What if I don’t want to Jingle all the Way?
Don’t get me wrong–I have nothing against Christmas. It’s perfectly fine. A holly jolly hell of a good time, I guess. But… what if… I just don’t want to do it this year? What if I don’t want to deck the halls? What if I don’t want to haul out the holly, or kiss under the mistletoe, or catch mommy kidding Santa Claus…. I swear I’m going somewhere less weird with this.
I’ll admit it, I’ve never been the type to pull out the holiday decorations as soon as the sun sets on Halloween. I avoid listening to Christmas music outside of Christmas day itself. I don’t particularly revel in putting up lights, or dealing with tons of family, or tree-themed everything.
Having kids turned that around for me, at least a little. It’s easier to get caught up in the holiday spirit (and I don’t mean the kind that’s stashed in the liquor cabinet) when you’ve got little ones around, believing in all the magic, tinsel, and that a rather large man can squeeze down the chimney without getting stuck. Even if you’re the biggest Hum Bugger around, it’s hard not to feel some sense of childhood nostalgia come Christmas morning, watching your kids open presents to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree”.
I dare say I even started looking forward to it. Why be a hater, right? Why poop on something that gives so many other people you care about great joy? Fill the f’ing stockings and get over yourself! Don’t be a half-assed jingler. If you’re gonna jingle, jingle ALL THE WAY.
I know it’s only mid-November, but Christmas shit has been out since before Halloween and the music is already taking over the stations, and most of my family has all of their trees up and I… just don’t wanna. I feel as though the Christmas spirit in me is broken. Like everyone else got the goddamn update and my systems have crashed.
Error 404: Christmas does not compute.
All I want to do is crawl into a giant pile of Thanksgiving mashed potatoes and not emerge until 2018. It’ll be like I’m a butterfly, only more starchy and covered in gravy.
No part of me wants to yank out the giant Tupperware containers full of Christmas crap and argue with my kids about placement of the ornaments on the trees, or who gets to hide the magic pickle (answer: NEITHER OF THEM. THAT THING IS WORTH MONEY).
Not a single bone in my body wants to listen to family complain as I ceremoniously and triumphantly steal the best gift during the “Dirty Santa” Christmas gift game.
No, I don’t want to spend time sweating over the fucking stove to bake some kind of amazing dessert, only to have to take it home because my family always makes too many desserts and NO ONE EVER EATS MINE, so I get zero praise for my efforts. YES I REQUIRE PRAISE.
I don’t want to have to elbow people through the aisles of Toys R Us and Target because I never, ever go Christmas shopping early. And I really don’t want to have to pay for the shipping online, or order a bunch of crap I don’t really need just to qualify for free shipping.
I don’t want to have to reorganize my house to make room for red and green trinkets, only to have to put them back again in a month.
As I was thinking of all the things I didn’t want to do, something occurred to me. Like an early Christmas gift–and as grumpy as I am–I’m always open to gifts. All these things that I dread, all the work, all the bitching about hiding the pickles, and stealing the gifts, and sweating over pies no one eats, and elbowing my ways through the aisles of Target while the radio blares “Jingle Bells” are actually things I sort of enjoy. My Grinchy holiday traditions. They happen every year, without fail, and so much so that I have stories to tell about them. I can’t stand it, yet somehow, all of these things I loathe are my Christmas fuel. I kinda feel like the Grinch himself–so motivated to sabotage Christmas only to find some weird, twisted love for it underneath all the bitterness.
I AM THE CHRISTMAS GROUCH. My joy lies in complaining and dragging my feet, and a general sense of humbuggery. I revel in it.
So I guess I am in the Christmas spirit after all, just not the way I expected.
Find your joy, y’all. Even if it’s in putting coal in people’s stockings. BE MERRY-ISH!
