Her Blanket Should Say 70 Cents on the Dollar

Hooboy, people is WEIRD about gender.

This is my opinion based on experience and also, cultural norms and political evidence.

My daughter is currently my posse. We go EVE’RWHARE together because… well, I am her primary caretaker and I don’t want to stay home all the damn time. My daughter is also one of those babies that makes people squee because, and I quote, “Oh mer gawd, her cheeeeeeeks!” and “Wouldya lewk at those eyelashes!” So I get a lot of strangers approaching me–which as an introvert is my nightmare–and making all sorts of “I just want to eat her face” comments.

I mean, I want to eat her face too. It’s that kind of face. But she’s MY baby. Only I get to eat her face. Back off, zombies.

The problem is that she is not always easily gendered based on cultural norms because… and this is going to absolutely shock you to the point where you’ll want to comment on what a terrible mother I am and if you knew my address, you’d send the Mommy Police right to my door:


Ok, first of all, calm yer tats, because I’m done having babies. Castration seems like an expense and I’m not paying for it so if you really feel like it should happen, fork over some dough. But be warned, I wasn’t planning on having any more anyway so you might be wasting your video game money.

Secondly, it’s a blanket. It’s a hand-me-down from my son, just like the blue and white striped bucket hat she refuses to wear for more than three seconds (which is why I refuse to buy her a new hat). And she doesn’t always wear pink, which, I know, is very confusing for the old folk out there who desperately need that specific gender marker to make sense of their world.

But you know what? Even when she does wear pink–true story here–even when she’s wearing a freaking tutu and a shirt that says, “Daddy’s Princess”, people still get caught up on the blanket… which is only covering her feet half the time because she kicks it off. Even with an abundance of culturally appropriate signals as to her gender, people will still say “he” and when I very gently answer, “Yeah, she’s got a tooth coming in so she’s a little cranky,” they will fall all over themselves to correct their HORRRRRRIBLE mistake, blaming the blanket–that goddamn penis-signifying blanket–for mis-gendering her.

And I’m like, “It’s really not that big a deal.” But they cry and they shake and they run to the shower to wash off the humiliation.

Are we not yet at the point where a baby’s genitals don’t matter to strangers? Can we get there, please? And, this one’s just for me, can we maybe not approach adorable babies like they’re public property and force their reluctant mothers into conversations?

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The gender is…. none of your business, stranger in Target. Please let me browse the coffee aisle in peace!



Listen to L

I’m gonna be one of those people right now. One of those people who says, “I don’t DOooOOoooOOoo New Year’s Resolutions, BUT!” and then totally blah blah blab about what I’m planning to do differently in the New Year.

Give me a little credit though. It is February. I’m not posting my Not-A-New-Years-Resolution resolution like, a month ago when it would be most appropriate. Also, this resolution started two years ago and has been building steam ever since.

Here it is. Are you ready? It’s profound and triumphant… for me:

I am going to stop caring about the thoughts and opinions of people who don’t matter.

It used to be so very important not only that I was able to freely express my thoughts and opinions on a subject that meant something to me but that others agreed with me and validated my feelings. As you can imagine, that did not happen. And that not happening made me question myself and the legitimacy of my thoughts and feelings. And spiral spiral crazy-making emotional mess sobbing on the floor of my closet because I’m always wrong about everything EVER!

When really, my thoughts and feelings were just fine. It was the people who were wrong. Or, not even wrong just… you know, not really involved so who cares what they thought.


“Safe driving is for girls!”

Like bitchy women at Target. Why should I care what they think? Or randos in the mall who don’t like the cut of my jib/pant legs and can’t help but criticize in overly loud whispers within earshot. Or people driving like they just finished watching Fast & Furious who honk at me for not turning left on a red light doing 90mph and then pass me at a truly ill-advised time screaming, “LEARN HOW TO DRIVE!” because somehow I’m the bad guy in this situation?

Or my in-laws when I make the rules about health and safety for my children and they disagree. Or try to break those rules. I learned two years ago to let go my concerns for their thoughts and feelings about how I raise my children because they dooooo noooooot maaaaaatter. What matters is that my children are healthy and safe.

This year, I’m extending my Do Not Care policy to friends and relatives who offer NOT advice or concern but derision, judgments, and those awesome “jokes” that are really just offensive statements followed by a laughy emojis and “haha” on Facebook (GAWD I hate Facebook). Also on the list: salespeople, waitstaff, irrational customers and any vendor or healthcare professional–people I pay for services–who act unprofessionally.

Henceforth, I’mma LL Cool J that shiz:


fd4dca0b3d968d1727c9d967435c7658-245x198x24Listen, haters, you say what you’re gonna say but, I don’t receive that.

