While we were in Boston on Sunday I had a stupid encounter with a stupid guy waiting in line for a stupid bathroom at Starbucks that’s been bothering me ever since.

As a pregnant woman, nothing sucks more than needing to pee only to discover a super-long line, except for needing to pee only to discover a super-long line that rude people keep trying to cut into. But as a clearly pregnant woman I don’t think I need to feel guilty about telling a guy to wait his turn when he saunters up to the front of the line and tries the door handle on the bathroom.

Me: Excuse me, there’s a line.
Mr. No-social-skills: I’m looking for the restroom.
Me: This is the line for the restroom. We’re all waiting.
Mr. No-social-skills: I’M. LOOKING. FOR. THE. RESTROOM. OOOOOOH-KAAAAAAY?
Rest of people in line: THIS IS THE LINE. THE END IS OVER THERE.
Mr. No-social-skills: This is ridiculous. Mutter mutter mutter.

He then became the self-appointed bathroom police and took great joy in announcing THIS IS THE LINE to everyone who walked within 20 feet of the door, including the lady wrangling four kids who looked like she might cry. He also kept staring at me and then rolling his eyes if I looked in his direction, which was getting on my last nerve even before this exchange:

Lady with four kids: Wow, this line is really slow.
Mr. No-social-skills (catching my eye): It is! It’s slow! So slow! I think this is all YOUR fault!
Me: *silence*
Mr. No-social-skills: I said it’s your fault! The line is long because you’re pregnant!
Me: …I don’t see how.
Mr. No-social-skills: Ha ha! But it is! I’m making a joke!
Me: I don’t think it’s funny.
Mr. No-social-skills: Jeez, some people have no sense of humor. Why don’t you smile?

Dude, I get it. You’re at the kindly old man stage of your life, where you think being jovial and friendly means you can get away with anything you want in public. And I’m youngish and blond and alone, not to mention I have the audacity to be FEMALE which automatically means I have to be sweet to you in exchange for your witty banter. THOSE ARE THE RULES FOR THE WOMENZ.

Unfortunately, I don’t feel like being polite. I have to PEE. My toddler is over there crying because he can see me but isn’t allowed out of his stroller. I have five people waiting for me, not to mention a coffee that is getting colder by the minute. There’s also a rumor that the toilet in this bathroom is broken (it was) so depending on what the slightly creepy guy in front of me does in there I may not be able to use it at all (It ended up just being the flush handle that was broken, so I pulled the lid off the back and pushed the lever manually – unlike the DOZEN people before me who couldn’t figure that out).

It was just so awkward and uncomfortable and miserable to be trapped there, already physically uncomfortable, only to be dealing with a guy who was trying to make me participate in some sort of social interaction he thought he was entitled to. To be honest, I would rather have a dozen women try to feel my belly than deal with one dude like that. It makes me want to go back to hiding in my living room like a hermit, avoiding social interaction in general just so I don’t have to deal with…PEOPLE. At least for the next 11 weeks.

(Disclaimer: being told to SMILE in public is just about my biggest pet peeve ever, so if your reaction to MY reaction is “Jeeze, take a chill pill hormonal pregnant lady” I’ll understand.)

TOTALLY INACCURATE

My neighborhood has a skunk problem.

Let me rephrase that.

My neighborhood, which is well within city limits, where I can look into at least four other houses’ windows from my own because they are so close, where emergency sirens and roaring trucks are far more common than bunnies and birdies, has been taken hostage by skunks.

The week we bought the house, back in the good old days BK (before kids) when I still took my poor long suffering dog Brutus for real walks several times a day instead of just shoving him out the door and glaring at him to hurry up and pee, we ran across a skunk wandering down the sidewalk at 7 am. I managed to drag Brutus, howling and whining, two blocks home before the poor, dazed skunk even realized what was going on. I breathlessly called animal control to report a TOTALLY CRAZY skunk sighting but apparently they don’t work at 7 am so I got the front desk of the police station. I described in great detail exactly where I saw the skunk, the intersection he was waddling towards and (sigh)what he looked like, as thoroughly and completely as I would have described a robbery suspect.