To those of you with unbreakable willpower- I applaud you
To those of you who actually enjoy all the healthy foods and detest “junk”- I wholeheartedly salute you
To those of you who can look temptation in the eye–even when that eye of temptation is the adorable eye of your child who is only trying to share- I envy you
I am none of those things. I love food. Yeah, healthy food is fine and dandy, and I do sometimes enjoy it- but I have to be totally honest: I fucking love junk. I was raised on Nutty Bars, Ho Ho’s, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and boatloads of Goldfish crackers, and who could forget Fruit by the fucking Foot? And while I am am an adult and absolutely nothing is stopping me from eating any of those things at any time, I am trying to be healthy, which means that shit is basically off limits. Or it should be.
It was easy when my kids were eating mashed carrots and liquefied meats that resembled chunky diarrhea. Zero temptation. The food in my house was adult food. No need for little snack cakes or magical fruit flavored gelatinous creations. AND YEAH, you can come at me and say there’s no need to have that shit in my house even now that my kids are older because I should be teaching them healthy eating habits alongside me, BUT THEY ARE CHILDREN WITH HIGH METABOLISMS AND YOU CAN’T GET THAT SHIT BACK ONCE IT’S GONE! I could deprive them of the joys of Cheez-it fingers, biting the heads off of Goldfish, and peeling apart a Nutty Bar to scrape the peanut butter off with their teeth (if you’ve never eaten them that way, WHO ARE YOU?)- but I’m not going to. Not totally. I’m gonna let them live a little, while also driving home healthy eating habits.
For the most part, they make me really proud. I don’t buy really shitty garbage, but just a little garbage here and there and they eat it every now and then in between fruits and granola and other crap that my parents could never force me to eat when I was their age. But do you know what that means? It means the garbage I buy for their occasional splurge sits there. Taunting me.
I’m not crazy if I hear junkfood calling to me, people. It REALLY happens. And it’s a REAL struggle.
Even if I say no, even if I resist the call of the saturated fats, sometimes the kids leave me no choice. My weakened healthy-diet, sugar-deprived brain can’t handle it.
Some days my diet consists of fruits, veggies, grains, and the proper amounts of lean proteins. Plus 8 glasses of water.
Other days my diet consists of:
“Mommy, do you want a bite?” OH MY GOD MY VAGINAL DROPPING IS ACTUALLY SHARING WITH ME AND IT HASN’T BEEN IN THEIR MOUTH FIRST! I HAVE REACHED THE PINNACLE OF PARENTING. OF COURSE I WILL HAVE A BITE OF WHATEVER CALORIE-PACKED BULLSHIT YOU’RE EATING THAT DOESN’T MAKE YOU GAIN ANY WEIGHT BECAUSE YOU’RE YOUNG WITH PERFECT SKIN AND NO CELLULITE!
The leftovers on my kids plates when it’s something REALLY DELICIOUS AND NOT AT ALL GOOD FOR ME and it’s not enough to save and I’ll be damned if I throw it away. This is, of course, after I’ve finished my own meal. Not even hungry anymore. Just refuse to be wasteful. This includes, but is not limited to, sandwich crusts and pizza crusts (HEATHENS!)
Whatever I can make in a pinch, no matter how unhealthy or full of crap, because I’ve spent so much time dealing with the kids that I’ve run out of time to make anything decent to eat.
The Halloween candy I forced my kids to get “for me” without thinking about just how seriously they would take the job, but now I’m obligated. YES. OBLIGATED. I DON’T HAVE A CHOICE.
Don’t feel bad if you slip off the diet platform, fellow moms. Don’t even feel bad if you weren’t really on it to begin with. The truth is that our kids are just trying to kill us. Go ahead and eat the chocolate.
Last night, as I was tucking my eight year old into bed, I got hit in the face. Not by a fist, or a foot, or the always-lovely headbutt of doom. It was by his armpit.
