‘Judge not lest ye be judged’

 ...or as I like to say ‘Judge lots cause you’re getting’ judged.”

 I mean let’s be real here, there’s not a single time I walk out my door that I’m not thinking something about your hair or your clothes or the shade of your nail polish. I mean you can’t really help it...you see something, you evaluate it.  It’s a natural instinct. And you know what? I’m allowed to think that your auburn is a bit to orange and that your sweatpants were nearly obscene 10lbs ago. It’s called having an opinion, you know. And I don’t have more than most, I simply have them louder. Yet somehow because sometimes my opinions are arranged as statements and those statements are uttered aloud, I’m judgy! Oh Mary Please!

You can’t honestly expect me to believe that there are people walking around the grocery store with only positive thoughts about their fellow shoppers streaming silently through their head. Someone call the Vatican, there may be a saint in the Piggy-Wiggly! No, no, no, you cannot convince me that if someone walks in front of me lookin’ a hot mess that it is not my job to report back to you fine folks, lest you one day find yourself on the verge of making a similar fashion choice. I consider it my moral obligation to prevent you from falling victim to acts of idiocy that will find you being mocked in the produce department.

And it wasn’t until recently that everybody got up-in-arms about being “judged.” Must be part of this whole “Gen-Y-I-got-a-medal-for showing-up” thing that’s got everybody getting their feelings hurt over the slightest little nothing.  What on earth does it matter to you if I don’t like your door wreath, or I think you’re parenting style has resulted in highly obnoxious children? I don’t have to like them, they’re not my kids. And I know people must have things to say about things I do or say or wear, and are smirking behind my back in their assumed superiority.  But I can tell you with total certainty that it makes no nevermind to me what those people think because I have already judged them and found them lacking.

It really is time for folks to get over this “don’t judge me” crap and face the reality that the world is going to have an opinion of everything you do so just make sure you’re doing what you want to be doing and tell everyone else to take a flying leap!

Doggie Daze

Have I ever told you what a pain in the neck it is to travel with a stroller? I don’t care how much money you spend on a state-of-the-art contraption, you will still find yourself unable to open or close the damn thing on your first attempt. I paid $900 for the Cadillac of strollers that you can use 7 different ways…all of which require you to first open the frame. So you can imagine my displeasure as I stood on a Manhattan street corner in the freezing cold, snowflakes beginning to fall, beating this stroller against the ground as my 2-week-old’s car seat rocked precariously on the curb. But what choice did I have, I simply had to have my roots done!

All that to say, hauling around a stroller so that your child can accompany you on a family outing is an unfortunately necessary pain…..hauling around a stroller so that your dog can accompany you on a shopping trip, is insanely stupid.  And what’s worse, enough people take these moronic outings that manufacturers have devised an actual doggie stroller- there’s even a jogging version. Now you mean to tell me an animal with twice the leg power of any human, can’t go for a run on their own? Most dogs could outrun their owners any day of the week. Ok, so your dog’s too small to keep up with you…THEN LEAVE IT AT HOME!

 

 

 

Now before you go all animal rights on me, I am all for service animals and I will happily allow them access to any public place, but tiny balls of fluff wearing designer jackets are only serving to get on my nerves. 

I once saw a man pushing a stroller filled with not one, not two, but three Yorkie puppies, all wearing hair bows, through a department store while his wife shopped for designer clothes and jewelry. Now you are 70-years-old and obviously successful enough in your professional life to be able to afford nice things, so one might assume you are a relatively intelligent, rational person. Yet here you are, a grown-ass man, telling a tiny mongrel that “mommy will be right back,” while wheeling the dogs in a circle to keep them entertained. That poor fella was castrated by a cat with a canine and too dumb to notice.

As someone who has birthed a couple of actual children, I can tell you that the benefit of having a dog is that you can leave them at home without social services paying you a visit. If I am going to lug a stroller full of drooling whiners to the mall, it’s only because the state frowns upon leaving them locked in their rooms. To do it willingly for creatures that lick their own butt in public, suggests either a disconnect with reality or a surplus of free time. So call your shrink or crank up your charity work, and see if you can’t get yourself back into the land of the functionally sane.

Look, dogs are man’s best friend because they have so much in common with a man…just give them something to eat and leave the TV on and they basically never know you’re gone!

Travel Tips

There was a time a few decades ago when travel was a stylish event. Men wore suits, women wore heels and hose and hats with hairpins. Now I realize that the era of the Pan Am flight attendant has passed and I know hairpins would never make it through security; nor am I advocating the reinstation of the girdle for everyday wear. But as I walk through the terminal of my local airport, I cannot understand why people would do anything more than collect the newspaper from their driveway in such a state of dress.

