Goodbye, Angels

  Around the holiday season there are a multitude of things I look forward to: the festive decorations, displaying my slightly obscene collection of 30 plus Nutcrackers, all the calorie-laden sweet treats, time with family and friends, and of course, the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. If you are unfamiliar with this little gem, suffice to say it is a phantasmagorical display of the most unearthly, stunning models on the planet rocking feathery, lacey lingerie fanfare accompanied by live music, celebrities, and plenty of bling. As I was Googling to find the date of this year’s fete, my youngest told me she had heard it was cancelled. This was confirmed with my online search and made me utter my quintessential “What the actual FUCK?!” catch phrase out loud. Say it isn’t so.

  Upon further Scooby Doo-style investigating I was able to discover details surrounding this travesty. Apparently ratings last year were at their lowest and Victoria’s Secret had been scrutinized for not including curvy body types and transgender models. There was a “lack of body diversity”. I'm sorry but AND??? It’s about to get heated in here so someone hold my beer….

  Our society has slid down the proverbial shitter and we have become a nation of, in my estimation, complete PUSSIES. Yeah, I said it. The constant need to, God forbid, offend anyone, always be 100% politically correct, to make everyone feel all warm and fuzzy at all costs, to essentially give everyone a shiny participation ribbon for just being alive is making me stabby and wanting to scream. THIS IS NOT HOW LIFE WORKS, PEOPLE!!! Nobody is going to give you a really good job just because you want it or feel like you deserve it. No teacher is going to just give you an A because even though your paper was plagiarized trash you submitted it on time and need an A to keep your GPA up. No credit agency is going to be like “You know, you said you MEANT to pay your bill but the money just wasn’t there so I’m gonna give you a pass.” No dance company or sports team is going to let you perform or play first cast/string if you don’t have the skills and technique to back you up. You aren’t going to get a $20K raise because you are living beyond your means or life for you just plain sucks balls. In real life you have to work hard, pay your dues, be stronger, better, and smarter than the others who are vying for that trophy, job, pay raise, or good grade. Our world has become a playground for complete apathy and entitlement and it’s doing NOBODY any favors. In the words of one of my favorite comedians, Dennis Leary, life sucks get a fucking helmet.

  Those Victoria’s Secret models have not ended up on that runway because they just sauntered up after getting their Venti half-caf macchiato and on a whim they thought, “That looks like fun. I love those feathery angel wings and I have a shit ton of followers on my Insta so I definitely should be up there with Gigi and Kendall!” They may have been born with the facilities—height, lankiness, a distinct look, a thigh gap—but they have been modeling and working their tiny, perfect little asses off for a long time. They train physically to be in top form. If they are one of the select few to be given that Angel status, it is not because they half-assed their way through life or by sheer birthright.

  I will never, ever be as tiny as one of those models. I am 100% okay with the fact that if I wear corduroy pants I can easily start a fire from the excessive inner thigh chafing in a flash. (It's actually illegal for me to travel in the states of Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico and the Dakotas during the dry season.) I have never had a 6-pack other than the mess of flesh that resembles a pack of hot dog buns on my back. (Thank you, Spanx.) I often have DBS (Double Boob Syndrome) from my sweater puppies spilling from the top of my bra like that exploded can of Pillsbury biscuits that rolled out of your grocery bag in your trunk in August. Even if I worked out with a trainer 5 days a week, had my jaw wired shut, bought a tapeworm off the internet from a witch doctor in South America, and picked up an $800 a day coke habit, I would never be able to take so much as a step onto that Victoria’s Secret runway. It has never made me mad. This may be an unpopular opinion based on the Era of Entitlement and Participation Ribbons but I don’t want to see anything but those lithe, perfect, possibly part alien goddesses rocking that runway with homely Ed Sheeran crooning his heart out alongside them. There ARE women of all shapes and sizes in this world and I accept and embrace that, albeit in the most non-lesbian way ever. Why ruin a good thing to pacify this hoard of oversensitive jag bags who are boo hooing like the whiney bitches they are?? 

  I have fat friends, transgender friends, friends with acne and cellulite, friends who are proud to wear a bikini in public with less than perfect bodies, gay and straight friends, feminine and masculine friends, friends with scars, friends who are above a size 0. They are cool and real and AMAZING. But guess what? They don’t deserve to be a Victoria’s Secret Angel just because society is screaming for this flat out equality. It’s just fact people, so please don’t start a boisterous witch hunt and start picketing in front of my house with flaming torches, “Angel Lover” signs, and water balloons full of Hellman’s mayonnaise to chuck at my windows. This is part of life, REAL life. Fairness has become blasphemed to derail the definition. “Impartial and just treatment or behavior without favoritism or discrimination”. Sometimes you need to pull up your damn big girl panties, which are likely not from Victoria’s Secret but you probably saved a bunch o’ dough using that Kohl’s cash (go, you!), and GET OVER YOURSELF.

  The outfits those models wear are specifically created for them. These are not cute little lingerie sets in all sizes you will find at the mall on Black Friday. The diamond-ruby-sapphire million dollar bra will be bought up by some Arab tycoon to be worn by one of his 8 wives in the privacy of his own mansion in Dubai, you never had a shot at bargaining with a sales girl and her pink tape measure to “just let you try it on for fun”. It’s a FANTASY. It’s high fashion and opulence, a visually stunning masterpiece. That’s it. End of fucking list. 

  My holiday spirit is a little bit crushed, not unlike (spoiler alert) discovering Santa isn’t real. You have ended a good thing, Victoria’s Secret. Our society of keyboard warriors and protesting pacifists are nothing but big, fat bullies and you have succumb to their trash talk and empty threats. There has been talk that the show may be revamped or not even broadcast on television. I don’t have Kanye’s cell nor a million bucks so I probably won’t score a seat if this spectacle makes its way back to that glorious, Swarovski-encrusted runway. And in all likelihood if you DO choose to alter the lineup to include body diversity and whatever else is de rigueur in the misrepresentation of society, count on your ratings dropping even lower because this misshapen, middle aged chick will NOT be tuning in. 

Sincerely,

An Angels Fan Girl Whose Wings Have Been Crushed

Dating Redux

  Some time ago I visited the phenomenon of online dating and made commentary surrounding the adventure. Whelp I’m back at it and this go ‘round is not so much an adventure but more like being on Naked and Afraid for 7 months straight with no rescue crew in sight, minimal provisions, warding off wild local animal species with nothing but my wits and my tits. I am questioning the evolution of mankind at this point based on my most recent experiences trying to date and find a compatable guy in my life.

Read the fine print. I have a lengthy profile bio and it’s pretty specific what I am looking for and what I am not. Yet the influx of those who buck the system or are potentially illiterate enough to bypass this is ludicrous. Geographic location, age, children, musical preferences, favorite foods and drinks, things that are my jam are ALL IN THERE. If you come at me with a cheesy pick up line and the obvious mental capacity of a Russett potato it’s going to be a hard pass.

Age. I have dated younger and we can get the Molly roast out of the way right now. My parents once told me my rental agency might think I was running a daycare. My mom offered to buy the guy some Hot Wheelz to play with. I now know better. And though as adorable as a Capuchin monkey who sits on your shoulder for a photo op in Cozumel, the young boys aren’t for me. It’s comically apparent how a guy speaks to you indicating his age. Calling me a MILF or saying you want to be my boy toy is some rudimentary frat boy lingo. Lay off the Porn Hub and come back once you’ve read some literature and don’t open a conversation with asking if I would sit on your face.

Pretending. I have been at this neverending rodeo long enough to see right through proclamations of intent geared towards what a man wants me to believe. “I’m not really sure if I want kids.” “It’s totally cool if you don’t like country music.” “I’m looking for a relationship not just a physical hookup”. Ummm, you specifically state you are DFB (down for babies), have a cowboy hat in 9 of your 10 pics, and are shirtless and making duck face at the gym which is code for “Let’s bang, baby.” I was once married to a slick, used car salesman type of guy. I can read your transparency clearer than a wet t-shirt contest in a monsoon.

