesterday on my way home I saw a cop clocking people on the interstate.  Not weird.  Happens all the time at 5:30pm in gridlocked Atlanta traffic.  I’m sure he met quota with all the cars crawling along at 48 miles per hour.  Good job, Super Trooper.

This morning at Starbucks I was reading headlines.  One referenced a “UN Official”.  But I read it as “unofficial” and was pretty confused.  I must have been really tired because I read it, like, 4 times before I caught it.

There is an amazing new gelateria at Avalon.  We went Friday night.  However, misspellings were rampant.  And I got so annoyed that I almost couldn’t order.  Almost.  Then I realized that I’m probably the only person in Alpharetta, GA who can write Italian so I got over it.  Or did I???  I’m obviously still bothered by it.   Just write the flavors in English if you can’t spell Italian words!  OOOOOR, here’s a thought: GOOGLE!  Ugh.

OH!  And don’t ask me to send you directions anywhere.  Unless you are my grandmother.  I’ll gladly verbally direct Betty C. anywhere she would like to go.  Because she doesn’t have immediate access to Google.  For you, there is no excuse.  GOOGLE IT!  If you have the name for a venue, that’s all you need.  For reals.  I’m not your secretary.

I’m learning that when someone says, “Oh, but you don’t need to worry about that”.  I definitely do need to worry about that.

Since my surgery 2 weeks ago, any time my little man is acting out, I just show him my belly button and he shuts up.  Then runs away.  I’m thinking of trying it at work. Or with my hubs.

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