I understand the desire for comfort on a lengthy flight, but overalls and athletic pants that could fit an NFL linebacker are simply not acceptable options. The fact that you own such items is troubling enough, nevermind that you’re wearing them in public.  And yes friends, the airport is “public.” Often I have heard the excuse, “I’m just going to the airport, who am I going to see?” Considering 100,000 people pass through this airport everyday, I’d say chances are pretty good that you might encounter a few folks.

And what about the poor person at the other end of your trip, anxiously awaiting your arrival, making preparations on your behalf, standing on tip toe to catch the first glimpse of you at baggage claim. And then you present yourself as an ungroomed mess who rolled out of bed and threw their hair into a matted ponytail? For a 2pm flight no less. Well you could hardly expect them to volunteer to carry your luggage to the car.

Not to mention, seeing someone you know might be an act of random chance. Just recently I ran into a old friend from high school in an airport where neither of us were supposed to be. Thankfully I had prepared appropriately and didn’t have to hide behind the rack of neck pillows, lest they see me without my face on.

Speaking of, ladies, it is quite unacceptable to venture out in polite society without some attention to your face. I’m not saying your full-face, you don’t have to be red carpet ready, but your parent-teacher conference face at the very least. You know those gate agents could rival the guards at Buckingham Palace for their stoicism, but don't mistake their frozen facades for impartiality. I refuse to believe it doesn’t help to present yourself as a pretty and pleasant person, because if there’s an upgrade available I certainly won't be losing out to running shoes and an oversized tee from the 2008 Backwoods Chili Cook-Off.

And what will you do when your flight is delayed or canceled? You, who couldn’t be bothered with a little concealer and a tube of lip gloss, will wait in line with the other unfortunates and be re-routed via Detroit with a 5 hour lay-over. I, on the other hand, will sashay down the terminal to a male agent, bat my mascara-clad lashes and be on my way in a jiffy. I realize this sounds incredibly sexist, but I’m certain a well-heeled man with a subtle cologne could find a female agent to charm just as easily. And though it’s a slap in the face to 100 years of women’s lib, I must fall back to-- men still make more money and women still get fewer speeding tickets, it’s just the truth.

Look, I may not be able to break the glass ceiling, but I sure can use its reflective properties to apply my lipstick.

Lawn Art

In this time when our country is once again facing a great political debate and the wheels of democracy are spinning….mostly in reverse, let me take a moment to share what has disturbed me most this election year…..people who put campaign signs in their front yard. I mean, I just do not understand it.

Everywhere I look are perfectly manicured lawns- mowed, trimmed, and edged within an inch of their lives, and then right in the middle of the grass is a big ol’ piece of cardboard with some stranger’s name on it. I mean maybe….may-be, if your brother is running for town council or your sister is running for district court judge, then it might be okay for you to show your support with a small, tasteful display. But to trash up your front lawn with a poster-sized logo of a candidate with whom you have had nor will have any contact, based on information you have learned by watching a television program where grown-ass men call each other liars for an hour? I mean this is just utterly insane.

I liken putting a campaign sign in your front yard to flying the number of your favorite Nascar driver from your front porch—proof that you are both tacky and stupid. My personal beliefs are neither here nor there in this instance. You can vote red, blue or green for all I care because let me just tell you, it won’t make a damn bit of difference. Whatever the heck they’re doing up there in Washington, something’s broken and since I’m not about to fix it with my little blog, I’ll just let you in on a little secret. I have flown all over this country for the past few years and the one thing that remains the same in every state in this union, is that folks are gonna do what folks need to do for themselves and their families, and no neighbor’s lawn ornamentation is going to change that.

Do these people really think anyone cares who they’re voting for? Like if your sign and my sign match we can hang at the clubhouse pool, even though you let your dog crap on my lawn every morning? I imagine advertising your political beliefs means you want people to come over and talk politics, which immediately alerts all normal people that you are one of those super-intense-yet-incredibly-dull people for whom social gatherings are spent in the driveway earnestly discussing the most efficient route home.

But then I thought about it and realized that maybe I was being short-sighted, maybe my aversion to these signs was just laziness and maybe these heretofore vulgar neighbors were really shaping the social consciousness of the neighborhood. If that’s the case then I couldn’t possibly let another day go by without proclaiming my personal feelings to the world, so I went right out and bought a piece of lawn art that expresses everything I feel about election season….an adorable garden gnome, bending over with his bare ass in the air.





