You Don't Know Shit: Part One

Certainly, I can't be the only one noticing this new trend? Everywhere you look in SocialMediaLand, you can see them. People who know EVERYTHING. I know, it's amazing to find such incredibly intelligent folks all in a select few places. If you want advice about anything, scroll through your Facebook timeline or your Twitter feed. Guaranteed, there will be someone claiming to know all there is to know on the topic. And lucky for us to have access to all this knowledge! Seriously, I cannot begin to explain how this shit irritates the living fuck out of me. If I want information, I'll Google it myself. I don't need your post, complete with the accompanying editorial from you. That's the part that truly gets under my skin like scabies eggs, the commentary from the "expert" with the posted article on the topic du jour. I've complied a list of things I've seen on Fuckbook and TwitTer to share with you. To help illustrate my frustration with what they've become.

1.  Parenting: If you find an article about parenting that fascinates the shit out of you, fan-fucking-tastic! Should it help you through a rough time you are having with your own family, awesome. Maybe you'd like to share it with the entire planet. Stop right there and back away from the computer. Not everyone in the world gives a shit. Not everyone wants to hear your problems. But...and here's where it can get a bit messy...when you aren't even a parent, you need to shut the fuck up. I can't tell you how many people I see posting parenting/right to life/common core shit who have never even been pregnant much less have actual children of their own. No, being an aunt, godmother, neighbor does not qualify you to have an opinion on these topics. As much as you think you know...you know SQUAT. Until you've actually been there, your knowledge can be placed on the head of a pin leaving room for a dance party. Childless people seem to be the most opinionated on these topics...takes a particular kind of balls, don't you think? Ask women who've gone through labor and delivery if they want your opinion about natural childbirth, for example. I'd be willing to bet you should steer clear of them when expressing these opinions, unless you want your uterus pulled out through your mouthhole.

2.  Gun control:  So many of you fuckers posting about gun control don't know the first thing about responsible gun ownership, have never owned a gun, nor have you been in the presence of one. Yet, you are scared shitless of the concept of anyone in the world owning one aside from police officers and the military. Let me ask you this question, and I have asked it before, do you think criminals buy their weapons from reputable gun shops? Moreover, do you think they are subject to a background check and waiting period when they buy their guns out of the back of a van in a deserted alley from some dude who goes only by the name Killer? When I go out to buy a gun, I am subject to all kinds of checks, a waiting period, and I need my current certificate. When Inmate #37698 gets his gun, he just hands Killer cash in an envelope and is handed the weapon in a paper bag. Note the differences. Keeping guns out of the hands of law abiding citizens is like keeping forks out of the hands of the kids at fat camps. Neither serves any good purpose. Plus, you are taking away a means to protect ourselves and families from Inmate #37698 when he busts through our front door brandishing his new "gat" and threatening to kill everyone in the fucking house. What are you thinking? People who do not practice safe gun ownership should be shot with their own weapon, I totally agree. But the grand majority of us have gun safes...that stay locked. Another question that begs asking, have you been personally affected by gun violence? I'll answer that for you, NO. Crying about what happens on the news doesn't count. Get back to me when you've lost a loved one to a round of ammo.

3.  Recipe flooders: You know who you are. You've all become either master chefs or health nuts. But have you really? If you find a recipe that looks fantastic, try it out at home. Should it come out perfectly, taste amazing, and look like something out of a magazine...post it for all of us to ooh and ahhh. But stop flooding my timeline with ridiculous and basic shit. If you didn't know how to cook vegetables with garlic and oil before locating the recipe on the internet, that's a huge problem in your personal kitchen. One that can't be fixed by posting it on Facebook. I'm sorry you didn't grow up Italian, but as I've said before, not everyone can be Italian...but everyone wishes they were. On the flip side, if you find something incredibly difficult but that looks beautiful, feel free to post with the admission of, "Boy, I sure wish I could make something like that" because that is the truth. Also, when I see you posting all this healthy shit like you actually eat that way, I have to laugh. Ooh, look at the gluten-free, no carb, low cal, no fat thing I posted...I'm such a healthy eater! Right. Then, three hours later you check in at the drive thru at your local McDonald's. Ummm, WTF? Did you think you fooled us with the Paleo recipe from earlier? Believe me when I say that you, in all your SuperSized eating glory, are fooling no one.