Distance. Even dating someone who lives 30 miles away can be an obstacle yet somehow men think it’s reasonable to message me from Iowa, California, Minnesota, Hawaii, Florida, New York, etc. Even IF one of us traveled many miles for a date, then what? My yearning to be with you is going to be some Disney fairytale shit that I will just leave my friends, kids, job, and life as I know it for a ride off into the sunset with you? I’ve actually met some really great guys but then we have to go back to our respective states. I’m not moving, you’re not moving. It’s unfortunate the well of local ladies has dried up or you have gone through them quicker than a reformed Keto fanatic at an all you can eat pasta buffet but let’s be realistic here.

Humor. I’m a hard sell on this. You can’t fake funny like a porn star fakes an orgasm, you’ve either got game or you don’t. I need sarcasm and an edge, Dad jokes aren’t gonna cut it. And if we throw a penchant for Jesus and telling me it makes you uncomfortable to curse this is just not going to work. I’m cool with JC but you are also a little bit of a fucking pussy because a well-placed swear word can be golden. 

Dick pics. Yes, it really IS a thing. Guys send these in an abrupt, unsolicited manner often. Sometimes with an accompanying live action video. One minute you’re telling me how your mama raised you right and you’re cooking a gourmet dinner and then BAM it’s a baloney pony party and you’re telling me you’re covered in lube and wish I was there. Charming. Not sure what your mom did for a living but that was one crazy homeschool class. I maintain that functionally with what you have is one thing, visually I am not jumping through my phone for the chance to ride your Magic Man Meat. Put your pants back on, your pasta sauce is burning on the stove, Chef Boyardong.

Vocabulary. I can be a grammar Nazi and will let a few spellcheck fails pass. I know guys have fat fingers and texting sometimes doesn’t convey their level of tools in the shed. There’s a distinct difference between a couple of your/you’re mishaps and just all out ignorance though. Writing an entire profile bio with zero punctuation, saying “exedera” (is that a new headache medication or a revelation that you never made it to the spelling bee in 5^thgrade?),  repeatedly messaging “Your sexy”, or just complete moronic sentence structure is inexcusable. I don’t know if your mom dropped you on your head but here’s a helmet to avoid further concussions and please visit a library STAT.

Lines. UR sexy. Did anyone tell you you’re a MILF? I can show you things guys your age could never do. You should come over and sit in my hot tub and relax. Come spit on me. …I can’t make this shit up. First of all, Doogie Howser, I will break you in half and you might not even have hair on your sack yet. And secondly, your ignorance will be far more appreciated if you stay within your own species range--young, dumb, and full of....far less brain cells.

Ghosting. Ironically this is the catch phrase epidemic that literally haunts me, making the notion pretty damn accurate. You message someone, there’s interest, the communication is really good, maybe you text or even talk on the phone. You meet for a date and the conversation and humor flow effortlessly, there’s physical attraction and chemistry. You’re completely on the same page. Then NOTHING. Texts stop, no messaging. Umm,  pretty sure I wasn’t hallucinating you calling me your new best friend and I definitely didn’t shit my pants at that cozy little Italian place so what the actual FUCK?? Recently called a guy out for this BS and he said “It’s not that I’m not interested in you but my ex girlfriend came moseying back so…SORRY CHARLIE.” Like the mother fucking Starkist tuna commercial. Really? It’s a straight up land of douche baggery and I am literally swimming in it.

Kids and babies. My girls are older. I am not interested in having, raising, hanging out with, or spending the weekends with wee ones. At my age I maybe could still conceive but the baby would for sure have antlers. And far be it from me to crush someone’s dream of being a daddy some day. So don’t pretend you “don’t really know if it’s in the cards for me to be a father” if it is. The light at the tunnel is bright for me and that selfish me time is right around the corner. You know what's NOT right around the corner for me? Diapers and sippy cups. Sorry not sorry.

About those photos.. I love that you have been all over the world and are yearning for adventure and more stamps in your passport. You climb mountains, love the Cubs, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Eiffel Tower, your frat bros, your three cats (umm why?), your Harley, skydiving, and your mom. But unless you plan on bringing all of those things to a first date, you probably should stick to photos that actually include YOU. Actually thanks for sharing the cat triplets with me because it’s going to be a no for me, dog. More than one shirtless flex pics from the gym, looking wasted with a cig hanging from your mouth while you’re one tequila away from drowning at the swim up bar in Cabo, posing with animal pelts, police officers, stippers, a bong, or your token pink vagina beanie from the protest are not exactly lady boner-inducing. I would like to see who you are. If you are bald, don’t have 17 pics with hats and one grainy one in a group photo of you with the shiny noggin. If you are not exactly at your fighting weight, I gather the montage of you with Sun In highlights and that Pearl Jam concert T is not in any way current. And why are all your pics of you with sunglasses? Do you have a glass eye? Were you involved in some crazy scuffle on Pirate Night on that Disney cruise and can’t find your patch, Matey? Do you regret that guyliner tattoo when you were super into Poison? 

I’ve heard stories on the flip side of women rolling up much older and heavier to those first dates so I know women can be guilty as well. Just don’t post a stock photo from the 1987 Chippenale’s calendar of a shirtless, hairless, super tan guy shaving WITH A BASKET OF KITTENS and expect me to take you for real. 

Call me…maybe. If you throw out your number or demand mine within three exhanged sentences you seriously need to calm your tits. If we like each other we’ll get there. I’ve been burned too many times by misfits of the dating world sending ignorant, rude, mean, and presumptuous texts. I’m not giving you my number, my Snapchat, my Facebook, or my Instagram because I A) don’t want Netflix and chill shots of your schlong watching the Bears game, B) I don’t believe that your membership is LITERALLY expiring today and this will be the only way we can communicate, and C) I DON’T EVEN FUCKING KNOW YOU YET. There is a protocol to even online courtship and you’re acting like that asshole kid in the gift shop at Disney who needs a nap and is flipping his shit over a $45 Pluto stuffed animal.

I literally don't even know which way to swipe anymore...

Zero Fucks

I care way too much about what others think. It’s not a new phenomenon, I’ve been hardwired this way since as long as I can remember. I worry, fret, overanalyze, fear, fumble, and ultimately talk myself out of doing pretty much everything that requires exposing my inadequacies, whether real or self-perceived. What a fucking pussy.

Life has dealt me quite the load of BULLSHIT as of late. It’s almost comical how many things keep happening to me that are in no way, shape, or form, good things. They fucking suck. I have read The Secret. I meditate. I wake up every morning and think very Oprah-esquely about things I am grateful for. Then someway or somehow, a tsunami of horse shit comes my way on the daily. I am going to have a bunch of t-shirts made that read “Are You Fucking KIDDING me?” in various colors, like those days of the week panties they sell for little girls. Because every God damn day I find myself saying this phrase. Repeatedly.

I have become the biggest walking cliché, through no fault of my own. I am officially a Starter Wife. Man is married to wife who raises kids incredibly well for 18 years. Man decides “Ehh, this really isn’t my bag anymore.” Man walks out on family. Man moves into a pimp-ass Chicago apartment 35 miles away from his kids for more than double his mortgage. Man finds woman 18 years his junior to travel the world with. Why is it that if you have a penis it’s perfectly acceptable to have a “mid-life crisis”? Just because many guys are the breadwinners it’s somehow become a sad norm. Is there a little timer in your balls that goes off to remind you your time is up being a family man? Ding! Ding! Ding! It’s been (insert number between 18 and 25) years! Time to abandon scene and seek out an absurdly younger woman with a base-level IQ and perkier tits. Oh she loves you alright, but not for the bulge in your pants you think it’s for.

