5 Reasons Why My Daughter Will Never Be A Girl Scout…

5.  Those uniforms look ridiculous, even on the cutest of kids (which, I can safely say, my kiddo is). I couldn’t picture her in that dorked-out getup, and  I don’t want to, either.

4.  Is it just me, or do all of those groups feel like weird little gateway cults? Ok, maybe it’s just me, but they really do seem to be paving the way toward a life of Scientology or Jehovah’s Witnesses.

3.  I don’t want her to be a little cheerleader type who can’t think for herself because she was indoctrinated into some group of future fascists.

2.  No way am I leaving my daughter’s “outdoor education” to some weirdo in a beret who actually volunteers to be alone with other peoples’ kids.

1.  And finally (drum roll, please), I absolutely refuse to support any institution who, when teaching my daughter supposed survival skills, instructs her to go out and sell her cookies. What about building a fire, or those really cool knots they teach boys? Nope. Just go door to door and sell your cookies. What are they teaching these kids? Prostitution?

Well, that’s all for today. To those of you who want to be offended or stick up for the buttwipes mentioned above, save your ink (figuratively speaking). This was only meant to be funny.


I hate my period…

Sorry, boys. Look at this as insight, if you read it at all.

For the rest of us, it’s a sad state. I become this blubbering, emotionally overcharged asshole who can’t control her smartass reflex. And, believe you me, it’s a reflex, where I come from. Where once upon a time,  this Katherine Hepburn, Lauren Bacall brand of bitchy sat, my brain morphs into some random screaming whore from the Oxygen network. I turn into a crazy person and I have no idea why. I’ve always been a fairly rational human being and I find it a grand inconvenience to have my whims governed by forces of nature unbeknownst to me.

I’m a sane woman (especially, as women go) and then: BOOM: I’m posting crazy shit on facebook, crying for no reason, and salvaging bits of chocolate from my daughter’s Halloween stash. It’s just damn sad. I’ve deteriorated into the type of person who gets miffed at the smallest slight on my beliefs (from a moron; no less) and can’t have a glass of wine for fear of dehydration because I’m losing so many bodily fluids, as it is. It’s like an intense mini pregnancy every month. An that’s why you gents can’t handle it, when the shit hits the fan at baby time. You haven’t been conditioned, since you were eleven or twelve, with little glimpses at having a tiny person living inside of you. We’re crazy, because we have to go through drills and then, the big show. It’s like pre-Vietnam boot camp, meets Alien. With a whole bunch more actual pain and throwing up. And my periods, now, are like mini-pregnancies. Good times.

The point is, it sucks…but, it beats having balls.

How do you make new friends, without looking like a creeper?

I’m not the most social person. In fact, like Hal Ashby’s most memorable gardener (and one of Peter Sellers’ best roles), I like to watch. Not in a condescending or stalking way, but more, as a passive chronicler of my fellow Wo/Man. I took my daughter to the park the other day, a rare occurrence, indeed, in this heat, and she had the time of her life. We went, with the intention of her riding her new bike, and wound up on the playground after a small nature walk, instead.

Watching my daughter play, like she’d known the other kids at the playground her whole life, I found myself wondering how it is, that kids can be fast friends with perfect strangers, in five minutes. Vaguely, I remember that little kid language of games afoot and laughter sprinkling the air, firsthand, but I cannot recall, for the life of me, how we achieved it. I always feel rather awkward, talking to other grown-ups. I speak pretty fluent Kid, however, so maybe that’s it. Maybe, like some brand of feminine Peter Pan, I never quite grew up. But, I digress.

It usually takes a beer, or two, before I can hold a fluid conversation with another adult. That, or, actual common interests; books, philosophy, chess, quantum theory, Phineas and Ferb; that sort of thing. I’m a bit shy, naturally and, so is Kyra, for all of a few moments of tentative coyness. Next thing I know, she’s running past me, holding hands with a little boy she’s just met. Boy, am I gonna have my hands full, with the boys; they already follow her around. Meanwhile, his mom and I just stand there and watch them go. We made some obligatory small talk; she seemed like a nice girl, if kind of a jock, in her running gear; as our now inseparable children raced across the playground.

What is it, about the absolute essence of youth, that allows more people to be closer to us, faster? What do we lose, in growing up, that encumbers our enthusiasm, socially crippling us, just so? We grow hard and cynical, readily. It’s no wonder, the lines are firmly drawn on the battlefields of love and friendship, alike.