4.  College Campus Dangers:  Well, then. Let's start with asking you a fairly simple question. When was the last time you stepped foot on a college campus? How many decades was it? Right. Exactly my point. Because nine out of ten frightened little veal posters haven't been in college for over 20 years. Eight out of ten don't even have kids nearly old enough to be applying to college...forget about living on a distant campus away from your smothering arms. OMG, there's rape running rampant on campuses because there are no rules about drinking there. They have no policy about saying no and that NO means NO. REALLY? Is that what you believe? No rules? So, I send my kid to a school devoid of rules meant for her safety? Absolutely. And I pay for it, too. What kind of drugs do you take when you sit and Google the shit you find and post on this topic? My daughter's school is a DRY school and has very serious rules and consequences for those who can't take NO for an answer. The girls have rape whistles. Does this sound unsafe and without rules? Ahhh, but you had no fucking idea, did you? You just read about some redneck schools in the middle of bumfuck 'Murica having issues with drunken consent and assumed it was happening everywhere. You assumed and you posted it complete with your ignorant opinion. Did you realize how fucktarded you sounded right after you hit the blue "post" button? Of course you didn't. You sat there in your little righteous world, without a clue on earth regarding your article share, feeling superior to everyone else. Probably even me. Dumb bitch doesn't know what goes on in her own daughter's school. She should read this motherfucking article before she lets that child go back into that Caligula-ass lion's den of drunken debauchery. She'll be sorry, mark my words. If I shake my head any harder, I'll lose all my fucking marbles. Dumb ass.

Let's be honest with each other, you don't know shit. You think you have a wide body of knowledge that begs to be shared with the rest of the world, but in reality, you are simply an ignorant twatburger who wants people to like and agree with something you've said. A pathetic attention whore. Losing respect for people like this happens so quickly for me that I barely notice it occurring. But the effects are deep-rooted and long-lasting. Once I think you have committed douche baggery, I can't unsee the damage you've done. Forever will you be that asshole. Are you frigging kidding me right now???

For the rest of my opinions on your stupidity:
You Don't Know Shit, Part 2

Italians are Better Than Everyone

We just are. I said it, I meant it. When I refer to Italians, I am really referring to NY Italians, and more specifically, Queens and Brooklyn Italians. From here on out, just keep that in mind. Idaho Italians...wtf are they anyway? Do they even exist? I must add that I find Italians from anywhere else very odd. They don't seem to embrace their heritage and certainly don't act very much like me or anyone in my family. Almost like they are ashamed of who they are and don't want anyone to know that they are...greaseballs. Oh, keep your fucking stupidity to yourself. I can use all the slurs I want, I am Italian. If I want to call myself a WOP, I will and you'll like it. The difference is, I know the origin of the slurs, and when I use them it's because I find them hilarious, not offensive. People who get offended by these things see a glimmer of truth in them. I know they're all bullshit. That's what makes me smart and you...well, you.

Let me tell you about the basics of being Italian American by telling you what we aren't so you can understand who we really are...and love us as much as we do.
We are not all connected to the Mob, and if we were, we wouldn't tell you...that's where omerta kicks in to the equation. Don't fucking ask. Yes, the Cosa Nostra is real. No, not every Italian man living in NY is a member. Our male family members often held regular jobs, like the rest of you white folk. Mostly blue collar back in the day, but all honorable jobs.  Which brings me to the next stereotype...Italian men all work as: construction workers, garbage men, pizzeria owners, marble workers, or bakers. So maybe I had an uncle who owned a bakery, but that was not the norm. Italian men are police officers, firefighters, doctors, lawyers, accountants, and tennis instructors. Imagine that, not everyone named Tony was in waste management. And let me further refute the nonsense that all Italian women were housewives. Yes, many sacrificed to stay home with their children during the early years of their lives. But most went back to work when they deemed the children independent enough to unlock the front door on their own, get their homework done without prodding, and fix their own after school snack. They did worry about us not eating enough. Hence my mom's ever popular question over the phone, "Jjeeet?" Which translates to, "Did you eat?" As though I would forget to partake in the stuffing my face process. Hell would have frozen ten times over before that happened.

It's been said that we talk with our hands. I have no idea from where that nonsense originates. Does the fact that my own husband thinks its funny to ask me to "sit on your hands and say that" reveal anything about my heritage? Mind you, he's Italian, too. But his Italian is more in his appearance and his last name. Based upon his pronunciations, I'd swear he was raised by Eskimos. My way of being definitely screams Italian in every sense of the stereotype. Hands flying; loud excited expressiveness; peppering my speech with bastardized Queens Italian; that crazy twinkle in my eye that can be found in most of us. Yeah, I'd say I embody the fucking stereotype. But that doesn't mean that everyone from Queens and Brooklyn born of Italian heritage acts that way. Some are quite embarrassingly subdued. Actually, many are far quieter and less animated than I. Most of my family members are no longer living so that gene might die with me. I know my kid doesn't have the gesturing down as she should. Christ Jesus, she can't even answer basic questions about The Godfather correctly. I think she may be losing her membership in the nationality shortly. That's a whole other story that I don't want to dive into right now because it makes me very emotional.

Do you think Italian women are hot tempered? Spicy meatballs? I hate that phrase as used to describe one of us, by the way, so don't ever use it on me. I daresay if you piss off many women of a variety of national origins, you'll get your balls handed to you in some way.  Maybe not with the flair that we can and do, but it happens. Perhaps what we view as honest and open with our feelings, you see as being hot headed. Perhaps you are just a fucktard who grew up in a milky white, Wonder Bread eating, Leave it to Beaver, boring ass family. In my house, screaming and crying, then laughing so hard you had tears streaming down your face was considered an average Thursday. Emotions worn on the sleeve, that was a fact of life and it was good. No bullshit, no hiding behind a wall of indifference. That didn't exist in my world and I'm damn glad. I'd hate to be one of you dispassionate, cold-blooded. phony assed shit bags. Would you rather I lie to your face? I think we've gone over this and I would like to believe that you have come to expect quite the opposite from me. Actually, I think down deep inside, you like it.