How is being hit in the face by an armpit physically possible? When the smell is so strong that it causes a a wave of stench to fly out like a bat made of BO and knock you down if you dare get close, that’s how. I expect this kind of full-nasal assault from my ten year old, but my eight year old? Who said this was okay? Who approved early boy-stink? WHO ALLOWED PUBERTY TO ENTER THIS HOUSE BEFORE THE TWEEN YEARS?
I almost feel like I should take part of the blame here. It’s not genes- I certainly didn’t go through early puberty.
The day of the stink bomb was the day my children learned the meaning of the word “queef.”
LOOK, it wasn’t intentional, okay? It’s not like I sat them down and said “oh hey guess what, boys? Vaginas fart.”
It’s just that I have never 100% filtered myself, and at honestly, I get tired of having to hide all the weird lady shit that goes on with me. Hold on… this is totally not coming out right. I wasn’t sitting around on my couch queefing and the kids didn’t over hear it. I wasn’t telling my husband a story about the last time I queefed when I sat down to pee because LET’S BE HONEST THAT KIND OF THING JUST HAPPENS. I truly don’t even know how “queef” came up in conversation, but damnit, they heard it, and damnit- much like the menstrual cycle, it was about time they learned. No more excuses. No more “Oops, had a bloody nose” when the toilet is full of period blood. No more avoiding the word tampon in general conversation because I don’t have to have to go into what it is and what it does. If I’m crampy, I’m not going to pretend to be in a good mood, or that it’s due to the weather or some other dumb bullshit.
It’s exhausting. Queefs happen.
But with the knowledge of queefs comes great responsibility. It comes with a greater understanding, and knowledge… and awkward questions.
Just know that if I ever get in trouble and the police are going through my internet search history and come across “what is a penis fart called?”- this is why. This blog. And so you don’t have to Google it yourselves, the answer is “Peef.” It’s called a Peef. Yes, a Peef is the male version of a Queef. There. That’s something you know now. And it’s something I know now. And it’s something my eight year old knows now. I’m not saying that the sudden knowledge that vaginas can “fart” is what sprouted this many stench to emanate from his pits, but I can’t confirm that it didn’t, either.
Going into this blog, I really thought it was going to be a coming-of-age, “oh my god my kids are starting puberty” type of story… but somewhere along the way it became the cautionary tale of why you should be careful who you queef in front of.
Wait. No. That’s not it.
A queef in the hand is worth two peefs in the bush?
No… definitely not that, either.
What I’m trying to say here is be aware of all the things, because before you know it, you’re explaining what a queef is one second, and being blasted in the face by your kid’s BO the next, and wondering not only how your life got so fucking weird, but how your kids got so fucking old.
Yeah… there we go. We got to the point I thought we were going to make in the first place- we just had to take a detour through some weird shit… which is basically all of parenthood, isn’t it?
It’s no secret that I LOVE the Disney Princesses. A lot. As I type this, I’m wearing a Pocahontas t-shirt. Artwork featuring them decorates the walls of my house. I have an entire shelf in my closet dedicated to my Disney clothing- there’s that much. I sing Disney songs all day, and even when people try to bash the princesses for being bad role models, I’m the first to snort laugh and explain exactly why they’re awesome. Even with a
freakish obsession love as strong as mine, I still have a sense of humor, which is why when Halloween comes around every year- I don’t do the whole “sexy” princess thing to show my love, with the stupid tutu skirt and cleavage hanging out (as if I have any anyway). I kill them. I kill their happy endings. I ruin precious Disney dreams everywhere. WHY?! Well, why not?? Disney has a dark side, and a sense of humor- and the original fairy tales these stories came from don’t usually have a happy ending anyway, so why not twist it all up for one night a year and have some fun with it? Luckily, I haven’t sent any kids screaming in the other direction just yet, but hey- I’m only 2 princesses in with another dying tomorrow, and I want to share these looks with you and how I achieved them (y’know, for inspiration). Hoping to add to this each year (so come back after Halloween to see how I knock off the next poor unfortunate soul!) *Please note- I am NOT a professional makeup artist. This is all amateur at-home do-it-yourself attempts, but I’m pretty proud of the results!