Imagine if women suddenly had the urge to say, “Screw this mom shit. Deuces! I’m out!” and after decades of marriage and child rearing, emptied out their joint savings account, booked a one-way ticket to Vegas, and shacked up with Trevor, fresh off the Magic Mike tour. It would most definitely not be considered a mid-life crisis. We’d be labeled as bat-shit crazy whores who have lost their damn minds. No rationalizing it, no excuse because the mom job is a damn hard one with no pay, little benefits, and belligerent bosses (ungrateful offsrping). I don’t know a single mother who would ever do this. Why? Because we are selfless. We are giving. We are the punching bags for all the ups and downs of the family because everyone knows we will still be there and love them. And the men that walk out because, “Boo hoo! I’m not happy anymore!” are the really pussies in this scenario.

There are some crazy things that have happened to me, details I’ve discovered, ordeals I don’t know how I’ve survived. Sometimes when I tell people about it their response is, “You can’t even make shit like this up!!” Nope. Welcome to my life. I know I am building character, getting stronger, growing from this, preparing myself to rise like a damn phoenix from the ashes, blah blah blah. (Cue Gloria Gaynor song.) This shit has hurt me, scarred me, made me question who I am, made me insecure. But in my little epiphany moment while I was squatting at the gym hit me yesterday, I thought, “Wait a minute. I have had no choice in facing all this shit but I survived it. I hated it but I’m here. So why am I such a freaking PUSSY about things that aren’t so hard??”

I’m not “there” yet. I’m far from brave most days. I cry, I swear, I slam a lot of doors. But I feel like a gorilla pounding it’s chest like, “Bitch, BRING IT! Is that ALL you’ve got?!” to life. Fucking A. I’ve been called names, walked out on, accused of being selfish, had my gas shut off, been sued for non-payments, had a car taken away, had personal property stolen, and I might lose my house. If I think of all of it at once it’s a LOT. Holy shit.

So I’m a Starter Wife. Big fucking deal. There’s a lot of God damn WARRIOR WOMEN I know in this club. We are better, smarter, classier, more beautiful, more respected, and tougher than any man and his “mid-life crisis”. Perky tits and 20-something bodies are temporary, honey. Let me lighten that bulge by taking half of what you’re chasing in his pants, thank you very much. I know spelling is hard for you but it’s called M-A-I-N-T-E-N-A-N-C-E.

Moral of the story, you’ve got to give zero fucks to survive. I may get struck by lightning, Hurricane Harvey may turns its course and somehow travel to Plainfield, Illinois, or maybe even a real-live sharknado may knock me down, but I’ll still be here, standing up every single time, rocking my “Are You Fucking KIDDING Me?” shirt. I’ll be waiting on the porch, looking out for the repo man. Watch your purse if you stop by, he’s got sticky fingers

Lloyd Dobler

My social media feed is blowing up with pretty much everyone but me promoting the living shit out of something. How ironic is it that I have a degree in Merchandising Management but I really despise trying to sell anything? There is nothing I believe in strongly enough I have ever come across in my life that has made me balls-to-the-wall, gung-ho about promoting it for others to buy/buy into/help me sell/make me want to wear a t-shirt advertising it/get tattooed on my butt cheek. I don't care who tells me their best friend who was a doctor/lawyer/engineer quit their lucrative career to sell {insert item for sale here} and is literally wiping their ass with hundred dollar bills they make so much bank.  I am telling you, I DO NOT CARE.

Remember Lloyd Dobler in the movie "Say Anything"? He pretty much sums it up.

"I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that."

I have mad respect for my friends who find their zen being on conference calls and listening to the presidents of their companies get sales boners over world domination of their product. Holy shit, you're featured in Oprah Magazine and made it to her "My Favorite Things" list?? My God that's almost as cool as Kim and Kanye naming their baby after you!! Pretty sure that's as bad-ass as being referred to as the 11th commandment----Thou shalt buy my shit as it has the power to make your pores smaller than a baby/your ass as tight as a constipated Olympic gymnast/your fiesta party dip creamier than milk fresh from a cow teat.

I will buy your magic cream. I will marvel at how ripped your abs are. I will serve your "Heaven In My Mouth" spinach dip and give you props. But please, for the love of all that is good, Baby Jesus, and all the Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs in the world, don't ask me about joining your team to sell it, deal?

I am so super happy you reached Triple Violet Moonstar Level. Taste the rainbow, bitch! You earned a trip for the first inaugural trip to teach a livestream of your fitness class from the MOON?? Neil Armstrong the HELL out of that cardio! You've been awarded a herd of pink unicorns to pull your sleigh full of team members to your national convention in Vegas? Yippee ki yay, motherfucker! I am so proud of you. Pinkie swear.

I know, I know,  you're going to tell me I'm "crazy for not taking advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity as the company's growth skyrockets at the speed of light". That fast, huh? Is there some reinvention of the wheel that's happening here I'm unaware of? Don't I LIKE money? Don't I crave success? Don't I like pink unicorns??????

I like money. Success is truly a personal definition. For example today my success lies in the fact that I remembered to switch the laundry to the dryer before it smelled like sour milk. Tomorrow my success might solely be dependent on me changing my underwear. And hell yes, pink unicorns are my JAM. But to participate in your prescribed path to success I will have to network and call people on the phone and sit through conference calls while I sprain my optic nerve from rolling my eyes and go to meetings where people cheer like televangelists and have to post shit on my Facebook page about how much said product has enhanced/changed/rebirthed my soul every damn day. Maybe you didn't read the fine print in the contract for a friendship with me.

I HATE talking on the phone. I'd rather go to the gyno, oral surgeon, and get a mammogram every day for a year than have to physically CALL people. #truestory

I like working out. But sometimes I like naps and not giving a shit. The latter is mostly true as of late.
If I drink enough water, don't drink a bottle of wine before bed, and get a decent night's sleep my skin looks pretty good for this middle-aged mom. Sorry but there is no magic cream, serum, patch, goo, mask, or face taser that is going to magically make me wake up and make me look like I'm 25 again. Trust me honey, I have tried them ALL. Heredity, hydration, and using a hell of a lot of sunscreen are what's up.

I own every kind of seasoning, sauce, stone bake wear, sterling silver, nylon carryall tote, organic  foot cream, Tupperware, face and body potion, and conflict free plastic bangle made from repurposed Trapper Keepers which every sale of buys a third world teenager an iPhone 3 that only texts in Japanese and plays "Never Gonna Give You Up" by Rick Astley on repeat. If I run out, I know where to find you.

I am known for saying exactly what people think but maybe are too afraid to say. I enjoy cursing and scathing sarcasm. A whole God damn lot. I can refer to my kids as demon spawn but then marvel at their academic success the next day. I LOVE when people enjoy my sense of humor. But guess what's gonna happen if my social media is jammed with "check out Molly's biceps/positivity/placenta face mask/colon blow flat tummy tea"? I will no longer be the Molly you know and either love or hate. That's not worth money or pink unicorns or even 12-pack abs to me.

You do you, I'll do me. And right now, it's time for a cardio-free nap.

You Need to Chill

Every damn year the anticipation of the FIRST SNOWFALL renders lifelong mid-westerners panicked and shitting their pants. We are currently expecting, wait for it, 2-5 inches of snow tomorrow! AND possibly 1-3 more the following day! Stop the presses, slap my ass, and call me Shirley. SNOW?? In the end of November?? Blasphemy!!!!

This is Illinois. Unless you can show me your boarding pass from last week and are rocking a savage tan to prove you are from Miami, you need to really get it together. We have four seasons. They are not always the same length, they are not always perfect. But there ALWAYS is a winter. And what happens in winter?? It gets cold and it SNOWS!

I am fully aware that tomorrow there will be barren shelves at the grocery store. Every single person on the roads will completely forget how to drive in the snow. The news in going to be non-stop storm watch. It will pre-empt every TV show. Because as a society we have grown accustomed to being updated every 3 minutes about events big and small and pointless. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat with be loaded with cozy sweater pics and snowflake emojis. I saw an entire family excitedly looking at new shovels and taking turns posing with them at Target. Seriously, you pansy-ass bitches need to pull up your big girl panties get a grip.

