Today I learned that my mother weighs herself every day, writes it down, and SAVES IT. I told her that sounds a little unhealthy, and she said, “It’s fine, it’s just that’s one of the only things I can control.”
NOT HELPING YOUR CASE, MA!
They weighed me at the doctor yesterday and it’s more than I’ve ever weighed, by, like, a LOT, so I made the mistake of telling her I need to lose some weight.
“Maybe you and I can do a contest and see who can lose the most weight!”
“Nope. Nooope. Hard pass.”
“Why? I thought that’d be motivation!”
“I am not contributing in any way to you doing that.”
You guys… HOW am I not in an institution?!
BTW, I feel like it’s no coincidence that I’ve gained 25 lbs since January. But fuck THAT — my ass will be great again.
I got an OkCupid message from an 18-year-old, asking if I’d be down for something “casual and fun” with someone “young and willing” such as himself.
That is some serious To Catch a Predator bullshit right there, and I am not falling for it — I don’t even like iced tea.
He added that it wouldn’t offend him if I said no. That’s a relief, because I was totally going to fuck a child so I wouldn’t risk offending him. Thank God he gave me permission to say no.
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 Inoticed. 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.
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.
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.)
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.)
I just got to tell this story during a conversation at work…
A LONG time ago, before Krispy Kreme was everywhere up and down the East Coast, they opened a location in my ex’s hometown.
At the time, I still lived with my parents (“which I admit is both bogus and sad”), and if I’m being totally honest, my mom was kind of a dick. She needed to be medicated but wasn’t, so… dick.
But I swear, my ex brought that woman a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts the first time he came to meet them, and if doughnuts were dowry, I’d still be married to him today. You’d have thought he brought her a million dollars, with all the praise she heaped on him. To this day I’m convinced she likes him better than she likes me.
I think that should be a thing — doughnut dowry. Update the dowry system, man. It’s 2015 — what the hell are my parents gonna do with two oxen and a goose? At least they’ll USE doughnuts.
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.
Every day I drive past a billboard for a local support hotline, and it says, “Your problems are yours. Don’t blame your mother.”
And yes, absolutely — I’m a grown-ass person and I like to think I own my Crazy. I’m taking steps to fix it, and I try to warn the villagers whenever shit’s ’bout to get real.
At the same time… Are you sure about that, billboard? Haaaaaave you met my mother? I love her, and I don’t BLAME her, per se, but… I mean, c’mon, it’s pretty safe to say the apple didn’t fall far from the batshit.
Smug Singleton 