Dreams of more than a provincial life, and ever the optimist, thought she had found that with Beast, for Belle always sees the beauty within people- and that is the real “beauty” in Beauty & the Beast. BUT- what if? What IF Belle was wrong? What if Beast never changed? What if the Beast was just…. a beast? I mean, he DID tell her to stay out the West Wing. Homegirl just couldn’t listen, and that is where she met her true fate.
Such a shame! The yellow gown I actually found at a thrift store last second for something like two bucks, so I smashed it into the dirt, splattered it with fake blood, and tossed it on. The deep facial slashes were created with glue and toilet paper, if you can believe it!
While everyone else was going Elsa crazy, I decided to dress up as Anna. And then kill her. My love runs that deep. Anna of Arendelle is smart, plucky, and completely ordinary- at least, according to her, and that made me like her even more.
But… WHAT IF? What if, when Elsa struck her in the heart with her icy powers, and the trolls told her “An act of true love” would melt a Frozen heart…. what if it flat out didn’t work?
Frozen. Frickin’. Solid. Oh, and Olaf didn’t make it, either.
This look was easily created with white cream makeup mixed with blue eyeshadow, thick layers of cream makeup in my eyelashes and eyebrows, and swirls of darker blue and white
The defiant youngest daughter of King Triton who had dreams that reached beyond possibility, yet still, she never gave up on them. Despite Sebastian’s warnings, she was still desperate to be where the people were, to have legs of her own. To walk. To dance.
What poor, unfortunate fate could befall upon our favorite mermaid friend?
WHAT IF? What if, when Ariel found out Ursula had tricked her, and had put Eric under a spell- when she jumped into the ocean to swim after his boat and stop the wedding, she never made it? Ariel may have always wanted legs, but she never learned to use them to swim. WHAT IF she sank to the bottom of the ocean to decay, never getting to Prince Eric in time to save him from marrying Ursula? There would be no happily ever after. Instead, there would be this
Are those barnacles on her face? Why yes. Yes they are. Along with scales- because magic can only go so far- and not only did Ariel rot on the ocean floor, but she changed back into a mermaid as well.
The look seems complicated (or so I’m told) but it was easy! We created the barnacles over the course of a few days using two things: liquid latex, and CHEERIOS! Yes, Cheerios! I found the easiest to use were the ones already stuck together in the box, and then dripping the latex over them, some in individual stacks, and some in clusters
Once they were stuck in place using a little more liquid latex, I used eyeshadow for a metallic look, and cream-based white paint to paint the barnacles to give them a crusty look I also drew on the scales one by one and filled them with some white paint and metallic eyeshadows in different shades of green, blue, and a little purple. Here’s a close up (after trick or treating and dinner- so there’s some wear & tear)
I. frickin’. love. Rapunzel. It’s the movie that got me back into Disney as an adult. She’s creative, funny, goofy, a little clumsy, brave, and resilient– even after being locked in a tower her entire life by Mother Gothel–she isn’t bitter.
A woman who knows what she wants and will not stop until she gets it, even if it means chartering into dangerous territory. She always tries to see the best in people, maybe when they might not deserve it, because she knows there is good in everyone.
A princess after my own heart
But… WHAT IF? In Disney’s Tangled, Rapunzel meets a thief named Flynn, who comes to be not only someone she cares for, but someone who could come back to save her from Mother Gothel once he found out that she is the lost princess, and Mother Gothel isn’t her mother at all, but an evil witch who kidnapped Rapunzel as a baby to keep her powers all for herself. What if, when Flynn enters back into the tower, only to be stabbed by Mother Gothel, instead of making the ultimate sacrifice for her by cutting of Rapunzel’s locks before she can use them to heal him, thereby freeing her from Mother Gothel forever, he missed, slashing her throat instead?