On the flip side of that fun little coin, do you also believe that all Italian men are violent? That, to me, is absofuckinglutely hilarious. Let me start by saying that the men in my family were among the most affectionate people I have ever met in my entire lifetime. Ma's side of the family was always hugging, kissing, cheek pinching, hand holding...some form of loving touch. Much to my disgust when I was very young. My uncle would chase me around the house trying to pinch my cheeks and kiss me. The more I resisted, the more he pursued. A fun game to him, a stressful episode that made me cry every goddamn time he came over. He became my favorite family member over the years, and thank the newborn baby Jesus he never gave up on me, that he never stopped chasing. That abundance of affection was just an outpouring of love for his goddaughter, his niece, his surrogate daughter. God, I miss him. Back on track, the only man I knew with a quick temper and quicker hands was my dad, a French Canadian, not Italian. So think before you judge us, dickweed.

Let me think about the last time someone was shocked that I was Italian...yeah, it was just as frustrating as the first, second, and 3,145th. Yes, I have red hair, freckles, and blue eyes. Yes, I am half Italian. My grandpa had blue eyes. My Uncle Tommy was a platinum blond as a young boy. My mom burned with even the slightest sun exposure, she was so pale. Am I blowing apart your predetermined view of us as olive skinned, chocolate eyed, raven haired inhabitants of this planet? Do you know how many times Italy was invaded and by whom? Moors and Arabs to the south. Are you aware of who borders Italy to the north? Switzerland! Loads of darkies in Switzerland, right? No, far more Nordic looking aren't they? Combine us all somewhere in the middle and then spread us out over the countryside once again. Not what you saw in Good Fellas now is it? Get over it. Lose the preconceived notions of what we are supposed to look like. And for the last time, I'm NOT Irish. Christ on a fucking cracker.

The whole Jersey Shore thing drives me fucking bat shit. Let me back up and tell you I loved that show. It entertained the shit out of me. If they weren't so much younger than I, I'd swear I went to high school with them. Christ the King RHS was a hotbed of guidos.  That being said, they do NOT exemplify all Queens and Brooklyn or Jersey Italians in the least. They are the low rent, classless breed that we all try not to be. Yes, we all go through the phase, even if briefly, at some point in our lives. But, if we are even remotely intelligent and slightly educated, it doesn't last long and we become the amazing people you see before you now. We are college-educated, well-rounded people on the whole. Not the bumbling buffoons you see on TV. Not all of us have those thick, mildly retarded sounding accents, either. And not just those of us who moved out of Dodge. Some still live in the thick of the gravy and don't sound like Rocky Balboa. What kills me, what really rubs my ass in the wrong direction is when non-Italians try to sound like that. Why the fuck on God's green earth would you WANT to sound like that? First of all, you don't sound like us. You'll never have the proper inflection and intonation to sound Italian. Secondly, and even more to the point, you sound completely fucking idiotic.

I don't disagree with our food obsession. To deny that would be to deny my entire life and the family I love. Food and I go way back. My fondest memories of family all relate to some kind of eating frenzy. Bowls, platters, dishes everywhere! Filled with the most delicious and mostly homemade delights imaginable. I say mostly because we didn't cure our own meat. We did live in Queens, not on a farm with our own goat. But between Grandma Rose's cooking, Ma's cooking, and Aunt Dolly's cooking...you were in an eater's paradise. There was no "Thanks, but no thanks, I'm full" bullshit going on in my family. You ate till your eyes were about to pop and then you had dessert. And it was good. We used the Queens Italian words for everything on that table and everyone knew exactly what we were talking about. "Pass the ricott'" "Who has the scungeel?" "Who wants more sawzeech?" "Have another dish of gavadeel" and yes, "Where's the gabagool?" We ate and laughed and yelled over each other and never tired of the present company. That's how it should be. Polite, quiet dinner conversation over boring meatloaf and other white food is not for me. I need sensory overload, dammit. I need a Las Vegas dinner experience. Fill my senses and don't stop until I explode. That's how we do, no apologies.

Being Italian is such a huge part of who I am, of how I am, of my every day life. I know of no other way to be. If we are being totally honest, and when am I not, I am thankful to be Italian and not any other nationality. We have our own way of looking at things and handling the things that life throws at us. We are strong, yet sensitive. If you get on our bad side, just keep on walking, we do not tolerate shit and are very slow to forgive and definitely do NOT forget. Family comes first, don't you dare try to test that theory. Friends are just extended family and get treated as such. We love with such abandon and full hearts you won't know what hit you if you are lucky enough to be on the receiving end. It may sound prejudiced, but we actually prefer to be around our own kind. It's not that we don't like you, we are just more comfortable with those who embody the awesome that is a fellow Italian. They understand us, they get where we are coming from, appreciate the references, relate to the point of view, and can keep up with the conversation. Face it, you all want to be Italian, even for just one day. Think we don't know? Are you friggin kidding me right now???