When I was a kid it snowed. It snowed a LOT. I am from West Michigan. Winter does not fuck around up there. People shoveled, kids wore snowsuits and mittens and hats. We played outside for HOURS and school was never cancelled because it was too cold. What kind of raging bullshit is that? Too cold? And suddenly we have to name every significant POTENTIAL storm that might pass over our city. I believe this one is called Bella. Oh my fucking god, REALLY?

I am going to possibly put a snow scraper in my car. I will probably wear boots. I will be drinking my Pinot Noir because it keeps me warm and creates enough of a buffer between my annoyance and the barrage of Snowpocalypse nonsense. Let me give you a little lesson in reality. As with anything in life, 2-5 inches is really nothing to post about on Facebook. If we're talking 9-12 inches then give me a call. But until Winter Storm Magic Mike rolls in, shut it.

Can I Have Your Number?

Every single time I've ever made absolute statements in my life saying "That will NEVER happen", it always fucking happens.
"I'll never weigh more than 130 pounds!"
"He'd never cheat on me!"
"I'll never workout less than 5 days a week!"
"I'll never shit myself while wearing sweatpants and no underwear while walking the dog!"
"I'll never have to see what's out there in the world of dating because I'm MARRIED! I can't even IMAGINE!"
Well someone should have shook me like a snow globe and told me to shut my pie hole because when the Divorce Papers Fairy pulled into the driveway (wearing a short sleeve dress shirt and clip on boy's tie), I knew those words should not have left my big, fat mouth.

I'd love to be able to just savor every second of being single, of having the freedom to do what I want, to revel in me time, to write in one of my many journals. To enroll in a cupcake decorating class and 3 book clubs while I let my bush grow out to look like I'm straddling one of the Jackson 5. But the reality is this: I don't want to be single. I have been free to do whatever I want because nobody has given a shit as long as the fridge is full and laundry is done for YEARS. Every time I go to Barnes and Noble I wander into that fucking journal section and somehow end up with three more, all with inspirational quotes about "finding your path" or "strength comes from within" or "who needs a man when you have a decent vibrator". I HATE writing in journals. My hand cramps up, the ink smears from my left-handedness dragging along the page, and I feel pressure to be writing something as prolific as the Malala quote imprinted on the $29.95 leather cover. And I personally like a well-manicured beaver because this is not 1987, not because I expect anyone to see it. If thongs were the panties of choice back then, there's no way bitches would be able to shove all that muff fur up there.

So I am TRYING to date. Trying to find someone who meets maybe 27% of the criteria I have in a suitable companion. I was aiming higher but have had to bring my standards down because there IS no fucking Prince Charming. There is no Mr. Right. I'll settle for "Mr. Ehhh, Why Not?" at this point. There just aren't a lot of men who are single at this stage of the game. Hold on, let me rephrase, there aren't a lot of moderately attractive men who don't mind that I'm (almost) divorced, have 2 kids who occupy most of my time and energy, and live in suburbia away from any fun city options for going out. Starting to feel like I'm going to lead a life of making fleece pillows for church craft fairs.

Even my friends have tried to monitor the single man scene in their small pool of guys they know.
"Oh my gosh, he's the NICEST GUY!"
Translation: He lives with his mom and favors mock turtlenecks from Kohls. And maybe plays with Legos.
"He's not THAT short."
Translation: If I wear heels he can officially use my tits as a travel pillow.
"He's really cute!"
Translation: He's missing teeth.
"His hair is kind of sporty."
Translation: Bald.
"He's kind of in transition."
Translation: Still married but will be willing to take you on as an extra-curricular activity.
"He's a self-motivated entrepreneur."
Translation: Broke as fuck. And smokes a shit ton of weed.

I joined a dating site. Go ahead, make fun. I would. Most of the guys that have similar interests, age range, and situations as mine look like child molesters and are 55-60. Anyone that is hot and early 30's or younger I automatically red flag. There has to be some MILF bucket list they want to fulfill and I'm not about to be the one to do it. Any guy in his 20's usually has to brag about the size of his meat stick after the initial, "Hey, you've got beautiful eyes!" opening line. Really? I've got some needs but Jesus H., I am not THAT desperate, Long Dong Silver. I am leary of men who have never had children. Because the "not sure" about having kids comment most definitely means they want someone who is down to eventually give them offspring. In case we haven't officially met, hi, I'm Molly and I HATE babies. There are very few men who say they are divorced, have kids, and are my age. And frankly, I suspect many of them actually are still married. That tan line looks pretty fresh on that ring finger, SinglStud69. I'll give you an A for effort though.

Not waiting for any knight in shining armor to ride in on his noble steed. Shit, at this point I'll take Paco the exterminator as long as he can show me his last 3 pay stubs, proof of citizenship, and he speaks decent English. Until then I'll be at Hobby Lobby buying 15 yards of fleece because it's on sale this week.

Na-Ma-Stay-Your-Ass-On-the-Floor

Yoga is officially a "thing" now. Like self-serve frozen yogurt. Or Crocs. Or anal bleaching. I suppose it's not for everyone but I'll tell you what. EVERYONE makes you feel like you are the leper of society if you aren't doing it.
Everyone: "Oh my God you SOOOO have to try yoga, girl! It will change your life!"
Me (silently): ["Shut up, you granola-munching hipster...."]
Everyone: "Yoga will TOTALLY bring peace to your heart. You need it with all you've been through!"
Me (again silently): ["I will find you when you are putting your $14 organic Whole Foods mushrooms into the back of your Range Rover some night and bludgeon you with a jar of Nutella."]
Everyone: "Only the lepers of our society don't do yoga!"
Me (grrrrrrrrr....): ["Fine. I wouldn't want to be a leper. Or a camel-toe sporting sweat machine in those ridiculous yoga short/panties..."]

I tried a yoga class once. It was probably ten years ago at my mega-gym. The instructor was a sprightly young man with ripped arms and legs who was probably all of 20 years old. I think he was wearing a cloth diaper that smelled like patchouli. I believe he might have just completed a hemp milk enema cleanse before teaching because he was WAY too fucking excited and seemed to be weightless as he balanced on one hand with his legs wrapped like a jacked up pretzel. ONE FUCKING HAND!!!!!!!! He encouraged breathing and peaceful tranquil minds but all I could think of was "This is motherfuckingimpossible and I think I'm going to cry." So I cried. And was mortified that I could not do "crow". I was the only one who thought this pose was impossible. The entire class rested their knees on the outside of their elbows and just popped their feet off the ground like it was a stroll in the park. Not me. I was a squatting liability as my wrists buckled and I fell like a sack of potatoes. I never went back.

But yet here I am many years later, a week into yoga classes and I haven’t quit. I still completely suck and fall out of everything with the grace of a drunk on rollerblades. I am a ballet teacher for God’s sake. I have a decent amount of balance engrained in me. Apparently when you take yoga, you throw all that shit out the door. You are basically going to have to start the hell over, like you are learning to walk. 

As a newbie to anything I am not 100% sure of that requires trying to be calm as my muscles are stretch-raped, I prefer to stand in the back. This will assure a few things. First of all, the restroom is right there. If I need refuge because I am going to vomit, shit my pants, cry, or simply run away from the instructor, I’ve got my out. Secondly, I have no idea what in holy hell most of these moves are based on their yoga names. Front Row Girls (FRG’s) know what’s up. As I wander sheepishly to the back some are chilling out in handstands and headstands in silence. Even if I decided I really, REALLY love yoga and start hemp enema cleanse club, I cannot fathom just hanging out in inverted vagina camel or whatever it’s called just for fun. Nope.

