So after reading this:
I decided to make these:
Statement: You don’t have the body to wear a bikini.
Response: You don’t have the vocabulary to understand half the shit I say.
Statement: Women belong in the kitchen.
Response: Sexists belong in shallow graves in my backyard.
Statement: You’re a slut.
Response: No, I’m attractive and charming. You should try it sometime.
Statement: You aren’t very ladylike.
Response: I have tits and vagina. Those are the only requirements to be a lady, last I checked.
Statement: You’re fat.
Response: Go fuck yourself.
Statement: You’re a bitch.
Response: Cool, I’ll be sure to file that under Shit I Already Knew.
Statement: Wouldn’t you rather be working than at home with your kids/at home with your kids than working?
Response: Wouldn’t you rather be minding your own fucking business?
This is a car. It is what you will be driving.
This is a steering wheel. It is in your best interest, and everyone else’s, to keep at least one hand on the fucking thing at all times.
These pictures all represent your blinker. You also have a blinker on the back of your car. You can tell your blinker is on if there’s a little arrow flashing on your dashboard. Please use your blinker, asshole.
This is your visor. Although sometimes it has a mirror, the visor is there to keep the sun out of your eyes, not so you can put on mascara going 90MPH on the freeway.
These are your mirrors. They keep you from attempting to occupy space that another body of mass is already occupying. Physics, bitch.
This is food. Do not shove it in to your facehole while trying to maneuver between semis, SUVs, stoplights, stop signs, passing trains, etc.
This is your radio. If it is so loud that I can hear every lyric while my windows are up and you are making my car vibrate and I can hear your car vibrating, you are officially a dumb shit. Please exit the vehicle and give your keys to someone who is not.
If there’s one thing I learned at the end of a 6 1/2 year relationship it’s that you have to pick your battles.
I get that you might feel right. You might feel justified. You might be applying so deep meaning to what appears, on its a face, a very trivial issue. You might be compelled to explain your feelings to your partner for the next three hours. Really hash things out.
What the fuck for? You could just drop it and make the sex. Aww yiss.
Less bitching. More talking. Here’s how.
1. Stop giving a shit about the toilet seat.
Who. Gives. A fuck? Is this really something you need to spend time discussing? No, it’s not the principle of the thing. No, it’s not a matter of respect. No, it’s not his responsibility. Look before you sit down. Just like they look before they pee. Why is this such an issue?
2. Stop saying you’re fine when you’re not.
You aren’t fooling anyone, you know that right? He knows you’re not fine. Stop saying you’re fine. Grow up and tell him what’s wrong and quit making him walk on eggshells. In the grown up world, we call that communication.
3. Stop picking fights during Guys’ Night.
You said he could go out. You encouraged it. You were all cool about it, like, “aww, baby, sure, you deserve some time off!” And now you wanna blow up his phone all, “I NEED SOMEONE TO HELP ME WITH THESE KIDS” and “WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU PUT ALL THE COFFEE FILTERS?!” and “YOU SELFISH BASTARD, YOU NEVER THINK OF ANYONE BUT YOURSELF!” lolwut? You don’t just sound crazy – you are being crazy. Knock it off.
4. Stop assuming he’s insulting you.
Sometimes guys don’t talk the words real good. But if this man really thought you were a fat, hideous she-beast, why would he be sticking it to you in the first place? If a joke crosses the line, tell him so – but not like a rage-fueled cunt. If it’s just poor phrasing, fucking let it go.
5. Stop expecting to be treated like royalty.
This just in: you are the princess of fuck all. Yeah, I know, every woman wants a boyfriend who will shower her with love and affection and shiny things and will bring her breakfast in bed and whatever else you think signifies true devotion.Tough shit – you’re not a fucking princess anymore than he’s a prince. You both fart, and are assholes, and forget to put your dishes in the sink, and swear too much, and your feet smell when they get hot and sweaty. In short – you are human. And while you have every right to demand that you are treated as such, stop expecting to have your ass kissed just because you have a vag.