For more reasons to find Italians better than anyone, or simply for a better understanding of how we speak because God knows you have no idea about half of what we are saying:

Queens/Italian English, a lesson in linguistics

Queens/Italian English, lesson #2

Queens/Italian English: Lesson #3, the final chapter

Perimenopause Still Sucks Moldy Balls, Four Years Later

Ladies, I never promised you a rose garden. Here we are, four years after my doctor told me that my hormone levels were, on a scale of one to ten, somewhere around dust. Those words were, at the time, music to my ears since I was long since done having children and bleeding like a stuck pig every fucking month. The excitement was off the charts! Then, oh then, I found out that it could last something like ten years. Ten goddamn years. What the holy mother of the baby Jesus are you talking about? I have to do this for how long? Who has the time or the patience? Certainly not I! But, with an end in sight, I took up my cross and plodded forward. It can't and it won't go on forever. I can do this. Right? Bless me with all that is holy and good, I've considered digging into my own vagina with a long tool and yanking my uterus out violently and with great malice. Whether it be common sense, a fear of actually killing myself accidentally, or not being in possession of said tool, I haven't done it...yet. Fast forward to today. All those symptoms I've described to you, still in full annoying as all fuck force and now being joined by new ones. In case you've forgotten them considering the mental fog we are all walking around in...Why Perimenopause Sucks Moldy Balls should remind you.

Feeling bone tired no matter how much I sleep. Can I get a show of hands if you are drinking way more coffee than you ever have in your entire life? I can't be the only one who is feeling like her ass is dragging the floor every day. The absolute worst time is in the morning. That alarm goes off and I'd swear there are tears in my eyes. The first thing I do, after peeing, is stumble downstairs and turn on the coffee maker. Why? Because I need coffee to take a shower. Pathetic, yes. But it's my reality and I've learned to deal with it...using copious amounts of very strong coffee. The exhaustion, for me, leads to a lack of motivation to do basic things. Cleaning the house has become a feat that feels like I'm plowing the fields, barefoot, using my hands. Something that used to only require pumping up some righteous tunes, grabbing those paper towels and Mrs. Meyers spray. Today, I have to psych myself up like a prize fighter getting ready for a bout. I sure would love to have half of my energy back. Perimenopause, you harsh mistress, give it back!

Night sweats. Like sleeping hot flashes with a hose turned on your entire upper body. Nothing says good night's sleep like waking up from it soaked and needing to change your shirt and pillowcase. Luckily, these don't come all too frequently. When they do, I feel like I'm on fire and it jars me awake because my drenched hair is dripping on my face and neck. Because I'm not tired enough without the joys of interrupted sleep. I know I'm giving off fierce heat in those moments because even the cats can't come near me and they will sleep on me in the dead heat of summer. Don't for a minute think that the hot flashes have stopped. They are still a large part of my life. I often find myself asking someone at work if it's really friggin hot and did our landlords turn on the heat, only to hear, "It's not hot at all, it's actually kind of cold." Cold my ass. Why am I holding my hair up and fanning my neck like my life depends on it? Why do my cheeks feel like I've spiked a massive fever? Oh, right. The evil otherwise known as perimenopause.

Thinning hair. My hair used to be so thick, I'd break pony tail holders trying to put my hair up. Now, I feel like I've regressed and my hair is more like that of a toddler. Okay, maybe not THAT thin, but certainly thin enough to be held tightly between a circle made by my pointer finger and thumb. What the hell? Do we not suffer enough as women? Can't we keep our crowning glory well into our forties? Why do we have to have something so basic stripped from us while we are in our prime? Can't be a balding cougar, now can we? Not that I am suggesting that is the only reason to have nice hair. How about the fact that most of us work and need to be seen in public on a regular basis. How about the fact that our hair makes us look youthful and pretty? How about the plain and simple fact that a woman going bald is probably more unattractive than a bag of assholes? Men can rock a chrome dome, we cannot. We are not made that way. We wear makeup, we use hair products. You need hair for that!!! Baby Jesus, leave my hair out of this "natural, beautiful" process.

This one is a doozy and if you can't handle the truth, stop reading here. The cough pee. Yes, you read that right. Peeing when you cough. This didn't occur after childbirth so don't go all Kegel Nazi on me. I gave birth almost 20 years ago at the youthful age of 24. My bladder and pelvic floor weren't affected at all back then. But do explain to me why, at 44, my muscles aren't doing their job now. If you see me crossing my legs...chances are, the next thing I am about to do is cough. Since I've been coughing since Christmas, this is a regular occurrence. I guess my thighs are getting a workout, but REALLY?!?! Why is this even necessary? I cough like a barking seal, is that not embarrassing enough? Clearly not. If I'm home, I'll run up the stairs and sit on the toilet to cough. That's hot. Talk about a sexy MILF. 'Scuse me while I cough in the can. I know, you want some of that.