My favorite cursing dance mom bestie, Tiffany, and I talk in regular voices which is an understood evil in the yoga studio. (After I week we UNDERSTAND, we just choose to talk.) If you can’t chill on your head you are supposed to sit or lie down and I guess focus on your breathing.  Oh and NOT TALK. And let’s talk about that breathing for a second, can we? When you deeply inhale and exhale I don’t find any reason to make extra noise. If I closed my eyes I felt like I was on a whale watching tour with all the vibrating, humming, Orca noises emanating from the moist sweat cave. Shut. Up. Do I see a doula in here massaging your taint so you don't tear when you deliver your baby right here at the yoga studio? No??? Zip it, Sea World.

This is not hot yoga, as Bikram junkies will tell you. I have so far not tempted this discipline. The only thing I do at 105 degrees is get Ebola and die. But my class IS hot. It's 90 degrees and when you are even merely sitting in the Amazon jungle humidity, you will sweat your tits off. There is steam coming from a little vaporizer in the back. There is steam coming off of the downward dogging participants. The little foam blocks they give you for remedial yoga newbies who can't balance or touch their toes are made of semi-molten lava. Within 10 minutes I am glistening like I was dipped in a vat of Land O Lakes. It is impossible for me to just grab my ankle as I'm upside down on one leg and it keeps slipping from my greasy fingers like the last chicken wing from a fat person under the couch. I'm sure if someone took a video of this part of the yoga train wreck it would have gone viral on YouTube by now. Though I've brought a full-length mat towel with gripping koom-ba-ya design painted on, my sweaty hog stubs keep slipping like a Tom and Jerry cartoon. By the end of class the entire room is dripping wet like a gas station bathroom minus the used condoms on the floor.

Yoga music is kind of like spa massage meets Kidz Bop Enya. Kind of tranquil, super hippie, mostly making me show my "What is THIS shit??" face every time a new song begins. Because of the no-talking and the quiet moments we are all supposed to be savoring in our bodies and minds, all other noises are magnified. Farting is totally acceptable in there. You release that ass bomb while you moan out that exhale, Orgasma Queen of the Savsana!!! I refuse to go there. Ever since I received my EQV (Excessive Queef Violation) back in Pilates in 2004, I tend to be an ass clencher. Not a peep from me below the waist, I can promise you that.

Our instructor the other day had us transitioning between movements so fast that between me trying to read my Rosetta Stone Yoga Lingo for Dummies while wiping the pouring sweat from my eyes, I realized we were now facing backwards. Fuck. Now I was an FRG. What an uninspiring view those head standing fart machines had now. I'm sure it was like being the sober one at a party and watching the wasted ones stumble and slur. I wanted to just lie there but the pressure was on.

And just like that, there it was....My nemesis. That God damn CROW. Mentally I was trying not to have PTSD flashbacks to One-Handed Diaper Boy and that day in class so many years ago. Breathe...breathe... I was not going to be self defeated. I would balance up there even if for a mere second! Or..... I was going to totally over tilt forward, twist my wrist, slam my knee on the ground, and almost hit my head.
"You cannot succeed unless you sometimes fall a few times."
The Jedi master was trying to lighten my load of shame. And how heavy it was....

Someday I WILL be able to crow the HELL out of myself. I will be able to stand on one leg and not keel over like someone stole my walker. I will be able to say "Namaste" at the end of class and not feel like a complete fraud. I will be able to do the backbend wheel without feeling like my implants are going to shoot out and knock that humidifier over. I just might even want to consider being a Front Row Girl. But don't expect to see this top-heavy blond in a headstand. I can only clench so much before my butter sweat hemp milk enema queef gets me arrested.

Seize the Made-Up Day!!!

Today is apparently National Dog Day. I don't really know if this is true or some Hollywood celebrity with 7 rescue dogs Tweeted about it at 3am when they were 3 bottles of Grey Goose in at 50 Cent's table and suddenly we all have to celebrate. Today is also Women's Equality today, commemorating when we were given the right to vote because having a vagina used to mean we were inferior. (I'll take having my lady taco to that ugly sack of hairy balls and wrinkly deflated balloon that sits in your pants all day, thanks. Pretty sure Caitlyn Jenner got sick and tired of tucking all that junk up into those 80's Olympic running shorts and now posts "Nut-Free Zone" signs in her house.) Oh yay, two reasons to have a cocktail.

Who decides on all these random days to celebrate??? They certainly weren't anything I've ever heard of nor celebrated when I was growing up. Just more bullshit reasons to inundate social media with pics and well wishes and selfies regarding whatever the hell said holiday is. Just let me stop you right there. Enough.

I think this whole epidemic started with Sweetest Day. A bullshit holiday created by someone who did not have a significant other on February 14th so they MADE UP A HOLIDAY so their "sweetie" could feel obligated to buy them romantic gifts. Not buying into it, no one is getting a card from me, I will not Tweet about my sweetie, I will in fact walk through the Hallmark card aisle and cross out the word "Sweetest" on each and every card with the word "Bullshit" in red Sharpie. If you didn't get some booty on Valentine's Day, tough shit. Not my problem.

I know the extra special days we all post about are the result of our instant gratification demanding culture. Not every God damn day is special. It's a fucking Wednesday. I get to take the trash out tonight. Whoop de doo. We always have to top everything, one-up ourselves, make sure everyone feels special every damn second for mundane reasons because GOD FORBID we just sit still and not watch Netflix or check how many likes we got or sit outside and just look at the damn sky. I put my phone away and read an actual book with real paper pages tonight. I might as well have whipped out my crack pipe with the look my kids gave me.

I believe I missed National Siblings Day. Shit, totally meant to send my brother a card.....Someone please let me know when Dysfunctional Passive Aggressive Family Day is so I can text them messages I'm too much of a pussy to say to their faces. I think it's maybe in November? I think it falls between National Wax Your Back Day and National Bastard Stepchild Day. Correct me if I'm wrong. So easy to mix up!!!!!

I have to go to bed now. Getting up at the crack to surprise my kids with a special breakfast. It's National Have Fun at Boarding School Day. It's hard to fit the scrambled eggs and mini muffins in those prison trays unless I'm well rested.

Let's Bring the Room Down for a Second

I feel like Jan Hooks in the SNL episode with the Sweeney Sisters (if you are young you probably won't get that reference and that's sad. Look it up on YouTube, that's when Saturday Night Live was genius...) But let's get back to being serious and NOT making you laugh with my post. Tomorrow I will curse a lot and offend many of my readers so don't get your panties in a wad just yet......

 When I moved into my house in Plainfield there was this tree on the front corner of my property. It was a skinny, sad looking thing. I think the landscapers planted it askew because any time the wind blew, it tilted precariously towards the road. Because of it's less than upright planting and the fact that it was on the windiest corner in the neighborhood, I fully expected to find it split at the base and destroyed after every storm. Over the next couple of years I noticed a funny thing happen. A branch on the opposite side of where the tree was leaning began to grow across, around another brach as if it were an arm, holding the tree up. I thought "That's interesting but no way will that skinny branch be able to hold this tree if the wind blows hard enough." But that tree started to stand upright. The base got thicker, that helping branch still wrapped tightly across and under, holding on. I stood under that tree many times over the past year and marveled at this. I came home last week and noticed tree trimmers throughout my neighborhood. As I approached my house I noticed lots of trees were thinned out. I actually started tearing up when I saw that they had cut that helping branch from my tree. I went inside, feeling silly for being sad about this. I always thought that tree and its special branch were a metaphor for my life. "The tree is growing stronger because it's helping itself." I sat and realized that this tree had become strong and hardy. It was healthy and able to resist wind and storms. It no longer needed that branch.
This year has been a test of my wills. Going through divorce, feeling desolate and alone as a woman and mother, my beloved grandparents dying in a tragic car accident. I have struggled, cried, moped, been immobile with sadness. But something has changed within me. I feel stronger. I am not afraid to face reality. I am not afraid of people who berate and belittle me. I have stood up to some fears and said "Screw you! Do you even KNOW who the F I am?" I'm not yet out of the woods in a lot of ways. But I'm not afraid because I can't see an exact path to lead me. I see light and know that with every step I am better, stronger. I have helped myself, like that branch helped my tree. But I am free from needing it anymore. I have decided that I am the most important person in my life. ME. I matter to myself and that's all that should matter.
Thanks, tree. In your silent strength you have taught me a lot.....

