She’s a bad mother, fucker — review of #BadMoms


Amy Mitchell (Mila Kunis) is trying her best to be a good mom. She’s working, caring for two kids, making lunches and dinners, helping with school projects, driving to soccer practices, and participating in a PTA run by a trio of the worst offenders in Mommy Culture. You’ve seen these moms; hell, you probably know at least one. Played to snippy perfection by Christina Applegate, Jada Pinkett Smith, and Annie Mumolo, they’re the wealthy, well-kept Perfect Moms who talk shit on the “less perfect.” They’re the women who look at a working mom pityingly and say things like, “You’re SO strong to be able to just leave your kids and go to work. I don’t know how you do it. Don’t you miss them?” But they also look down on stay-at-home moms for looking less than perfect. They’re the moms who run school bake sales and militantly demand homemade, gluten-free, nut-free, soy-free, BPA-free, artificial-color-free, joy-free baked goods so no special little snowflakes are harmed in the making of said bake sale. (Look, I don’t want your kids to explode, either, but ain’t nobody got time for that.)

Amy’s husband is useless and ri-goddamn-diculous, and hardly helps with anything, despite his less-demanding job. I don’t know any real-life men like him, which is good, because I’d hate to have to go around punching men in the dick.

It should come as no surprise that being stuck in this life construct from ages 20 to 32 might push a girl to her breaking point — to make her think, “You know what? FUCK THIS,” and just…do less. Stress less. Acknowledge that there’s no such thing as a Perfect Mom, and take some time to unclench. So that’s what Amy sets out to do.

She befriends two fellow odd moms out: Kiki (Kristen Bell), a stay-at-home mom with another ineffective husband; and Carla (Kathryn Hahn) a bawdy and fucking fabulous single mom. By the end of the movie I was a little in love with her. She may be my spirit animal. And Kristen Bell is delightful as always, though maybe not the best representation of a stay-at-home mom — Kiki is a disheveled, shut-in weirdo at first, which seems like a harsh stereotype. But I loved the evolution of her character throughout the movie; toward the end, she got a round of applause from the audience in my theater.

As I mentioned, not the best male representation. I hate to generalize, but though the movie is funny, it’s obviously made for women (but by men, oddly — same guys who wrote The Hangover). So gentlemen, I’m sorry, but this movie is not kind to your people. There are only a few male characters, all pretty useless, and with very little redemption, so much so that I noticed. Amy’s son is an entitled little suburban douchebag; there’s a soccer coach who’s bitch-whipped by the head Mean Girl Mom; the two useless, dimwitted husbands; and a hot single dad. (Hot Single Dad takes his shirt off, by the way, and…I mean…it didn’t hurt to look at him, but his only purpose in the movie seemed to be being pretty and sweet. [*cough*WelcomeToOurWorld*cough*])

The movie’s trailer is actually a bit misleading – the women aren’t constantly drunk and irresponsible. They’re just blowing off a little steam on occasion, bonding over simultaneous love and hatred for their children (c’mon, you know your kids are total assholes sometimes), and commiserating about the overextended existence they find themselves entrenched in. They learn a lot from each other, and rally together hardcore when one of the Mean Moms starts messing with Amy’s daughter — you don’t fuck with a mama bear, people. Even my barren womb knows to reco’nize.

Beautiful life lessons in sisterhood aside, I still laughed so hard and so unexpectedly that I MAY have accidentally spit a little. (Thankfully no one was in the seat in front of me.)

Ladies, gather your tribe this weekend and go see this movie. Preferably with a juice box of wine and an irresponsibly-overbuttered bucket of popcorn.

Hollaback Curls

Pop quiz: I’m getting my hair cut and colored tomorrow. At what age do we think dyeing it pink looks a little midlife-crisis-y?

A. Pink?! Who are you, late-’90s Gwen Stefani? That shit is passé. (And quite possibly also bananas.)
B. Your age (41). It becomes sad at your age.
C. Wow, your mother really fucked you up about age as a limitation, didn’t she?
D. I mean…it’s your call, but good luck getting that job you applied for.
E. Age doesn’t mean anything, do whatever you want.*
*By the way, this is what I’m doing. If I wake up tomorrow and feel like my hair should be pink, then pink it shall be. I was just curious about perceptions.

“I can see clearly now, the Crazy’s gone…”

Listen HERE, world. I only go to therapy every other week, so dumb family shit that’s going to eat my brain until vodka makes it stop can’t happen during off weeks.