How about we keep on the path of the gross and unmentionable and talk about the spotting? I don't mean just your run of the mill between period spotting, because that is a given during perimenopause. I'm talking about the spotting after any sexual activity. Oh yes, I went there. Orgasms lead to uterine contractions for those of you ignorant of basic human anatomy. And since your uterus has gone over to the dark side at this point, it chooses to ruin your fun by spewing out a little bit of liquidy off color happiness. That's really the epitome of desirable right there. Not to say it happens every time. But enough to make you second guess your need for sexy time. Do I want to chance staining the sheets? I just changed them. UGH. Can we just jump to the end and directly into menopause? Is there a rule that we have to go through the prelude instead of skipping over this shit? I don't need to follow a straight line. When do I ever?

One day, this will all be a distant memory. One day, I will look back on all this and laugh. Truthfully, I laugh about it now. Ahora en este momento as one of my closest friends likes to say. How can you not laugh at this shit? The symptoms may suck rancid donkey dong, but ladies, I ask you...don't you find it all funny as fuck? Only women go through all this which says what? It says that we are the stronger sex. Not only do we go through PMS, periods for decades, pregnancy, and childbirth, but we forge through this nightmare and come out on the other end as pretty fucking amazing women. Our bodies can take it all. Fucking incredible when you think about it. Recall the stupid joke about not trusting anyone who bleeds for 7 days and doesn't die? How about us? We basically hemorrhage for 9-15 days and not only don't we die, but we go to work, care for families, run households, and lead completely normal lives. We're superheroes! Are you friggin kidding me right now???


For answers to men's questions:
Smart Answers to Dumb Questions About Perimenopause

50 Shades of Shut the Fuck Up Already

Would we be so up in arms if the main characters were reversed? Would angry moms be protesting outside movie theaters if the man was being dominated? I am going to go out on a limb and say hell to the no. But we all jump ugly when we perceive something as a crime against women. Do you know what domestic violence actually is? Another time I'm going to stretch here and say you haven't a fucking clue because you never lived with it, never witnessed it, never survived to tell the story. Yet, here you are, screaming with righteous indignation about a book trilogy that was turned into a movie. Did you actually read all three books? Do you understand the lifestyle? And do you also comprehend that things are made more dramatic for Hollywood? The movie bears some resemblance to the book, but not completely, as is the usual way for Hollywood to treat such things. It's neither bad nor good. It just is. Why the raging fury?

Let's start with your laundry list of how Christian is abusing Ana.

1. He is a stalker. I'll give you that. This is a man with way too much power and he is used to getting what he wants. He actually has no idea how to approach the situation. If you read the whole book, you'll see he is ignorant as fuck about this. He is trying to feel out the situation, figure her out, determine if she would be amenable to his desires. Trust me when I tell you, his intent was not to intimidate or scare her. Had he done that, would she have succumbed to his wishes? She'd have called the cops and let them deal with him. He intrigued her. Mission accomplished.

2. He tells her when to eat and what to eat. I'm going in two directions with this one. One, she is horrid at taking care of herself. That is evidenced throughout. She is young and foolish. He was looking out for her best interest. However, you can say he was being controlling. Fine, he is being controlling. Did you also know that in the BDSM scene, the dom often controls when the sub pisses and shits? Bet you didn't. They remove the burden of decision-making and take over even the basic stuff. It's part of dominating someone. Some only order their sub around and never touch them. In their scene, it works for them. It's another world, a world you don't understand. That's fine, as long as you don't stand in judgement of it.

3. He "takes" her against her will. Does he? Really? Are you determining this based on Hollywood's sensationalizing the content of the book? Are you fearful of a lifestyle you don't understand? Allow me to enlighten you a bit. The submissive holds all the power in a BDSM scene. He/she decides how far, how much, to continue or to stop. The submissive is the person handing over their body to the Dom. The Dom isn't taking it. Sex against one's will is rape. Sex in which a rape fantasy is fulfilled is not actual rape. Note the difference. Remember, there was a contract in the movie and the book. She eventually asks for it to be amended. She knew exactly what she was getting into right from the start. She could have told him to go fuck himself six ways from Sunday. Did she? No. She didn't sign right off the bat. But she did have all the details laid out before her. Imagine that. Informed consent.

4.  He whips her until she cries. Again, I present to you the lifestyle you don't seem to comprehend. Sometimes a sub cries. It doesn't mean they don't like it. Some subs want to cry. They want to release the inner demons that are trapped inside them and this is a viable way to do it for them. The safeword is created to prevent a scene from going too far. It stops the pain, the humiliation, the too-intense moment immediately. Some are looking for that intensity, while some are looking to just get to that point right before the safeword becomes necessary. It's a delicate balance. One to be determined between the Dom and the Sub, but ultimately decided upon by the...you guessed it, the SUB. She was always in control, much to your uninformed and ignorant dismay.