 

Queenie is Found

Hello darlins!, Some of y'all have been wondering why I fell off the face of the earth a few years ago, but those of you with small children understand how a once intelligent, efficient, and otherwise fabulous person can suddenly find themselves adrift in a sea very tiny laundry, miles from land and without an oar. Once the captain of my own life, now merely a deckhand scrubbing unidentifiable goo from door knobs and walls. My best clothes relegated to the back of my closet lest they suffer the surprises left behind by someone insisting on feeding themselves but lacking the pincer grasp to connect with their mouth with any regularity. In my time away from you, I have produced not one, but two of these ankle-biters...er, lights of my life, hence my removal from cyber-society for so long. Because as any parent will tell you, children only need your attention when you sit down to do something else, and emails or any sort of correspondence are their first targets. Not to worry friends, in the time I have been gone from you, I have not stopped judging or berating. At some point I had thought that it was just the exhaustion causing my disdain, so I enhanced my daily caffeine intake with a few large sweet teas. But once the sugar was coursing sufficiently through my system, I took a moment to evaluate and discovered that lack of sleep did not, in fact, have anything to do with my evaluation that most folks just don't have any sense, and those that do continue to use it more for evil than good. So I have dusted the cobwebs off my laptop and rediscovered my inner Queenie-- not that she was ever very far away, tisking at my make-up-less face and pony-tailed hair, while we both frantically searched the shelves for a bottle of wine. But as I explained to her, it is useless to fret over one's hair-do when all of the hair around one's face has fallen out and is growing back at the pace of molasses in spiky clumps across one's forehead. It is also deflating, in every sense of the word, to try and squeeze back into one's pre-baby tops, only to find that they stretch to threads over one's rib cage and sag hopelessly where one's cleavage should be. And I did try and impress upon Queenie how ridiculous it would be to get all gussied up and go out to dinner, knowing that my eyes would be closing by 8pm in preparation for the thrice-nightly alarms sounding from the baby monitor, but you know Queenie, she'll hear nothing of it. Queenie believes a good eye cream and a good cocktail can fix just about anything, and you know.....she may be right. It's time to get my look to-ge-tha, honey. I've pulled those boobs right up from under my armpits and back into my properly fitted bra, I've sprayed my rooster bangs down until I'm a fire hazard, and I've spent a near fortune on whatever age-defying spackle the drag queen at the make-up counter pushed into my shopping bag. And if that eye cream doesn't make me look like the Queenie of old, then honey just pour those mimosas til I don't care! XXX

A love letter to my daughter...

Dear Angel,

Having a baby is a weird and wonderful thing. You wait for nearly a year, imagining just how you'll react when your little one arrives, and then of course, it's nothing like you imagined. I loved you instantly, but on instinct. After all, you were a complete stranger to me. You with your wide unblinking eyes, bald-patched head, and wrinkled skin. You were more like a little alien than a person I could understand.

And so we began our journey, you and me, sleepless night by sleepless night, one exhausted day after the next. You rooting around my chest like a nearsighted mole, and me singing every song I could think of more times than I could count. Those were some long, fuzzy days, and not much fun for either of us I imagine. It's funny how no one tells stories of the first two months of life, and I thought perhaps it's because parenting isn't all it's cracked up to be, and then....

you smiled at me.

The most perfect smile I've ever seen. In that instant I knew, in the upturned corners of your tiny mouth, what all the fuss was about. You knew me, you knew I was your mother, and despite how bumbling my attempt, you were happy I was yours.
But little one, not nearly as happy am I was that you are mine.

Sometimes I feel sorry for your father, for my father, for every man who will never see you in the moonlight as you look up, milk-drunk but still eating, with a half-grin of recognition and, I could swear, gratitude on your sweet face. Of course, I don't feel sorry enough to trade places with them, with anyone. I'm selfish but I don't want to miss a single one of your smiles, your squeals, or your giggles. And I don't want you to love any one as much as you love me.

I guess that's the curse of motherhood. I can love you with all my heart, but in the end I have to share. Not right now though. Right now, I am the center of your universe, your very favorite person, and I will enjoy every single moment at the top.

Because I know it can't always be this way with you and me singing and playing and laughing just to laugh. One day you'll crawl and then you'll walk, you'll run and then you'll fly. And though I won't always be the center of your universe, don't worry my darling, because you will always be the center of mine.


Love always,
Mom

Guess How Much I Love You

Folks are always talking about how they love their children so much they'd get run over by a train for them....or something similarly quixotic and unlikely. Since the chances of anyone ever holding Mini Q over the tracks are pretty slim, I've been thinking of ways to express how much I love my little peanut....