So moral of the story? If you think you can't do it, you've GOT this, babe. 

Hot As Balls

It is hotter than Satan's balls in my house. I used to enjoy a good sweat at the gym or when the seasons change because it reminded me winter was gone. Not today my friends, not today.... How you feelin'?......HOT HOT HOT!!!!!!!!!! (Thanks, Buster Poindexter, for that hideous song that is pumping through my head now...)

I woke in the middle of the night all dry-mouthed and sweaty at about 3am yesterday. My ceiling fan was on. I was already sleeping with no covers and not family-appropriate pajamas. Why in the hell was I SO DAMN HOT?? I am only 42. I am not ready to go through "the change". I know I'm carrying a bit of extra "winter fluff/slight depression/divorce flab/I sometimes eat my feelings away" pounds so I chalked it up to that. But after only 2 sips of my morning coffee I felt like I was in a South American rain forest. I thought about wrapping my head in a wet towel turban but then the neighbors might think my marriage is on the mend so I scratched that idea.

"Girls, does it feel really, fricking HOT in here or is it just me?" I asked as my upper lip glistened with a pre-pubescent sweat stache.
"No, I'm fine maybe it's just you, Mom."
They are skinny kids with little body fat, they don't drink coffee, and they are barely coherent before school so maybe they just didn't notice. Maybe I have some crazy ass malaria that's giving me a fever and my brain is frying in my skull!!!!!!!!....

All damn day I had under boob sweat in growing crescent shapes like a leaky breast feeder. Popsicles, ice water, cold showers, NOTHING helped. I sought refuge in my car and probably looked kind of insane as I shoved my face into the vents like a dog hanging out the window. I almost went to the store to get an ice cold 2-liter of Sprite to straddle like a soda donkey. After school my kids finally validated my thoughts.

"Mom, why is it hot as BALLS in here?? Why don't you turn on the air conditioning for God's sake?!"
"It's SATAN'S BALLS hot and it IS on. I think it's broken." I tell them.
Yup, my AC was pumping out hot air like a meeting with my ex and the two divorce attorneys. I set my air at 75 degrees but the temp in my house was 86. Aww, HELL NO!!!!!!

I got advice from anyone who would give it.
"Have you checked the freon level?" Who the fuck do I look like with these nails? It's not Bob Villa so, no, I have not checked the freon level.
"Have you checked the circuit breaker?" After karate chopping my way through Tarantula Web Alley in my back room (accompanied by some total bitch ass screaming) I find it's not a circuit or fuse or whatever the hell that box full of switches is.
"Is your unit on?" Well Jesus H. Christ, let me traipse around the side of my house and wiggle my fat ass through my overgrown landscaping to check. Nope, no noise. No bueno.

Mike, the repair guy stayed with me on the phone as I went all over my house on this little AC scavenger hunt. He was out of breath and sounded like he might have been about to have a heart attack because this time of year he gets a little busy. Or he just sits in his truck with his pants down creeping on overheated women for awhile before he can "get to them". I'd say this explains why Mr. HVAC Peeping Tom is so winded.
"Well I can try to fit you in tomorrow but it will be sometime between 8am and 8pm and we can't give you any idea when your time will be."
Awesome, in 12 hours there is not some hierarchy of who called first or who sounds the hottest via phone or perhaps who can Snapchat a pic of their boobs (with the titty sweat Photoshopped out of course..) the fastest?
"Oh....okay. I'll wait for your call then."
So that's how my night went.
As the thunderstorms set in, I had to shut every single one of my windows and close off any chance of my Indian Sweat Lodge cooling off. I'm not sure if it was a tear or a trickle of sweat down my cheek but I decided it was time.
Time to ride the ice cold soda donkey and hope that I'm wearing pants when HVAC McPervy Mike shows up. Going to check into the malaria remedy real quick in case I black out. If someone finds me  dead, covered in sweat like a freshly glazed Krispy Kreme, make sure to let my kids know mom told them to always Photoshop the boob sweat out before you Snapchat....

A Little Something for What Ails You

I feel violated with too many commercials about ailments and conditions and illnesses I never knew existed until recently. And there are drugs, SO MANY DRUGS, you can take to treat these problems. And guess what?? If something bad happens when you take those drugs that you don't like, you can hire a lawyer to sue the shit out of everybody! This is America after all! God bless these [insanely litigious] United States!!! (But if it pisses you off when someone refers to God you probably can sue them for that, too.)

If you have really bad acne, like zits that are so massive that you have to order a DOUBLE cappuccino or carry a huge cluster of red balloons to hold in front of your crusty boil face, do not despair! There is a new medication that will solve this problem. But.....in case you might have a tendency for explosive diarrhea, occasional colitis, a seasonal colostomy bag, or have random asshole bleeding that may or may not implicate you in a murder, please consult with a physician.
Sidenote: If medication that is a topical ointment for your SKIN can cause problems with your intestines and asshole, I'd say steering clear of that might be wise. But I'm no doctor so what do I know. Maybe your zits are so bad that butt bleeding is a fair trade off. I'd personally stick with carrying those red balloons around....

If you randomly have outbursts of prolonged laughing or crying at inappropriate times, this is a real medical condition that you can be treated for. Shit, I sometimes start laughing so hard at my own texts while I'm in line waiting to pay for tampons at Walgreens that I drool and start crying. No one thinks I need medication, they just think I'm kinda special so suddenly I skip to the front of the line. Accidental awesomeness! I also have been known to spontaneously burst out crying while trying on swimwear or even when the combination of PMS, lack of sleep, and one too many bitchy teen jabs takes me down. But if the FDA has found a drug to lock that emotional instability down, big ups to you.

If you tend to piss your pants when you sneeze, have to do jumping jacks, laugh too hard, get caught off guard by a spider in your face, or frequent surprise parties, you can get a PELVIC SLING like a beachy striped hammock sewn up in your hoo-ha. Sounds like a little oasis of relaxation! And guess what? If you don't want to got through the bother with that procedure, you can wear diapers that look just like underwear so NOBODY WILL KNOW. (Except for the fact that you smell like a Diaper Genie because you literally don't even bother trying to find the restroom at Starbucks after your venti iced macchiato.)
When that pee tarp starts to sag out, you can find a TRANS-VAGINAL MESH lawyer who can sue your doctor for putting faulty mylar up in your business. So no matter if you want to pee your pants or stop it up like the Hoover Dam, it's a win-win.

There are drugs to take if you can't pee. Or if you pee so often a cartoon image of your bladder knows exactly where all the local restrooms are. If you can't get it up with your sexy silver fox self. If your 57 year-old lady friend is dried up like a day old grilled cheese, THERE ARE DRUGS FOR YOU.

If you are sad. If you are extra super duper sad. If you can't fall asleep. If you can fall asleep but can't stay asleep. If you just really like to take naps all the time and not do the laundry. (Okay I totally made that one up but I bet you 50 bucks Pfizer hones in on that little gem pretty soon...) If you have gimpy knees. If you kick your sleepover buddy like a crazed donkey on peyote all night long. If you want to go rogue and eat that damn peanut butter sandwich just to look super bad ass, there is a futuristic Epi-Bot who will shoot adrenaline into your thigh quicker than you can say "tongue tied anaphylaxis". (Unless you have Obamacare then you just have to hope one of your friends isn't squeamish when they have to pull your pants off at Panera and aim for the "Property of Raoul" tatt on your leg. Sorry, the Epi-Bot is considered "non-formulary" medication so screw you.)