5.  BDSM is all about violence. This is Domestic Violence, dammit. What the fuck are you even talking about? Nothing could be further from the truth. It does not come from a desire to hurt someone. Not in that way. DV is a horrific thing and one I don't wish on my worst enemy. I wish she gets far worse. Back to the topic. Domestic violence and BDSM share one thing in common and I think that is what confuses the fuck out of you tiny-brained fucktards. They both come from a place of control. DV is seeking it. BDSM is sharing it. Yes, I said sharing. The sub wants to relinquish control, so he/she passes it over, willingly, to the dom. In cases of DV, the abuser wants control and attempts to usurp it from the abused by any means necessary. Without prior consent and without anyone's pleasure in mind. The abuser doesn't even get pleasure out of doing what he/she does. The BDSM scene is based on mutual pleasure, whether you see it or not. They both get something out of it. Something positive. I can sense your shock. Poor Pollyanna.

6. I don't want this to be what my 13 year old perceives to be a healthy relationship. I want her to respect herself and not allow a boy to hurt her. Well, DUH. No one wants their daughter abused. But this isn't what we are talking about. That is not what the trilogy is about. It's about an erotic fantasy, played out by the author. It's not even accurate so far as the BDSM world is concerned. What we are looking at is the darker side of sexual fetishism. We aren't peering into the lives of the abused, nor are we saying that this is the standard by which our very young daughters should base their future relationships. Furthermore, allow me to pose a question of you. Why the fuck are you taking your 13 year old daughter to this movie? It is R rated, so she can't get in on her own. Do you always watch soft porn with your kids? And you are criticizing the movie? Seriously? This shouldn't affect younger children in any way. And if you are completely honest with your spawn, they will already know what is healthy in a relationship and what isn't. They will also have the good sense and testicular fortitude to know what they like and what they don't like and be able to speak their mind to those points when needed. Do your job and let Hollywood do its job, which is to entertain me.

All this ignorant righteous indignation has given me a fucking headache. You people drive me absolutely insane with your chest pounding and soapbox preaching about what's right and wrong. Why don't you worry about what goes on in your own backyard and leave the fun stuff to me? Clearly you can't handle anything beyond your very sterile and vanilla life. And, hey, to each his/her own. I'm not the one standing on the street corner yelling about your insistence on missionary with the lights off on alternate Tuesdays. If you think for one minute you are going to stop the movie from being played in every theatre from here to Timbuktu, you are as crazy and stupid as I've imagined you to be. While you're busy protesting the movie, have a peek in the back of your husband's sock drawer. I'll bet his porn collection will send you spinning on your axis. Everyone has deep, dark secrets...fantasies that only exist in their minds. Check out the sock drawer if you think I'm wrong. I'm never wrong. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Birthday Musings of a Madwoman

Today we commemorate the event of my birth. And what a fucking day that was, my friends. Born during a typical NY snow, first thing in the morning, this kid came out with strawberry blonde hair and a ferocious set of lungs! Ready, willing, and able to join the ranks of Queens residents, I started my life in Maspeth, NY. Back in 1971, people actually gave a shit about birthdays. Now, I am not saying they don't today, but come on. A Facebook post is not an actual birthday card. It took you all of six seconds, maybe, to do. No thought, no effort. Yet, today, in 2015, it is deemed efficient, effective, and acceptable. I call BULLSHIT. What happened to going down to your local Hallmark store and perusing the cards, picking them up, reading, laughing to yourself, being unable to decide, and perhaps walking away with at least two? Then you'd race home to write them out, laughing again at your fine selection. The next step is one most people don't do anymore. You walked to the mailbox to slip those babies in to be delivered to the birthday person. What a feeling of satisfaction. Not so today. As of today, I've received one card. ONE! Really? I send them to everyone. WTF?! Am I the last of a dying breed? If you base your answer on my mailbox, then, yes I am.

Personally, I feel that birthdays are the best days of the year and should be celebrated as such. Marking the day we came into this crazy world, kicking and screaming, what better way to acknowledge it but to have a party, with cake and candles? Yet, people are letting the day slip by without so much as a hoot and a holler. Why? Someone loved you enough to endure hours of labor and the pain of childbirth, the least you can do is make a big deal out of it. Really, what you should be doing is saying thank you to the woman who went through all that so that you could be here today, acting like an asshole and ignoring the importance of the day. Maybe that's what birthdays should be. Recognition for those who raised you, those you turned you into the person you've become. They are the ones who deserve the card, the cake, the gifts...the fanfare. I'm sure you don't agree with me. Now, you want the cards, the celebratory nonsense. It's sounding very appealing now that I've attempted to take it away from you. What an asshat.