It’s not even worth detailing because they’re SUCH stupid conversations, but did you ever have a mundane discussion with your family that just crawls under your skin and colonizes? Yesterday with Dad, today with Mom — almost as if they’d tagged in and out.

Remind me again, WHY don’t I just send the therapy bills to my parents? Wait, what? “Owning my issues because I’m a grown-ass lady?” That doesn’t sound like me at all.

I’m so grateful to have so many influences outside my family. And for the therapist. SO MUCH FOR THE THERAPIST. (And obviously for my willing/ableness to work and tell heredity to go fuck itself.)

*deep breath*

Mo’ mommy, mo’ problems.

Bwah ha ha… “Throw some soft cheeses into the mix, unless you’re insecure about your weight because she sure mentioned that, too. You know what, you are going to need that cheese. And all the wine.”

My personal recent Mom favorites:

  • “That’s a great length for a shirt. It covers your butt.”
  • “This totally-the-opposite-of-your-hair color/style would look great on you!”
  • “If you were going to have kids with anyone, I’d want you to have them with [Ex], because he’s smart.” (<– That one was 3 weeks ago. We broke up 3 years ago.)

Cheers, y’all!

Via Reductress: 6 Wines that Pair Well With Having Just Gotten Off the Phone with Your Mother

Cleavage for Christ

I just heard my mother in my head telling me my outfit looks “sloppy,” which is a catch-all word she enjoys when a garment displeases her for whatever reason.

But when I thought about why, I realized it’s that my breasts look really prominent and I’m self-conscious. 

Whatever, Mom. The Lord done blessed me, and I am merely displaying His work.

Eat a dick, Mom — they don’t have carbs!

I am, by all appearances, a fully functional adult and a contributing member of society.

Until my mother invites me to like “The Belly Fit Club” on Facebook. Then I’m 12 years old being told my burgeoning lady-gut is “just baby fat”… but also that I should avoid sugar and carbs.

Whatever, lady. I’m adorable. Belly fat and all.

The Life Cycle of Smug

If I may be permitted a serious post (Feelings Friday?), the sentiment in this article is something I genuinely considered when I made the decision to not have children. No, I don’t think I would have gone so far as “psychosis,” but I genuinely think my single mother would have benefited verily from some therapy and a low dose of Pfizer’s Pfinest back in the day. (We didn’t know as much about that shit in the ’80s.) She did everything she could and busted her ass, don’t get me wrong — I got nothin’ but love and respect for the woman. But there are a lot of traits and behaviors I learned/inherited to which I’d really rather not subject a shiny new child soul.

Now, I realize I wouldn’t have been a single parent if my particular situation had followed its expected trajectory. I would have had help from a tremendous husband. I also know, when you have a kid, it’s entirely possible you’ll be capable of making the conscious, logical decision to devote your time and energy to making sure you don’t repeat parenting patterns with which you don’t agree, but with which you happened to be raised. But frankly, I don’t know any other way to parent, and that seems like a pretty big goddamn gamble (a goddamble?). I think I would spend more time in Parent Therapy and Googling parenting advice than I would have spent with my kid.

To be clear, whenever I spend time with my friends’ children, merely being in their company brings me unparalleled joy. Just to see their little kid faces and hear their little kid thoughts about, like, ketchup and Ninja Turtle swords. To learn that my goddaughter only really likes to eat pasta and cheese, thereby cementing her position as my one true soulmate. To see my girlfriend’s son giving his daddy his stuffed puppy — Jesus Christ, people, I’m not made of wood. It’s all amazing.

But also bringing me joy is the fact that I am not responsible for turning those children into productive, non-asshole members of society. My friends are much better suited for that job than I am. I will be the Official Baby Snuggler of my social circle. I will be the person who takes your kid for a walk in the yard, simply making sure he doesn’t break himself in any way or eat anything weird, and letting you have the opportunity to eat your meal with two hands while you have a quiet conversation with the adults. I will lug your baby around on my hip and show her every single fish in the aquarium 47 times if that’s what makes her little baby face light up. And then I will go home to my quiet apartment, watch profane standup comedy, and have ice cream for dinner.

You people raise the Future Awesome People of America (FAPA?). And bless your hearts, because the world could certainly stand to have a few more people in it who aren’t complete dicks, and your children will help fill that void.

All the Best,

Auntie Smug