I bet those cops laughed about me for DAYS.

The skunks are everywhere. They’re digging in my trash cans making a mess. They’re standing in my driveway in the middle of the afternoon. They’re wandering around my yard in the evenings making Brutus go apeshit. They’re squashed flat in the middle of the road, making me gag and my eyes water.

I am sick and tired of these motherbleeping skunks in my motherbleeping town.

Tuesday afternoon the baby, the groceries and I were trapped in the car for 10 minutes while a clearly dazed and unwell skunk wandered through the garden, so when Brutus started pacing and whining around 8 o’clock I figured the beast was back and terrorizing our street. I slammed the door and yelled at the dog to sit down muttering about moving back to the country, where my landlord took care of lost skunks the old fashioned way – with a .22 and a shovel. (True story.)

When the dog woke me up with MORE whining at 4 am I spent 20 minutes debating whether it was worse to ignore him and clean up dog poop in the morning or let him out and deal with a dog-skunk death match and the smelly horrible after effects before dawn.

You can see how that might be a hard decision.

Eventually I felt enough dog-mommy guilt that I decided to let him out – after turning on every exterior light and peering out the back door suspiciously looking for skunky signs like…I don’t know. Wilted flowers. Droppings. A squirrel holding it’s nose. When poor Brutus was eventually released to the yard he barely made it off the porch before he started peeing. And peeing. And peeing. I started counting mississippis when he was STILL peeing after what felt like 10 minutes and I made it to 45 before he stopped to poop. And then he peed some more.

I am a terrible dog owner. I blame the skunks.

But what can we do? It’s not like I’m going to set traps – I couldn’t bring myself to use any kind that killed the skunk (especially since there are a dozen or so outdoor cats in my neighborhood) and an angry, trapped LIVE skunk sounds even worse than skunk eating my trash. Animal control doesn’t seem to care. They’ve been staging this attack since early spring and it just gets worse every year. Advice appreciated.

Taking off over Minneapolis at 7 am

But it sure can feel like it.

I had a great time at The Creative Connection & have a zillion pictures to share & some gorgeous pretty things to show you. Everyone at the conference was unbelievably nice and approachable and down-to-earth and willing to chat with a friendless blogger lost in the craft world. I didn’t feel lonely for even one second of the event.

AFTER the event I might have had a teeny tiny breakdown. First it was a cab driver who got totally lost and argued with me and my new friend (and fellow winner) Kerrie about whether or not he would adjust the fare to make up for it. 30 seconds after he pulled away to take Kerrie to her hotel on the other side of the airport the front desk guy informed me there was a mix-up somewhere and I was at the wrong Residence Inn. My room was at the other one. On the other side of the airport. And their shuttle was busy picking people up elsewhere so no, I could not get a ride but he could call me a cab. Then THAT cab driver managed to make what Google assured me was only a 5 minute drive into a $30 ride. And then…well, and then it was 9:30 at night and I’d been up since 6 and the only thing I’d eaten since noon was a cupcake and my crotch felt like it was being stabbed with a giant pointy stick and I had just spent ALL my cash on two cab rides and as soon as E picked up the phone I started sobbing and just totally couldn’t stop. I was a snotty, pregnant, exhausted mess. But every time I opened my mouth to complain I felt like the most ungrateful douche-canoe in the whole world. I am INCREDIBLY lucky to have had the whole experience and appreciate every single minute of the time I had. All I can say is Pregnant Hormonal Woman is Pregnant and Hormonal and really, really, really hates people who refuse to go an inch out of their own way to help someone obviously lost and vulnerable and struggling.

But now it’s all over and I’m just SO GLAD to be home with my wonderful, patient, awesome husband and my adorable loving Baby Evan.

Who may be just a little bit mad about my leaving.

I think E let him watch too many episodes of Family Guy

Thank you again to Lark Crafts and Where Women Create! You are all the most inspiring, kind, creative people ever!