Let's continue along the lines of what your birthday means. Mine is a very special day for me. I have always looked forward to it with great anticipation, like a small child. May sound silly to you, but it's my day, and gawdeffindammit, I love it oh so much. Getting older is not always a bad thing, and to me it means I've survived another year. I'm still here...all you haters can suck it. Feels good! I look forward with joy to being one of the Golden Girls. I want to be that old lady, the one who wears the wild animal prints, has purple hair, and still throws up the rock sign when AC/DC comes on. And bitches, I will. So, with each year that passes, I feel like my birthday gets better and even more exciting. I want to be a snow bird. I want to go to Florida and sun worship, play shuffle board, and gossip with my friends. Racing to collect on those Early Bird specials just because I can. Am I the only one? My daughter fights against it, saying she never wants to get old. At 19, I can see feeling that way. The immortality of youth. I do remember that. But now, at 44, I want to see what comes next.

Let's be clear, I can still remember my Sweet 16 with fond memories. Being young was fantastic for me. I had a great life, for the most part, leaving out the stuff and nonsense that needs not be discussed on my special day. But, can we be real? You're young once. And with good reason. Growing up doesn't necessarily suck as much as most people would lead you to believe. Yes, there are bills, responsibilities, and loads and loads of laundry. However, there is an amazing amount of freedom. Endless freedom, to say and do whatever you want. Now, I'm sure you'll remind me that we do have rules and bosses and spouses to answer to...and you'd be right, for the most part. Tell, me...who is gonna stop me from coming home from work and having a glass of wine? Who will take my car keys and prevent me from going to Ulta and spending way more than is ever necessary in one shopping trip? Who among you has the balls to tell me not to eat that giant spoonful of peanut butter right out of the jar? Didn't think so. Beyond the basic adult list of "musts" like work, pay for shit, and clean up after yourself, there lies the entire world at your fingertips. How fucking great is that? Saturday comes along, I can hop in my car, throw the top down, and head wherever I'd like. Blasting the music I want to hear, singing at the top of my lungs, destination unknown. I don't have to ask for permission, keep a curfew, or call when I get there. Who has it better?

So, why don't we give birthdays the recognition they deserve. Pick up your phone and call someone having a birthday. Even a text is more personal than posting it on Facebook for everyone to see. Not that I don't enjoy seeing my timeline fill up with birthday wishes, but boy would I love to see my phone light up or my mailbox have cards bursting out of it. I don't think I'm asking for much. No one's life is so busy that they can't take out a minute or two to wish someone they supposedly care about a happy birthday. I know you would like to think your life is jam packed to the gills and you don't have a minute to breathe much less time to text me today. But, remember this. I would and will at the very least text you. Hell, you may even get a card from me. Do you deserve it knowing how you act on my birthday? Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Would You Rather I Lie???

At this point, I'm starting to believe the world has become a little too sensitive a place for me. Everyone is offended by something. People can't just be. They look for shit about which to get upset. It's beyond political correctness, which is utter bullshit and I do not subscribe to that nonsense. Policeman, waitress...what's the big fucking deal? But it has gone miles past that. If I post on Facebook that it isn't a wailing wall and that if you had a problem so serious that you needed support, perhaps you should contact a friend rather than seeking virtual hugs from virtual strangers...and you should see yourself and become irreparably hurt, take a moment to think about why you do. It's not me you're mad at, it's you. You saw what an ass you are. But, in true 'Murican form, you get offended. You get butt hurt. Filled with righteous indignation, you launch a smear campaign against me right on my wall. Hmm. Who's the asshole here?

That's just one true example from my life this week. But people are so quick to become agitated over the littlest thing. If I say that I believe all children should be vaccinated before being admitted into schools, and you are a staunch anti-vaxxer...we disagree. To become angry at me for not sharing your belief is moronic. Feeling like I've attacked you personally is fucktarded. However, this is the state of the union as it exists today, January 31, 2015. Everyone feels personally attacked by honesty. I don't have to believe what you believe for us to coexist peacefully. That's a fact. You think that anyone who isn't like you is wrong and therefore, flies in the face of what is supposedly right in your little world, upsetting you enough to require a little extra anti-anxiety meds today. Why? Why is it so important that we all agree, that we all feel the same way about everything? And if we don't, which is normal as hell, why does is bother you so damned much?

"OMG, I saw Bitchface O'Toole's post today and I was so offended by her obvious distaste for ethnic food." You were offended? Please tell me how her food choices affect you directly. Right. You can't because they don't. The same holds true for most things you hear and read. Most of what goes on in the world doesn't affect you even slightly. My opinions shouldn't either. They are mine, and mine alone. I have to live with them. I have to deal with how my life rolls as a result of them. Sometimes, my life is unchanged by them. Crazy, right? Like, if I say that people who use derogatory terms for gay people are giant assholes, my life is exactly the same. Why? Because I don't use those terms, and so, I continue along my merry little way, untouched by those who do. Your behavior may irk me. I may even write about it, never naming you directly because I'm not ten years old, but in the long haul, it doesn't matter one fucking bit what you do. Unless you take it to my face or my house. It should be the same for you. Sadly, it is not.