All I'm saying is if you can think up a symptom, we will find a pill or procedure to numb you, make you firm, make you agile, make you sleep, make you happy, make you dry, make you wet, make you have babies, make you sterile, make you breathe, open your sinuses, make you poop, and have an orgasm. (Hopefully not all at once because I don't even know what lawyer would take that case...)

*I am a non-attorney spokesperson and any and all claims may be complete bullshit and are strictly mentioned and made fun of to induce possible laughter and probable offensiveness to intended readers. So sue me.

That Bitch, Karma

I just get all tingly in my nether regions when I know that karma is going to bite someone in the ass. Call it a karma boner. I don't like getting lied to, screwed over, made fun of, abused, shit on, stepped on, spit on, sworn at, talked about, or even sneezed on. So when individuals in my world choose to act this way I know they'll get exactly what they deserve. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday life is going to pull them by the back of their neck and say "Uh-uh, I don't fucking think so. Time to pay up, you shit stain."

I make it sound like I'm some kind of crazy evil bitch who can use her mind to make bad things happen to people who have wronged her. I can tell you right now if I DID have that skill I would legit go all Sissy Spacek in "Carrie" and there would be a hella ton of pigs blood being dumped here, there, and everywhere. How kick-ass would that be???

You might ask yourself, "Jivemommy, how can you be so secure in your prediction that karma really exists? " Two words: Teenage Daughters. They are living, walking, bitching, expensive proof that karma is a powerfully frightening force. I wish I would have heeded my own mother's warnings back when I was a hormonal tornado of straight-up bitch, Aussie Sprunch Spray, and self righteousness. Nope, never listened. Know why? Because I knew EVERYTHING.

I was a rotten teenager. I didn't do anything crazy like steal a car or have raging parties with booze and boys (well not at least until college...). I was just a mean, spiteful brat. I was crabby, pissy, moody, irrational, difficult to be around, irritable, and impossible to please. I was nasty to my parents but my mom took the brunt of it. My poor sweet little mom. I asked her why she didn't slap the shit out of me and she told me that with her mere 5-foot stature versus my 5-foot 9 frame I was hard to catch. I deserved to be lassoed and hog tied to the fence in the back yard but cowgirl wasn't a skill my mom had on her impressive resume. She was too busy driving me to dance, working, paying bills, cooking, grocery shopping, keeping our house clean, creating family memories, and building a thick armor of emotional resistance to make my sulking little hissy fits not even phase her. God damn, looking back I didn't even realize what I beast she was. She was a straight up gladiator.

Fast forward and here I am with not one but TWO teenage daughters. I will describe this experience of being their mom like being on a sketchy carnival roller coaster that is completely in the dark that races at speeds up to 150 mph, has massive drops without any warning, and throws shit at you along the way that slaps you in the face.  There are loud, booming speakers that randomly screech phrases such as: "Where the fuck are my socks?", "This is all YOUR fault!", "You're ruining my life!", "All my other friends are going!", "You are so mean!", "But I took the dog out last time!", "I hate you", "This tastes like shit.", "You're going to wear THAT?", "Maybe you should do laundry more often!", "I have nothing to wear!", "I need money for [yogurt, movies, water park, candy, makeup]!!", "I don't have to do that because I am my own person!". You are shoved onto the ride with no idea when or if you will ever be able to get off. Occasionally you pop out of the darkness into brief moments of light and peacefulness. But no sooner has the sun kissed your cheeks then you are sucked back into the Teen Abyss of Mom Hell. Enjoy the ride and buckle up. No refunds issued here!

I was told multiple times as a teen that "Someday you will have a daughter who is exactly like you and maybe she will be twice as mean." I am positive I responded with the classic giant eye roll/WHATEVER, MOM!/ stomping away. It's a move perfected by teens across the centuries. I mean how can parents be so damn annoying and stupid?? It is humbling to be a mother of a teenage girl. Just when you think you maybe got it right, you are shamed for having "ratchet eyebrows",  camel toe with your workout pants, nothing funny to say, no sense of style whatsoever, bad hair, inability to read minds, and being a horrible judge of whether a watermelon is any good. The biggest compliment you might expect to receive when you cook a meal that is tolerable is "Wow, Mom, you didn't completely jack this up!" Thank you. Thank you for making me feel like not being a failure is a level of success.

Karma pulled up into town about 3 years ago. Her flight landed earlier than expected. She perched herself nicely on my front porch and if the wind blows just right, I can hear her cackling like a damn witch. But that's only if my teens are not having a hormonal rage disorder screaming match because they are freaking LOUD. My mom tends to laugh at me if I expect an ounce of sympathy. If you take my boobs, wrinkles, over processed blonde hair, and slight despair at my lot in life away, you have an exact replica of me in my 15 year-old. Thanks, Karma, you have totally earned your name. You are a straight up BEE-OTCH.

Tits

 Mine are huge. You can see me coming around the corner 2 minutes before I can see you. They are composed of half fat and yes, to no one's surprise, half silicone. (If this is news to you, you clearly have zero grasp of a woman's anatomy. Is your only reality video games with cartoon anime chicks? Unless I am Octo-Mom Dairy Barn, the fun bags are bought and paid for. Duh.) To all the young girls out there contemplating getting boobs for a boy, here's my advice: Don't f-ing do it. Don't go with your man to "see what you will look like as a D". Don't get bullied by a male doc or a nurse with Pam Anderson boobs. You will have fun with them for awhile. They are a cool novelty. Everyone stares at the beach. Men will whistle. You can't see your feet. They are bouncy and perky and when you lay on your back they don't slide under your arm pits like a pack of melted ice cream sandwiches you left in your car overnight.

 Pretty soon real life sets in and you get OLD. I'm not talking shriveled Tales From the Crypt geriatric with tennis balls on your walker. I'm talking about that hazy area of 40's where you absolutely should NOT be looking at anything in the juniors department, PacSun, Forever 21, or Hollister. Let's maybe take the word "old" off the table. Mature? Like you piss your pants when you sneeze or do jumping jacks but NOT because you can't remember where the john is. Your body is not like it was when it was 20 or even 30. So the jubblies that were like a prize-winning Jello mold back in the day are now only getting the look you give to the carnies who run the parking lot fairs on Memorial Day who have three teeth and a tattoo of the Confederate flag on their neck. Shit, they are pretty much only worthy of a sad Target sports bra which acts like a sling to confine them like a bowl of rising dough. 

 Speaking of which, let's talk about working out. All the Itty Bitty Titty Committee members who are going to read this and be up in my shit saying "I WISH I had boobs!" can skip ahead a paragraph.....If you want to play the "Let's Take Molly's Tits to Work Day", I will need a yard of some sort of ugly Spandex fabric, duct tape, barbed wire, and 17 pounds of Pillsbury dough, any variety. I am going to fashion a singular tube of the Spandex into a kangaroo boob pouch, secured at the bottom of your ribs by the duct tape which will dig in and make your back fat look soooooo sexy. I will shove all 17 pounds of the dough into the pocket. I will then fashion shoulder straps from the barbed wire. There is an All-You-Can-Carry shoe sale at Nordstrom and the first ten lucky customers to the shoe department get in on that craziness. Ready, set, GO!!! Run!!!!!!!!!... Tell me you want big boobs for a day one more time. This is my high impact cardio life. If I have to wear 4 bras to do Insanity knee tucks so I don't give myself a black eye, I'll take a pass, Shaun T. (Between the boobs and the bladder, I am a walking liability. How many Shamwows do you have on hand?)