Mommy Blogger – I wouldn’t have any problem with this term if it was purely descriptive. I am a mommy who is a blogger. A mommy blogger. But almost never in the history of mommy blogging has someone said it without the undertone of snide disdain as if writing on the internet about your kids is somehow less deserving of respect than writing on the internet about your dog or cooking or celebrities or fashion. Newspapers use the term to imply the entire genre is moms blogging about potty training and visits to the farm who will stoop to anything for freebies and sponsors and a new vacuum cleaner. (One article in particular springs to mind.) If that’s all “mommy blogger” means these days, we need a new term for the eight zillion mom blogs that DON’T fit the category.

Lactivist – A couple weeks ago a friend Tweeted a link with a comment to the effect that she thought her “lactivist friends” should check out. I am 99.9% sure all she meant by that statement was “this article is about a breastfeeding advocate and thus those of you who also breastfeed would probably find it interesting”. Of course, that’s way too long for Twitter, so lactivist was good shorthand. Unfortunately, I broke the First Rule of the Interwebs (NEVER READ THE COMMENTS) and read the comments, where the word lactivist was equated to “breastfeeding Nazi” “judgmental” and “moms who should mind their own business”. I fear “lactivist” is falling into the same pattern as “feminist” where even those who actually ARE lactivists are hesitant to use the word for themselves, simply because of the negative connotation. Until lactivist can be reclaimed, I’d rather use “breastfeeding supporter” or even just “mom who breastfed and can offer you advice if you want it.”

Awesomesauce – No offense Twitter, it’s just a stupid word. It may have been clever the first five (hundred) times but now it’s annoying. As is all other kinds of -sauce: coolsauce, lamesauce, niftysauce, awfulsauce. The only kind of sauce I want to hear about is a nice Bearnaise sauce for my eggs or a spicy red clam sauce for my pasta. Mmmmmm….sauce. See, this is what happens with food slang and pregnant women.

Tar-jay – Dude, it’s called TARGET. Their logo is a giant TARGET. They’re headquartered in Minneapolis, which may be as far away from France as you can get. If you need to change the name to make it sound fancy a more accurate accent would be the Swedish Chef, which is actually less fancy than just saying TARGET.

FML – It stands for “f*ck my life” and is usually used in such awful circumstances as “I’m out of organic Greek yogurt for breakfast! FML!” and “My kid ripped up my Vogue magazine! FML!” and “I lost a ton of weight on this all-chocolate and wine diet and none of my clothes fit! FML!” PERSPECTIVE, PEOPLE!! Even when you have a flat tire or the baby cries all night or your job sucks it’s not really worth such a dramatic statement. I may be turning into my mother, but every time I see FML I feel like saying “There are starving children in Africa who would kill for your life and your non-organic yogurt!”

And the one I love…

Douche-canoe – Copyright The Bloggess (as far as I know – maybe SHE’S the douche-canoe and totally stole it from someone else). Accurately describes everyone from the guy driving 55 in the left lane to the idiot on the internet who says stuff like “I would NEVER feed my kid Goldfish crackers, we only eat bread made from wheat we grow and grind ourselves” to your second cousin’s brother-in-law who makes unnecessary inflammatory political comments during family dinners. Douche-canoe.

Here’s today’s parenting tip: Do not read to your child, especially if you value your sanity.

I don’t know why I was in such a hurry for my kid to like books. Obviously I didn’t remember just how mind-numbingly boring most books aimed at small children are. MIND NUMBINGLY BORING. We’re not talking classics like Little House on The Prairie or Where the Wild Things Are or even Harold and the Purple Crayon He’s Probably Going To Fall On and Accidentally Stab Through His Eyeball Because He’s Not Very Smart. Those are stories. The crap aimed at the diaper-wearing crowd is just colors and noises infused with some sort of toddler-brain crack that gets them hooked and then you’re forced to read the same eight words over and over and over to avoid the horrible toddler crack brain withdrawal meltdown that ends when you give in and slowly shove bamboo splinters under your own nails while pointing out the doggie and the ball and the triangle and the cloud and the DEAR GOD PLEASE TAKE ME NOW.