1. Stop fucking up our shit.
It really doesn’t make a bit of difference to us if you don’t understand why there are guest towels and house towels, or why there is fancy soap you’re not allowed to use, or why you can’t use the good dishes to microwave nachos. You don’t need to understand. Just respect our request to leave that shit alone and we’ll stop setting your ties on fire.
2. Stop telling us that there’s a “better” ways to do things.
It might be your way, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s better. If we’re getting the task done just as efficiently and thoroughly as you do, then what the hell do you care? Besides, if you keep pushing it, we’ll just make you do whatever it is.
3. Stop bitching about prep time.
Oh, I’m sorry, does it bother you that I’d like to step out of the house in something other than gym shorts and bedhead? I know that totally works for you, but I personally would rather not go to lunch looking like a hobo’s asshole. And by the way, that old line, “you look beautiful no matter what” is fucking annoying. Stop saying it, because we all know it’s just a weak attempt to get us out of the house faster.
4. Stop treating us like bros.
No, we don’t want to be farted on. No, we don’t want to take shots for every kill we get in Halo 4. No, we don’t want to watch a marathon of American Ninja Warrior. Maybe sometimes that stuff is okay and we’ll indulge you, but that first indulgence does not mean we want to put on our favorite Affliction shirt and go pick up on bitches. We are ladies. Please treat us as such.
5. Stop playing dumb.
You are not Peter Griffin. We know you’re not an idiot. If you can’t remember shit, put reminders in your phone. Make yourself a list. Get a fucking whiteboard. If you didn’t take out the trash, admit that it’s because you were playing Battlefield all day – don’t tell us it’s because you were trying to fix the dishwasher or you were on the phone with important clients all day. We know it’s bullshit. We can see it on your fucking face.
Books and language have always been a huge part of my life and development. My mother read me bedtime stories, and on her days off we’d pass the afternoon with our noses in a book, sprawled out on her embroidered white comforter. When I got older, I grew increasingly more interested in etymology, and interest that flourished alongside my vocabulary.
And naturally, as any bookworm can tell you, I caught a lot of shit growing up for actually liking literature and for using “big” words.
The hope was that once I reached adulthood, everyone else would too, and the criticism and judgment would stop. Except it doesn’t.
A friend of mine used some word or another in front of her husband’s friend and was immediately met with disdain – “ooo, I guess someone went to college.” Really? My friend did, in fact, go to college, but I don’t see how that’s a requirement for not sounding like a complete fucking imbecile. I know plenty of educated, articulate individuals who have never stepped foot on a university campus – and I know even more who have, but still couldn’t diagram a goddamn sentence even with an instruction manual.
But I don’t feel that it’s remotely justified to call someone with an extensive vocabulary pretentious, or a show-off, or a snob. Why wouldn’t you want to know a million different ways to say beautiful, or funny, or kind? Or to say sad, happy, excited? There are so many things in the world, things to see and to experience – why wouldn’t you want to give yourself every opportunity to describe these things with as much detail as possible? Every time you speak to someone, you’re telling them a small piece of the story of your life. Every word you say is being converted in to an image – give that image some depth, for Chrissake.
If you do love the wonderful world of words, then you probably feel equal annoyance at people who take them too seriously, who take their passion language and expression and cross that line that separates the well-spoken from the dick-headed.
People like this.
Are you this guy? Well guess what – no one fucking likes you.
While that is my profile, I would never post something so gloriously misspelled – but I also don’t troll around my news feed, looking for grammar and spelling mistakes so I can attempt to humiliate someone. Besides, if you EVER make a mistake, even if it’s just a typo, you’ve pretty much just douched yourself in to a corner.
Stop using words the way desperate bitches use makeup – which is to say, excessively. We get it. You have a stellar command of the English language. You probably also have stellar command of your own genitals, since you’re the only person who’s touched them since you took Advanced English Lit in college five years ago.
Don’t assume that you’re always the smartest person in the room, and definitely don’t go making up words like you’re the fucking Mad Hatter of linguistics. Eventually you’ll get called out. And everyone will laugh.