 The go-to bra Mecca is Victoria's Secret. Everything is colorful and pretty and bright and sexy. Until you tell your tape measure-wielding sales girl the size you need. You say it in a whisper and try to be lighthearted about it. She assures you "They aren't THAT big!!" then does a high pitched fake machine gun laugh which exposes her lies. She kneels down and has to enter a digital code into the bottom of the bottom drawer so that the sub-floor storage room opens up to reveal the Mamma Jamma Jug drawer. Shit just got real. The sassy tropical bra in a 32B you saw on the mannequin is an actual to-scale map of the Bahamas. Not cute. It could be used as a shield for the military. She grabs threes bras in your size and throws them over her shoulder like a fat swimmer who's been dragged to shore. You witness an ACTUAL bead of sweat dripping down her temple because transporting them to the fitting room is like a Cross Fit workout. The cotton candy pink wallpaper and surgery room bright lights aren't doing you any favors. Can we put a damn dimmer switch in here???? You notice that the cage bra is actual recycled prison cell doors cleverly adorned with gold buckles and satin. WTF? The sales girl casually pounds on your door with her sappy sweet "How's it going in there, Molly?" Bitch, you know exactly how it's going. It's going downhill faster than Lance Armstrong in the Tour de France. You exit and attempt to toss the reject bras into the pile with everyone else's things. They act like some sort of brassiere bowling ball and knock all the other lingerie to the floor. 

"Didn't work out for you?" she asks with a smirk. I want to flick her on her teeny tiny American Girl nipples but my rotator cuff is jacked from trying to unhook the Prison Sexy Collection made of real wrought iron.

 I have been to the "big girl store" for bras that are meant for business. And when I say "meant for business" I mean bras that will pretty much guarantee I'm not getting any business other than brochures for cat adoption, Spanx, and trans-vaginal mesh lawsuits. Can there be a happy medium between the lacy Date Night Nipple Yarmulke at VS and the tan corduroy, mock neck turtleneck bra from Soma? Why is there no gray area here? Is there no hope for a mature woman who is neither nun nor porn star with a big rack who can use your one-size-fits-all bandeau as a scrunchie? Until someone can help figure this out, I'll be doing not cardio on my couch. If I change my mind, Shaun T.,  you will know because Braless Molly sounds exactly like a Clydesdale horse galloping. Giddyup.

 

Sanity Island

I have reached a level of throwing in the towel, so tired of worrying about everything and everyone but me, I-just-don't-give-a-fuck-ness that I am ready to travel to a place with exactly what I need. (I wanted to capitalize "I" for emphasis but realized it already is so imagine me double capitalizing it....) I want to purchase a one-way ticket with no idea of when I might return. My current sanity is being compromised and I feel this is the only way to bring it back. I'm kind of kidding but I am kind of serious.

I have a nasty habit of doing things in my home because I know exactly how they are done, how I expect to see results, because I feel guilty if certain things are left unfinished, and really because the walls of my house could come crumbling down and I honestly think my technology-addicted family would not even fucking notice. It's got to stop.


Here a few things I do not want on my quest to regain my sanity:

*I do not want to talk to anyone. I don't want to have to make small talk, or big talk, or political talk, or fucking religion talk, plans for my kids' future talk, or money talk. Silence. Shut your God damn pie hole and leave me alone. If I DO want to talk I will have a small green disc on my beachside table that I will flip over like when I want more meat at those obnoxious Brazilian meat orgies. But if I hear the words "Jesus", "damn Republicans", or "my child just got a 36 on their ACT and was already accepted into 5 Ivy League schools" I will flip that red disc over faster than you can say Kim Kardashian's camel toe.
*I do not want to have sex or even think about it. My mind is not going to be on dicks, it's going to be on sleep and chill out and maybe not even trim my Sasquatch bikini line because who the fuck cares.
*I do not want to have to play with dogs/cats for the 5th time of the day because I feel guilty they have been ignored by everyone but me all day long.
*I don't want to have family members fib and tell me the dogs have been taken out when I know the exact way I put their leashes in the drawer and they are still that way. There is also piss and shit under the dining room table that tells a different story.
*I don't want to be questioned about "What did I DO all day?" when something someone else needs doesn't get done. I did a LOT. And on this trip if I literally want to eat, sleep, and shit and nothing else, I'm doing it.
*I don't want to see a single eye roll from a teen or pre-teen for me asking to turn the volume down on TV, music, phones, Vines, Snapchats, Tweets, twats, or whatever loud-ass device that is currently annoying the shit out of me.
*I don't want to worry about carbs or gluten or drinking diet soda or eating 10 pounds of Reeses Peanut Butter Cups washed down with Nutella straight from the jar. I also don't want to read on Facebook how I will grow cancerous tumors and go on a killing spree from having a mother fucking Fresca now and then. Because Fresca rocks. There is no Whole Foods bullshit organic substitute. Period. The end.
*I don't want to drive any kids all over hell and back for sleepovers and movies and mall trips and pool time and dance class because it's summer and my kids are "bored" and my kid would be the "only one who's not there". Suck it. Go outside and fucking find some friends and play in the woods and drink water from a hose. I did it and my summers were fun as hell.
*I don't want to pick up piles of wet towels and dirty thongs and 48 pairs of shoes because the other members go my house could literally step over the same shit for weeks and not even care.
*I don't want to hear about the things I DIDN'T buy from the grocery store even though I've been there twice this week and spent $475. Go eat a dirty thong, there are plenty to choose from on your bedroom floor.

Here are some things I would like:

*I want to sit on a beach with sand in between my toes, a nice cold drink in my hand, an awesome book to read, and a pillow to nap if I so fucking choose.
*I want to be told how stunningly beautiful I am every single day even if it's by a gay pool boy named Juan.
*I want the bed to made perfectly with the sheets pulled tightly to the top, no lumpy blankets half-assed wadded like a dead cat under the bedspread, and ALL the pillows placed in their proper places EVERY GOD DAMN MORNING by someone other than me. Just because I like it that way and it makes me happy.
*I want to bask in the sun and just recline in a kick-ass beach chair without kids, pets, or husbands whining and asking me to do something for them. This is MY island, go the fuck back to House of Crusty Thongs.
*I want breakfast prepared for me that I get to eat FIRST without worrying about everyone else first, with awesome coffee and an awesome view. This view should not include skinny-ass bitches with perfect bodies in their "Cross Fit" or "I Heart Hot Yoga" or "Ask Me About Beachbody" tank tops. It's time for breakfast, chill the fuck out. It's Sanity Island, not INSANITY Island. I also do not want to see hairy, fat men or toddlers wearing a diaper with no pants, screaming bloody murder. You are not welcome on this island.
*I want fresh flowers in my room every day with notes that read "Just because you are awesome!" or "For all that you do---thank you!" or "You look so sexy eating that Nutella straight from the jar at the beach!" You get the idea. Like tropical flowers that cost a shit ton of money. I'm going all Oprah on this island, fuck it.
*I want towel animals in silly places made by someone who knows how to fold fucking towels better than me. Also perhaps my name or inspirational quotes spelled out on my perfectly made bed or the foyer of my giant suite in rose petals or chocolates or even diamonds.
*I want my TV to have only the channels I would like to watch available daily. No bullshit Spanish channels, no sports of any kind, no Game of Thrones, no Nickelodeon/Disney/any movie or show with the voice of Ashley Tisdale, no depressing ass news, no politics, no religion, no lesbian porn. I want TLC chock full of The Little Couple, 19 Kids and Counting, Hoarders, Little People, Big World, Breaking Amish, and Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. Maybe throw in Food TV as long as it's not Giada DeLaurentis having an orgasm as she eats her own food with her tits hanging out.
*I want a giant shower with luxurious body products and 100 shower heads. And a bench. And another TV where I can watch The Little Couple. Maybe some sort of a Patron tequila fountain to sip from. Yes, in my giant shower.
*I don't want to have to feel the need to buy souvenirs or memoirs for anyone who isn't with me, enjoying this bliss. Why? Because this is all about ME. For once time in my life...ME! ME! ME!

One ticket, one way, who the hell knows when (if) I will come back.
Now kindly shut the hell up because as you see my disc is RED and you are blocking my sun, asshole.