Seriously, HIDE THE BOOKS.

Or if you still want to be a “Good Parent” and encourage “literacy” and “education” and all that BS, just read to them from adult books you actually enjoy – and avoid these in particular:

Trucks Go by Steve Light

THE GARBAGE TRUCK GOES: BURBABA BURBABA BURBABA SCREECH BEEP BEEP BEEP CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH.

I can keep going if you want. I’ve got the damn thing memorized.

Unless you want truck noises taking up valuable space in your brain for the rest of your life, never ever ever let your kid see this book. The bright colors and the random noises are immensely entertaining to small children while being seizure inducing in sane adults.

Baby Einstein Let’s Look!: First Look and Find

I did not buy this book. Obviously the “friend” who gave it to me clearly isn’t a “friend” at all, since I wouldn’t give this to my worst enemy. It’s actually a whole set of terrible books with these crazy unidentifiable animals dressed as people (anteater? REALLY? my toddler is supposed to know that?) doing ridiculous things while you read poetry even less well written than “There once was a man from Nantucket” and encourage your child to point at the red birdie and the blue drum and the…what the heck is that? A telescope? You want my baby to find a TELESCOPE? How about we work on basic body parts before we get to astronomy equipment, mmkay?

I usually just throw this one behind a chair. Somehow Baby Evan keeps finding it anyway.

Knuffle Bunny: A Cautionary Tale by Mo Williams

Don’t let the fancy awards and accolades and reviews on Amazon fool you. Right in the middle of the rather disturbing tale of a child whose horrible, careless father LOSES her beloved stuffed animal there are three pages of NOISES. Yelling noises. Noises that will make your kid laugh hysterically and cause him to bring you this book over and over and over until you’re tempted to just “lose” it in the washing machine too.

Bee tee double you: Can someone PLEASE tell me how to say “Knuffle Bunny”???? Is it a silent K like knife? Is it “kan-uffle?” I need to KNOW these things so I don’t send my kid to preschool totally confused. WARS HAVE BEEN FOUGHT OVER LESS THAN THIS.

Monkey About with Chimp and Zee by Catherine and Laurence Anholt

There is a page in this book that says you should lick it. LICK IT. I’m even more disturbed because this too is a hand-me-down book, which means someone else has probably licked it. The rest of it’s not that bad – very short – but that’s sort of like saying “Well yes, the meal at that restaurant was lovely besides the part where I found a pubic hair in my salad.”

Peek-A Who? by Nina Laden

The whole book is just stuff that rhymes with “who”. Moo, zoo, boo, choo-choo. It takes approximately 24 seconds to read the entire thing (even including the baby kissing the mirror on the last page because he luuuurves the bebeh in the book). Which means you can read the whole thing approximately 150 times in an hour. And you will. Better get those bamboo shoots ready for your fingernails. Or at least some special Mommy-juice.

A Child’s Good Night Book by Margaret Wise Brown

Don’t let the adorable illustrations and calming words and the charming bedtime prayer at the end fool you. This book is…short…and…nice…and…OK, fine. This is pretty much my favorite kid’s book ever. We read it when we wake up. We read it at naptime. E reads it to Baby Evan before bed. And I would happily read this fourteen bazillionty times a day – no stupid rhymes, no goo-goo-ga-ga, no talking down to children, no activities. Just beautiful words and pictures and a few minutes with a peaceful baby in my lap. Damn you Margaret Wise Brown and your fantastic children’s books.

I guess maybe I’ll keep reading to my kid after all.

(Disclaimer: The links above are through my Amazon Associates account. So if for some TOTALLY INEXPLICABLE REASON you decide you actually want to purchase any of these terrible terrible books I get something like three cents commission. Which isn’t even close to enough money to pay for the shrink I need to see to get the damn garbage truck out of my brain.)