On behalf of all of us who are tired of being called snobby, stuck up, pretentious, or haughty just because we don’t walk around grunting and pointing like cavemen – please stop acting like a shit. You’re making it worse.
You may not have picked up on this, but I tend to be pretty blunt.
I’ve also heard the words “asshole” and “fiery bitch-demon” used to describe me, but those just seem rude.
But you can’t really be blunt with kids, at least not in most regards, because you risk pissing on their childhood, destroying their dreams, or tip-toeing in to the realm of verbal abuse. But you can certainly think those things, and those without kids will be none the wiser.
I’ve compiled a list of the most common parental statements and their literal meanings. Because lol, that’s why.
What We Say: Are you sure that’s a good idea?
What We Mean: That is literally the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.
What We Say: Please don’t make me ask you again.
What We Mean: By all means, make me ask you again. It’s about time you learn what crippling fear feels like.
What We Say: You can’t just eat cookies all day. It’s not good for you.
What We Mean: You’re going to get fat. Like, super fat. Like, grease the doorways fat.
What We Say: I don’t know. Ask your father/mother
What We Mean: GO. AWAY.
What We Say: What are you doing?
What We Mean: What are you fucking up?
What We Say: You’re so beautiful.
What We Mean: Thank god I don’t have ugly kids.
What We Say: What a pretty picture!
What We Mean: Is that a chipmunk in a poncho punching William Shatner? What the fuck did you draw?
What We Say: It’s time to start calming down.
What We Mean: Shut the fuck up.
What We Say: Time to get ready for bed!
What We Mean: SWEET FREEDOM IS NEARLY MINE!
What We Say: That kid just isn’t very nice.
What We Mean: I should punch that little fucker in the face for hurting your feelings.
What We Say: You can’t do that – it’s not safe.
What We Mean: Jesus Christ, will you please stop trying to die?!
What We Say: I am very upset with you right now.
What We Mean: You have made me so furious that I might literally shit a ball of fire.
I think it’s a fair assessment to say the stigma of single motherhood as far as the dating pool goes has decreased drastically. More men seem to be open to the idea – especially since we’re seeing more single fathers. But if you’ve never dated someone with children you probably have no idea what you’re getting in to – and you should, because kids are kind of a big deal what with them being tiny human beings with delicate little brains and all.
So here’s a heads up that will, with any luck, enable you to make an informed decision as to whether or not you’re equipped to handle it.
1. No one is more important than the kids.
This should be a no-brainer, but when you’ve exclusively dated the childless, you get accustomed to being numero uno in your partner’s life. And it’s not like you have kids, so you don’t really know what it’s like to be in a relationship where there is a mutual understanding that the kids have top billing in this show. But it’s true. Don’t take it personally. Or go right the fuck ahead and take it personally – there are other fish in the sea.
2. There are “kid snacks” in the house, and you don’t fucking touch them.
This isn’t a college dorm, where a box of cookies is fair game. No, bitch. Those go in lunch bags and are used as negotiation tools to persuade the little bastards to leave the room for ten minutes so you can finish this week’s episode of The Wire. If it’s a food item advertised on Nickelodeon, you better grab a fucking apple and hit the bricks, son. (The one exception is if there is a disproportionate amount of goodies to children. Three bottles of apple juice, two kids? Well, you have to drink the third one. That’s just family politics.)
3. Shit gets loud.
If someone is a normal parent and not a goddamn Nazi, they don’t subscribe to the belief that children should be seen and not heard. Kids are going to run, jump, shout, sing, yell at each other, cry, bitch, moan, nag, laugh, and be generally obnoxious – but it’s all in good fun (usually). Even if you’re inside and they’re outside in the yard, they’re going to come in the house every five minutes with a question, a request, a complaint, or to get something that they absolutely need right this very minute. They will accidentally slam doors, drop things, fall down, and cry dramatically to get their sibling in more trouble than they deserve. Parenting is a constant struggle between getting them to the shut the fuck up and letting them be kids. Get some earplugs, some patience, and remember how sweet they are when they laugh.
