When I was little I was scared of being abducted by aliens, because I feared that they would kidnap me and anally probe me. I watched a lot of X-Files. I’m obviously no longer scared of this today, but I’m surprised that my parents didn’t think I was a genius for this fear. I mean anal probe is a pretty big word for a five year old. Now I’m just scared of conversations and having an actual adult job. And I’m a real letdown to my parents. Sorry I wasn’t anally probed as a kid mom and dad! My fears never came to fruition, but it looks like yours did!
We have toilets that flush automatically. So why does everyone look at me like I’m a crazy person when I suggest one that wipes my butt, does my laundry, brushes my hair and holds me and tells me everything’s going to be okay when I cry?
The other day I saw a man walking down the street with a loudspeaker. I recognized him from last year when he was yelling at everyone for shopping. Telling us to enjoy our last day on Earth because shopping was a sin. As it turned out, he was wrong. Although I was a little nervous to see what he would be yelling this time, I was pleasantly surprised by what I heard. He said, “Do you know what stuck up means? it means you’ve got a stick up your butt. Don’t go into 2014 with a stick up your butt. Can you imagine being old with a stick up your butt?” I’m a sucker for anything butt related so I thought this was much better advice.
- You say downward spiral, I say riding the roller coaster of life on a downhill slope and laughing/crying with glee!
- You say dying on the inside. I say slowly rotting away with fear/impending doom/glee!
- You say cry for help. I say yelling with fear/impending doom/glee!
Just working on my positive attitude. I’M IN A GOOD PLACE!
Fun fact! Butterflies fart as they fly. In fact, it’s their farts that make them fly. CUTE!
Fun fact! Rhinos can only poop underwater. And they cry when they do it. Isn’t that sweet?!
Fun fact! Hippos sometimes don’t feel confident. They compare themselves to each other and other animals. But they’re BEAUTIFUL!
Fun fact! Oversized shirts look great on everyone :)
Fun fact! I’m crying right now :)
When Eliza was in fourth grade her science fair project, the No Mess Edible Dog Bowl, made it to the state convention. It consisted of dry dog food softened with water and a little peanut butter, mashed with a fork, flattened, then baked in a greased pie plate at 250 degrees until crunchy. Remove, fill with canned dog food, and voila, it’s a dog-food pie where the dog gets to eat the dish.
We thought it was impressive that Liza took this simple, mildly disgusting idea to the state level, along with Lucky (seen in the background) the stuffed dog she won at a carnival and slept with every night. She didn’t end up with any ribbons, even though she was the most adorable kid there, by a lot. Apparently that’s not how science competitions work.
MY BEST HAIR DAY/BEST TIME OF MY LIFE!
No need to be so excited, Liberty Bank. We both know what’s in there and it’s not pretty.
Sometimes I think to myself “if someone told me when I was little I would try to be do doing stand-up comedy, I wouldn’t believe them.” But then again I also never thought I would have to psych myself up to attempt to have normal conversations with people. So you really can’t predict the future.
When I was younger I would eat an insane amount of ice cream. But I would it eat it in a really strange way. I would stir it before eating it and make it really soupy. So I would turn hard packed ice cream into soft serve simply by using hand power. It took patience, dedication and a lot of work. But it was worth it. Once I got a really bad blister from my ice cream stirring and I couldn’t stir it for a week. It was painful. But even more than painful, however, it was really embarrassing because I don’t think there’s a sadder way to get an injury.
Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt have been criticized for letting their 7 year old daughter Shiloh dress like a boy. It seems some think their refusal to discourage Shiloh’s predilection for cropped hair and traditionally masculine garb makes them unfit parents.
I was once in their shoes. My youngest by one minute daughter Eliza spent her childhood dressed in boys’ clothes, specifically, her older brother’s hand-me-downs. Like Jolie and Pitt, I felt that if this made her happy and comfortable, it was fine by me.
People had a tendency to lump the triplets together. As erroneous and annoying as this was, I figured that if we just raised them as individuals things would work out. Occasionally I’d dress them in matching stuff but most of the time they wore whatever they wanted. Rachael liked the color pink, along with a red turtleneck worn inside-out on her head so she could pretend she was Ariel, the Little Mermaid. Sarah liked sparkly jelly sandals and leggings. Eliza liked Jake’s cast-offs: his Ninja Turtles T-shirt, his cargo shorts, and his ratty Converse hi-tops. The times I did dress the girls for special occasions it would be only a matter of time before Eliza whipped off her dress and was running around in tights or underpants.
She also liked her hair short and uncombed, and was often mistaken for a boy. She didn’t care. But I caught a lot of grief from people I knew and complete strangers because I didn’t intercede. She’ll be confused when she grows up, people would say. Or, as one elderly woman in line at the grocery store said, “She should be wearing girls’ clothes. You don’t want her to turn gay”. Eliza, who was around four at the time, said, “That lady is dumb.” “Yes, honey, she sure is,” I replied.
Today, Eliza lives in Brooklyn. She does stand-up comedy several nights a week and works two jobs. With her waist-length ringlets and love of crop tops, no one would mistake her for a boy now. Her metamorphosis has been cool to watch from the sidelines, purely organic, like watching a flower bloom, only in this case, a flower holding nun chucks and the middle school record for push-ups.
I look at photos of Shiloh I see the same feisty jaw-set, the same spunk and confidence I saw in seven-year-old Eliza. This is what self-knowledge looks like. It’s a force to be reckoned with, and by reckoned, I don’t mean judged or manipulated. I mean celebrated.
Mom, thanks for letting me be myself. Always.