So Mini Queenie.... I LOVE YOU ENOUGH....

...to interrupt my beauty sleep at 2 am...and 4am...and 6am

...to stop after only ONE glass of wine

...to give up on bikini season (forever)

...to pause General Hospital if you wake up from your nap

...to retire all my designer shirts until further notice

...to spend my shoe money on diapers

...to eat every meal one-handed, rocking back and forth, standing at the kitchen counter

...to finally get breasts... and then keep them covered up

...to never again in my life make a plan that isn't subject to the state of your mood (or diaper, or stomach, or sleep schedule)

...to wear only stud earrings and leave all necklaces in my jewelry box

...to replace at least half the pictures of me with pictures of you and me


Oh the sacrifices of motherhood....why did no one warn me!

And even after all this, at age 12 she's still gonna think I've ruined her life!!

Introducing Mini Queenie!!

Well isn't she just the PRETTIEST thing you ever-did see? (and the best accessorized at that!) Of course she is, but did you have any doubt she would be? I remind her everyday that she is indeed the prettiest little thing on earth and as such she has a responsibility to also be the the best-behaved, least-fussy child, so as to keep her Mommy pretty as well.

Cause I mean to tell you, this sleep deprivation is for the birds! I know y'all think I am naturally this good-lookin', and generally yes I am, but I do require a certain amount of beauty sleep to maintain my radiant glow, and of course my cheerful disposition;-) Heretofore, I have gotten about 9-10 hours of sleep per night, so you can imagine my surprise when I am awakened every few hours by a near-blind mole rootin' around for my nipples! And I have tried to reason with the child, but unsurprisingly, Mini Q cares not for what I say and will have everything only on her own schedule.

This began in utero when the child decided she was ready to be out, despite the weeks she had time left to cook. In fact, she was such a busy-body that she forced the doctors to push her out 3 weeks early so she could see what was goin' on out here in the world. I personally think she wanted to come early because January has a better birth stone than February and she was thinkin of our jewelry boxes. Nevermind that her baby shower was scheduled for that weekend, she decided it was time and she shot on outta there. Silly child doesn't know that we do not ever interrupt events where we get presents or cake- let alone both- but I reckon she got them all in the end anyway, the spoiled brat.

However, since she did insist upon having her arrival in a controlled manner, Mommy did get to put on her make-up and blow out her hair. The nurse looked at me like I was plum crazy touchin' up my foundation in the delivery room bathroom, I.V. pole draggin behind me, but honey I am not gonna be captured for all eternity without my face on if I can help it! I will say the one favor Mini Q did for me was to come out in a hurry. I mean I only had to push 3 times, didn't even break a sweat, which you can see in the photos as my mascara is not runnin' down my face!

But lorda mercy I wish someone had told me about the afterward! You got folks running in the room to clean up the baby, your family tryin to talk to you while your hoo-ha's split wide open under a spotlight, and they have just handed you some slippery little alien you aren't sure you should even touch, let alone take home with you! And then you got all kinds a stuff happenin' to your down-there, and ain't none if it fun. That this goes on for weeks afterward, someone might have mentioned! So now you're still too fat for your clothes, you got stuff shootin' out your nipples, you haven't slept in days, and you have a maxi-pad the size of Rhode Island between your legs -- where you never want anyone to visit again!

And the perpetrator of this assault on your body just stares up at you with large unfocused eyes, smellin' like the sweetest little piece a heaven, and you can't do nothin' but smile and snuggle her up. I swear if I haven't kissed this child's hair near-bout off her head! So much for reparations for my discomfort. It's clear that Mini Q will not be having anything close to discipline any time soon.

But that's what happens when you're the prettiest... I haven't gotten myself in trouble in years either;-)

Bon Bons and Babies!

I mean to tell you, this baby nonsense takes too long! Next time I have me one of these I'm buyin' the pre-cooked variety, like my mother tried to do with the Thanksgiving turkey. (She was guilted into cookin' the thing from scratch but I will not be so foolish.) Look at all the babies in the world that need good homes. Over in Asia they practically give them away! And anyway, having a baby the same color as you is sooo passe, just ask Angelina.

About the only reasons I can figure why women, after all this time and all these medical developments, continue to blow themselves up like the Macy's blimps are...the presents!