This deep slash would cause Rapunzel to quickly bleed out and die, leaving her unable to save Flynn with her hair, nor her tears (as she did in the movie).
They die just minutes apart, and Mother Gothel shrivels away to nothing. No one lives happily ever after.
This look was easy, yet frustratingly difficult to achieve! First, I started with face makeup–covering my face in a layer of grayish white face paint and setting it with translucent powder, and then darkening my lids, the places where dark circles naturally appear, and right around my nose with a mix of gray and purple and a little red. I also used bronzer with gray eyeshadow layered over it to hollow out my cheeks and nose. This gave my face the appearance of having zero life to it (I also call it the “tired mom”)
For the gaping neck wound, I went the Belle route and used a mix of toilet paper and regular ol’ Elmer’s glue to create the effects. Super sexy.
I used a “wound” kit I got from Spirit Halloween to bloody and bruise up the cut and surrounding area and then foundation to blend it into my skin. Was more difficult than Belle because the neck moves much more!
And now for the 2017 reveal!
We all know the story of Jasmine. A lonely princess locked away “for her protection” who longs to see more, to do more, to be more. She hates the thought of being tied down, of having to settle for ANYTHING, and bucks against tradition and what is expected of her at every chance.
Hard not to relate!
She sneaks into the marketplace where she luckily bumps into the “street rat” Aladdin, who, with his quick thinking, saves her from the palace guards. But really, she ends up saving him.
“Unhand him, by order of the princess!”
She’s strong-willed. She’s confident. She knows what she wants. She’s basically a bad-ass. And of course, she gets the Happily Ever After she deserves after she, Aladdin, Genie, and Abu defeat Jafar and take back the kingdom.
BUT WHAT IF…
When Jasmine walked into the marketplace to see what “normal” life was like and got caught “stealing” an apple- Aladdin doesn’t jump in to save her. He’s nowhere to be found.
Instead, as punishment, Jasmine has one hand chopped off and is sent to the dungeons.
With Jasmine out of the way, Jafar easily takes the throne for her father, the Sultan, and rules over Agrabah.
Despite all her screams for help, Jasmine is left to rot away in the dungeon until she starves to death. Alone.
Only Jafar lives happily ever after.
Let’s take a look at the makeup more closely:
When it came to killing off Jasmine, I had to really think about what being locked away in a dungeon would do to her. Not only would she lose color and volume from her face, but her lips would dry out and crack due to lack of water. I wanted to make sure to keep her signature winged eyeliner, but to make it realistic, made it run down her cheeks from tears- probably the last water she’d ever get.
I started by using a few layers of pale foundation and did the dramatic wings and signature thick eyebrows (if only I could keep those year round!) Then, I started putting gray under the cheekbones, into my collarbone and neck to make the bones really pop (just in case it showed!), and used burgundy, greens, and yellows around the eyes, mouth, and nose to make the bruising look realistic.
To create dried, cracked lips, I spread a layer of liquid latex over my lips, waited until it was almost dry, and moved my mouth around to naturally rip it up. To really intensify the effect, I took eyebrow scissors and tweezers and pulled apart the cracks, creating holes and big chunks missing. I then took different color red cream paints and lipsticks and painted in the holes and cracks to give them depth. (Ignore the liquid latex on the cheek–that look did not work so I removed it).
For the tears you see in photos above- I actually used activated charcoal (used for tooth whitening) and mixed it with water and let it drip down my face naturally.
BAM! Dead Jasmine
When you get the WHOLE family to theme with you
What do you think? Which is your favorite princess kill?? Who do you think NEXT year’s princess will be?
Yes, I already know. I AM PREPARED!
When it comes to my period, I sort of feel like Forrest Gump sitting in front of a box of chocolates. Wild anticipation–because I just don’t know what I’m going to get.