Thanks LL.


Get It Done… Tomorrow

Instead of writing today, I:

Played hashtag games on Twitter

Reposted something stupid on Facebook

Took two small children to Target and bought a $6 Halloween costume on 70% off clearance!

Played LEGOs

Joined Instagram

Binged on Trader Joe’s Garlic Parmesan Pita Chips

Cut a cucumber into toddler-sized pieces

Braided my hair Wonder Woman-style (sorta. I tried)

Watched Sweet Water Secrets on Youtube

Looked up the kid who plays Adam Goldberg on the Goldbergs on IMDB to see what else he’s up to

Entered a book giveaway on Goodreads and a Set Visit Sweepstakes for Riverdale

Watched The Good Place on my DVR

Listened to my husband tell me about his uneventful doctor’s appointment

Listened to my son list all the Halloween monsters he knows about

Sat in my parked car at the park with two sleeping children in the back seat, just chillin’ and taking in the Fall foliage

Checked out the NaNo merch

Made this list




Who Hasn’t Been Kissed by a Rose on the Gray?

I started writing something new a few days ago–another coming of age type story that uses Batman Forever as a turning point in a young woman’s understanding of sexuality– but I’m still… you know, pregnant and not having much luck in not sitting on the couch ignoring my discomfort and pain with endless article-reading and Buzzfeed quizzes.

I just think that there are times when you need to let time pass rather than spending it wisely and late pregnancy is one of those times.

But I assume there will come a time when I can write again, perhaps with an infant strapped to my chest, perhaps about all the things I won’t be doing because… I have an infant strapped to my chest.

Although… I do have a WIP that involves a woman with an infant strapped to her chest who walks out of Target only to meet up with a mythical creature spouting nonsense rhymes at her as a call to action. She complains a lot about her husband not helping enough and not understanding how difficult it is to constantly be with your child with very little outlet other than weekly trips to Target. And if that’s not “write what you know” then there’s no such thing.


Mom Vacation at Target in 10

Moving is not going well. Let’s just say I currently live in my in-laws’ attic because some bureaucrat has decided to take a longer long weekend holiday instead of signing the one piece of paper I need to buy my home. Yes, it should have been signed months ago but the man building my house didn’t send it then. He sent it yesterday. And it’s too nice out today to sign papers that let people buy the houses they are contracted to buy tomorrow after having already sold the house they were living in yesterday to someone else.

So I live in my in-laws’ attic and only see a computer two or three times a week when I get to go to work.

My boss just asked me, as I projected colorful mucus from my nose holes on this my 8th day of being ill, why I don’t just go home. What home, bossman? The one I don’t own anymore? The one I don’t own yet? Or the one where no one will tell me where anything is or how to get things done, where I don’t have a key or know the alarm code and I’m not supposed to be feeding myself or leaving without making plans for someone to let me back in?

Oh Target? You meant why don’t I go to Target? Why not indeed. Target, here I come.


Women are Just Taller Girls, Right?

Christmas had me at a loss this year. Money is tight and shopping is hard with a toddler in tow and there was so much going on in the last few months that gifting wasn’t so high on my list of priorities. But I did get a pretty sweet discount offer on my Target Cartwheel app! For a Fitbit! And that’s a gadget, right, so maybe my husband would be into it.

But knowing nothing about Fitbits, I thought I best check it out first. So one day, kidless, I spent some time in the electronics department reading all the Fitbit signage and trying to figure out if this whoosie was even worth my 40% discount. Turns out, no, no it was not. But that’s not the point of this story.

I asked the salesman if he could help me and pointed to the locked Fitbits over yonder. Dude was tall and skinny, probably in his early 20s and definitely thought of himself as smarter than your average bear. He says, “Let me guess, you want the pink one?”


I’m a small woman. I am often mistaken for being younger than I am. But I’m not seven, and I’m not wearing unicorn barrettes in my pigtails, so WHO do you think you’re talking to? I’m not usually one to engage with idiots, especially those who are strangers–I generally prefer to walk away and spend my energy more wisely–but it was so out of left field. Like, here’s an adult woman customer asking for assistance in electronics and the first thing out of your mouth is an antiquated assumption of preference based on color because women are incapable of judging products on any other factor? Or was it a sexist assertion of dominance over the little lady? Or was it a passive aggressive dig at a stupid customer because retail is just such very hard work?

Either way, no. No, I am not having that. No, that is not appropriate customer service. Just no, sir. No.

So I scrunched up my little eyebrows, cocked my head and said, “Why would you say that? Why would you assume I want pink?” and let him stumble over his tongue for a while trying to apologize or back-peddle or do whatever he needed to do to complete the sale.