4. Shit gets messy.
The reality is that the house is not going to look like a magazine 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Shit happens, and it’s happening constantly. And sometimes it’s not even the kids. My girls clean their rooms every day, and are responsible for putting their toys away. But there are days where I’ve worked nine hours, driven home in shitty traffic, stopped to grab groceries, came home, made dinner, given them a bath, and gotten them in pajamas and in to bed at 9:15, do you actually think I’m going to vacuum the floor right now? Do you think I give a shit about the toothpaste smiley face they drew on the bathroom mirror at this very second? Fuck off or clean it yourself.
5. Sometimes we’re boring.
I’m not old, you guys. I’m 29 for Chrissakes. But my idea of fun has changed dramatically, and even men my age without kids don’t understand why I think spending the day at the river having a picnic and walking along the shore is a great time – especially since there’s no liquor involved.
I’m not saying I don’t still enjoy the occasional party, that I don’t go to the occasional bar, that I don’t stay out until two having dinner and drinks with friends. But those times are few and far between, and I like it that way. I like that my weekends are spent at parks or science museums or taking road trips up to the Redwoods. And I cherish those weekends that are spent doing abso-fucking-lutely nothing at all.
6. Sometimes we’re tired.
Don’t get insulted if we don’t want to stay awake after to kids go to bed and watch a movie. We aren’t avoiding you. We are fucking exhausted. Wake us up in an hour. Maybe then we’ll be rested enough for sexy time.
7. We don’t need you to play mommy/daddy.
In situations where the other parent is an active, positive role in the kid’s life, we do not, in any way, expect, require, or even want you to step in. Don’t spank my kid. Don’t ask my kid to call you daddy. Work out with the person you’re dating where the line for discipline needs to be drawn so you are both perfectly clear as to what that entails. Obviously, you should be someone the kid can depend on, who can fix boo-boos and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. But if you want a kid…make your own.
8. Domestication isn’t so bad.
It’s kind of cool, having clean laundry all folded and put away huh? Clean dishes? House smells nice? Holy shit, are these linen napkins?!
There’s a whole new level of adult-type-shit that goes along with having kids. It’s the difference between having color-safe bleach and fabric softener and, well, not having those things. It’s having every size and shape of bandage in an organized First Aid kit. It’s always having a pen, always having snacks in your glove compartment, having dinner at 6PM every night at an actual table. It’s a porch light always being left on for you. It’s coming home from a night out to someone who fell asleep watching Investigation Discovery on the couch so they could kiss you hello, no matter how late it is. There’s a sort of comforting normalcy that goes along with the hectic-yet-structured schedule of having kids.
9. You will never be on time for anything again, ever.
We try, dude, I swear to god we do, but all it takes is one lost shoe, one broken toy, one stumble down the steps, one little asshole kid who refuses to turn the fuck around in his carseat because he’s mad at you for not letting him have another popsicle. Then BAM the whole fucking trip is set back half an hour. We even attempt to build time in for these little snafus – how many parents have said “I’ll say I’ll be there at 4:30, even though I should be able to make it by 4:00, that way I’m covered”? Except what happens? There’s a fucking gas leak and your garage explodes and oh shit, you just ran over your neighbor’s cat OH FUCK YOU FORGOT TO GET THE KIDS IN THE CAR IN THE FIRST PLACE.
But I swear, we try.
10. There will be times that we are lazy parents, and we don’t give a shit what you think.
Wouldn’t we all love to say we never let our kid watch cartoons, eat candy, or talk back? That’s the fuckin’ dream, isn’t it?
Yeah, well, that doesn’t happen.
Sometimes a Dora marathon is the only way I can clean and reorganize the closet, or finish a chapter I’m writing. Sometimes a lollipop is the only way I can get them to shut up so I can have an uninterrupted conversation with my banker. Sometimes my kid will get smart with me and I will get so pissed off that I literally cannot speak, because the only words I can think to say are “go fuck yourself, you little shit.”
We love our kids, don’t we? We love them madly. But sometimes cutting them a break means cutting ourselves a break, and if you want to get all judgey for that, well…just wait until it’s your turn.