It could be the boring nougat filled milk chocolate type of period where the cramps are meh and really nothing more than a slight annoyance, or the absolute dumpster fire that is the mystery orange-filled dark chocolate that reminds you to never ever trust anything ever again because the world is cruel and you might never recover.
Currently, I’m the latter. A feeling my children did not at all understand as I grunted and pointed toward the washer and dryer, because shit needed to get done and I was in no shape to do it myself. The only thing worse than doing laundry is having to do the same load of laundry again because you didn’t move it from the washer to the dryer fast enough to avoid mildew. But that’s not the point. The point is, I felt like my vagina was going to fall off if I moved, and they didn’t understand.
Not only are they a little young to fully grasp the science behind a woman’s menstrual cycle and all it entails, but even if they were, they still wouldn’t really get it. Yeah, sure, dudes know it hurts because we tell them it does, but they will never know what it’s like because they don’t have the parts.
If there’s one thing I refuse to do, it’s to raise men who don’t sympathize with women. I’ll be damned if I teach them everything they need to know in life, and still have them go “ewwwww” whenever a women mentions the word “tampon”.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT’S GROSS? TESTICLES. TESTICLES ARE FLOPPY WRINKLY SACKS THAT HANG BEHIND YOUR PENIS AND GET STUCK TO YOUR LEGS LIKE OLD BOLOGNA WHEN IT GETS HOT. DON’T TALK TO ME ABOUT GROSS.
I’m trying to avoid ever having to yell that at them. I totally would, but I’d prefer them to hear the words “period” and “cramps” and comprehend to either stay the fuck away, not be a douche about it, or bring chocolate. Maybe all of the above. How, though? How to make that happen when they will never be able to experience the delight and joy of even a single period cramp?
By putting it into terms they CAN understand.
It’s like your body suddenly morphs into a chunk filled water balloon that is being beaten with nail-covered bats by an army of fire ants.
Imagine going on an episode of Jackass and then having the entire cast and crew kick your parts for a week straight. It’s like that.
You know the stomach-bursting scene from Space Balls? Yeah. That’s what it feels like.
It’s like going to a buffet full of food you know is going to give you violent diarrhea, but you’ve already paid your entire life savings and have to get your money’s worth so you eat it all anyway.
It’s trying to function like a normal human being while feeling like someone is using all of your dangy parts as a punching bag. Stairs are the funnest part.
It’s a feeling in between that one you get right before you shit yourself, and the one before you puke. Only it never goes away.
It’s like having a cannonball covered in needles sitting in the lower part of your stomach. Oh, and it’s on fire.
It’s the constant, unrelenting sensation of not being able to trust a fart.
The fear that with any sneeze, cough, or hiccup, you could accidentally drench yourself in blood.
Like your center of gravity has been yanked down to your asshole area, and it’s so heavy that you think your bits could actually fall off.
It would feel like stubbing your pinky toe on a coffee table, but only if you had 4,512 pinky toes.
My boys will never understand the full period experience, but at least they’ll know if it’s bad enough to be compared to ANY of the above, they should just do the laundry and shut up about it.
Some kids know multiple languages, or are doing complex math problems, but I just said "hello" to my 8 year old and he responded with "is it me you're looking for?" so who's the real winner here?
@AtypicalMiriam I am frightening *and* tall 😂
@AtypicalMiriam He fears me. I am the only female I this house. All penis people live in fear.
Me: Just ripped the ass out of my pants. I mean, they were OLD pants, but I feel like it's because I was bigger than I was 10 years ago. 10yo: Everyone's bigger than they were 10 years ago! I am! Me: YOU WERE AN INFANT 10 YEARS AGO 10yo: ... 10yo: *slowly backs out of room*
Person on tv: Age is just a number! 10yo: Yeah, a number that pulls you closer to death.
Party animal over here pic.twitter.com/OVpKPuu4Yc
Proving to my kids that they ARE Friends goo.gl/fb/QbSSNp