I mean to tell you, baby-havin' is a gift bonanza if I have ever seen one. Now your friend Queenie may not know much about birthin' no babies, but I do know about openin' some presents. I have cleverly arranged to have this kid right about 2 years from the time of my weddin', givin folks juuust enough time to forget that I squeezed 3 showers and a wedding gift outta them in the span of about 3 months.

So my very dear relatives down South threw me the bestest baby shower a Queenan could ever have. Imagine, a room filled with pressies, folks drinking champagne cocktails (though sadly I was not one of them), and instead of silly shower games...BonBons!!!

Can you even imagine an event more perfectly designed for the Queen of Carbohydrates, than a room full of chocolate-shrouded confections?

Who would have thought such a place exists this side of the Pearly Gates? Well down South there are many places close to heaven, though none so sweet as South 'n France.

Y'all have a look at their website now, they ship these de-lectable bonbons all over creation, but if you're lucky enough to live near them you can have your own BonBon party!! You get to make your own bonbons and take home the tasty treats too!


Pascal and Charlene (is there a more perfect name for a Southern Sweets Diva?) run this precious little paradise in downtown Wilmington, NC. Like all entertaining folks, they have a blog which you should check out for a couple of reasons....firstly, to see that hat she's wearin'- y'all know how I feel about hats- I aspire to wear inappropriately large hats that cause stares as I walk to my church pew. And secondly, there might just be a blog about yours truly (look for post "The More the Merrier")
Look how much fun my grandma had with the surly French chef!




Needless to say, the event was a smashing success and I made off like a bandit with the cutest outfits you've ever seen...of course, none of them fit me, which makes it a little less exciting until I remember that at least I'm ensuring that Mini Q is already a fashion plate! I mean the child ain't even born yet and has 97 pairs of socks. And she won't be walking for another year but has half a dozen pair of shoes! And the hats! Oh the hats! Hats for nearly every outfit! I can't stand it! I figure, if I start her in them from the beginning she might one day actually keep them on her head!!

So all-in-all, pressies and treats...a perfect day!! Many thanks to my wonderful Aunties, Grandmother, and the Queen Mum for making it all happen. I'd mention how they spoil me, but I reckon that goes without sayin'!!

The Order of Things

Now I'm not gettin' on any moral high-horse here, and I really don't care in what order you pass life's milestones, but I am beginning to see some rationale in the marriage-before-baby paradigm. It's not because of any antiquated notions of propriety, or because the church ladies will gossip, or even because the last name issue will be confusing and bothersome. All that crap is crap and your baby will be just as beautiful.

But I am here to tell you, pregnancy is just not the time to try to attract a man. I don't care what bullshit they feed you about pregnant women being sexy, it is just about the least sexy 10 (NOT 9 as they lead you to believe) months of your life.

I guess in the beginning it's not sooo bad, save for the constant nausea, vomiting, aversion to random scents, and general bloated feeling. At least during this time, you could still wear a descent-looking outfit to dinner, were you able to actually sit in a restaurant without running for the ladies' room every 5 minutes. Of course during this point you can't so much as have a glass of wine, so the idea of going on a date, even with someone you previously liked, lacks any real enjoyment factor.

In a few months, you just look chubby and haven't a single thing to wear. Let me tell you those maternity jeans, what a joke. Since the whole damn waistband is elastic, you can't hardly walk half a block before the denim seam is half-way down your ass and the crotch is between your knees. I paid a small fortune for a pair of designer maternity jeans and have to walk around with one hand holdin' up the seat of my pants, like a pot-bellied rap star.

And in the last few months, lord-a mercy, now there's a time to have a ring on your finger if ever there was one. Here I am, the size of a baby orca waiting to be harpooned by a near-sighted fisherman. My down-there must look like the Amazonian rain forest, though since I haven't seen it in months I can't give you an accurate description. My breast are leaking, I haven't had a good B.M. in months, and I'm pretty sure I have a hem-mo-roid. Trust me when I tell you that no one would have sex with me right now that was not legally obligated to do so.Hence the idea that one be married before one gets knocked-up seems the more intelligent choice at this point.

I mean, let's be honest, would you hang around to pry the shoes off the swollen feet of a snowman-shaped emotional basket case with an unreasonable fondness for chocolate sauce, which has no hope of being used in any sexual exploit in the foreseeable future? Only if it was too expensive to leave her. Thusly, friends, you best get somethin' in writin' before you embark down the balloon-shaped path ending in what must be the least sexy presentation of your Hoo-Ha that he will ever not want to see again.

God bless Sweetpotato, and God bless the New York Giants for giving him something to live for in the otherwise hormonally-overcharged, emotionally-unpredictable environment which is our home.