After that, we actually had a very productive conversation, comparing models and features until I ultimately decided that my husband would probably prefer to decide on his own features (and that he’d want more than I could pay for). I thanked him for his time and his helpful advice and he actually looked me in the eye and apologized sincerely for the pink remark.

Maybe that dude was a jackass. Maybe he was having a bad day. But I was happy that I didn’t let it go. And I was happy that I didn’t lose my temper and badmouth him. Instead, I forced him to see me as a person and recognize his own mistake. I think it was an important lesson for both of us.

Challenging assumptions is one of those thingies on my list of “things to get better at.”

Woman, I Am Not Your Ally

It was whiny kid day at Target and I had sent mine off with his father to look for a present for his cousin’s birthday while I perused the clearance rack for some new summer duds. Yes, I heard the boy in the red wagon crying a few aisles over and yes, it was annoying, mostly because it was that “I’m not getting my way” cry I’ve been hearing so much of myself since my son hit toddlerhood. But it wasn’t my kid and it wasn’t my problem, so I ignored it the best I could.

That’s when Nosy McKnowBetter joined me and mumbled discontentedly in my direction. “Better take care of that kid,” she said, turning her head toward me. I ignored her. “Ugh, tired of ignorant people,” she mumbled a little louder. I moved on to the next rack.

Now I’m a hardcore, people-avoiding introvert who only engages with strangers when I feel the outcome is almost definitely positive. I respond to people who say, “Good morning,” and “How are you today,” and “Beautiful day!” I absolutely do not engage people who begin conversations with negative statements, even if I agree with them.

In this case, I did not agree. The child was whining because he wasn’t getting his way. Nothing bad was happening. Every once in a while, the boy’s mother would say, “No, you cannot get out. You need to stay where I can see you in your wagon.”

Even so, Ms. McKnowBetter’s grumbling got louder as she addressed me directly. “I’m so sick of these people having kids if they’re not going to care for them.”

Whoa. First of all, “these people”? Do you mean people with skin tones darker than yours or people with accents different than yours because either way, I am not on the “us” side of your “them vs. us” bigotry. Secondly, the woman was very clearly communicating in a firm but not unloving way that her intention was to keep the boy safe. Other than annoying incessant child whining, what was the actual problem here?

The problem is busybodies. It’s overly concerned strangers reacting out of context. It’s neighbors calling the cops on parents who let their children play outside or walk to school. It’s the goddamn parenting police who want you to know that you are one phone call away from losing your children if you don’t keep them under control at all times. And bigots, of course. Because even if the child is behaving appropriately, America can’t be great again until all of “them” leave.

Again, I walked away because no. No, I am not your ally. No, I will not engage in berating the parenting skills of a competent mother. No.

Apparently, she didn’t need my approval. She approached the woman and her child anyway, made a big ole scene about how she was NEGLECTFUL and ABUSIVE and the AUTHORITIES WILL BE CALLED.

The woman, goddess bless her fiery soul, shouted right back at her, “How is this any of your business? My son is whining because he’s not getting what he wants. What, have you never been around kids before? You don’t even KNOW me, you don’t know my son, and you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

And ain’t that a universal truth?

I would very much like to take a poll of the people who comment on the parenting skills of others, especially the ones complaining about normal child behavior. Question 1: Do you know what a child is? Question 2: Were you ever a child yourself? Question 3: What kind of idiot are you exactly?

I don’t know what happened next because I stayed the hellfire away from those shenanigans but I did hear the mother in question talking to her friend as they walked away. “Who does she think she is, coming up to a stranger and saying I abuse my kid because I won’t let him run around the store? You know she’d be complaining even more if I did. Stupid people. You just can’t win, no matter what you do.”

Amen, sister.




Buried in Kipple and Target’s to Blame

I have been totally under Target’s thrall since the moment I stepped foot in my first back in 2002 but once I got pregnant, maaaaan, there was no stopping me. And the crap I bought when I first started bringing my son, kicking his little legs in the cart, just became more plentiful when he decided to obsess about Star Wars.

TODAY, however, I bought nothing for my son. I gave him things to look at and play with and then put them back on the shelf and said goodbye as we rolled away. My mission was cat food and hand soap and I am proud to say that I completed that mission… and a couple of V-neck t-shirts on clearance (it’s my mom uniform of choice) and maaaybe a frozen pizza for lunch. But that’s it. I put back the Ninja Turtle bubble bath, the generic non-Nerf football rocket, the $7 Star Wars greeting card and the As Seen On TV veggie spinner that makes noodles out of zucchini. BACK ON THE SHELF WITH YE!

I don’t want to brag or anything, but I also rolled right past Starbucks. My Self-Control game is strong today.