Speaking your mind, it's a constitutional right. As long as you aren't shouting "FIRE" in a crowded theatre or threatening the President, you have a right to say what you are thinking. People who sugar coat the truth out of fear of hurting someone's delicate little feelings are just as bad as the person who can't take hearing the truth. It is what it is. It's about time we stop worrying and start living. Why lie constantly to shield others from reality? Is the real world that bad? Can we possibly have become a tad too soft in our old age? We were tougher back in our youth. We could dish it out as well as take it. And remain friends with that person! What the fuck happened? Forget about the fact that we are raising a generation of veals. Veals who can't handle life. Who have zero coping skills for disappointment. Life is generally not that hard. I'm not saying there aren't challenges along the way. But for the most part, we all go about our day-to-day without serious incident. So why can't you handle the truth? What changed from the time we were kids till now?

I'll tell you. You had your own kids and decided that the world sucked, was unfair, dangerous, and out to get you and your family. You got soft. I can't even look at you. Especially you, the people with whom I grew up. The kids I played with and went to school with are turning into paranoid, hypersensitive, easily offended, and self righteous ass wads. What happened to you? Why does everything bother you so much? Opinions are like assholes, remember? We all have them. Suddenly it's a bad thing to express one? We should keep everything bottled up inside, put on a fake-ass smile, and pretend to agree with everyone we meet? Oh, hell no. I refuse. I will not be forced to become a character in the movie that is my life. If you ask me if I think your skirt makes you look fat and you look like a Freak Show character, I'm going to tell you. Maybe not in those words, but I'm not going to lie. Why should I? That wouldn't make me a very good friend if I let you wander the streets looking like Two-Ton Tessie. Nor do I want to have to block every asshole on my Facebook feed because they may get an emotional owie from something I've said.

Grow the fuck up. It's not always about you. Not everything everyone says is a direct reflection of you and your life choices. As a matter of fact, most people, when expressing themselves on a variety of topics, aren't even thinking about you. You aren't that important. I'm sorry but it had to be said. However, I'm not sorry if your feelings are hurt. Reactions to life are a choice. We can't inflict emotion on anyone. You own those. Getting pissed off is something you choose to do, not something I make you. That's some serious food for thought. Don't go choking on it. Take small bites and really digest it. It may be your most important meal of the day. Stop being so goddamn sensitive. Stop thinking everything you hear and read is about you. Stop jumping to conclusions. Stop taking life so personally. You may want to edit yourself all day long and asphyxiate on your own bullshit, but I don't. And I won't. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Well, she IS an Only Child

How often I have heard that phrase and how often I've wanted to shank someone in the liver after hearing it. What exactly does that mean? Are only children some form of freakish abomination that can only be explained by uttering those words? Before you jump in and say, "Hey, you have a brother, you've mentioned him!" That is true. But we only became aware of each other a couple of years ago. Long story and not applicable to my point here. I was raised an only child, that is the life I knew and to which I am referring. I loved my only child-ness and wouldn't have changed it for all the money in the world, I don't deny that one bit. Did I get all of my parents' attention without having to compete with a sibling? You bet your sweet ass I did. Does that make me a special brand of evil? Um, no. It makes me honest. Which is something I am finding seems to offend a great many people. Interesting. You'd rather I sugar coat the truth and flat out lie to you? Crap, I'm veering off on a tangent which will be discussed at a later date. Back to the issue at hand. Having fond memories of being the top priority in my parents' lives, of being the one and only little person in the house to whom they paid attention, and the only recipient of the majority of the gifts under the Christmas tree doesn't make me a bad person. That was my reality, my life.

But does being an only child make you all the things that people are saying? Let's look at the rumors. We are selfish. And what evidence do you have to substantiate this? Do you think we never learned to share? I've got news for you, since we had to play with other children to whom we were not related and couldn't get away with being greedy pricks with, we learned early on how NOT to be selfish. We didn't come with built in playmates. We had to venture outside the house for companions. We had to behave appropriately if we wanted to be invited back. We wanted so badly to be liked, we'd have shared our kidneys if it meant having a friend with whom to play on a regular basis like our counterparts with siblings. No kidding. When all you have is yourself and adults on the daily, you crave other children like you crave oxygen.

Only children are bossy and aggressive. Based on what? I don't recall ever getting a note sent home or a phone call being made to my mother telling her I've been a bitch to other children or started fights in the school yard. Not that I didn't get into my share, but that's another story...and certainly not started by ME. Being smart can make you bossy because you have a fountain of knowledge not available to most other humans. It's not the fact that you don't have a brother or sister at home that causes you to be assertive with others. It's intelligence and confidence. But aggressive? Seriously. That's learned when you have to fight for every toy in your room and for your mommy's attention. Not because you DON'T have to do that. Aggression can also be something chemical, which is not the issue we are discussing. The nature of the beast of the only child is to be someone who will bend to the situation, who will adapt and enjoy the adaptation because it means we've been accepted.

We are spoiled. I love that one in particular. If only you could have been a fly on the wall in my house to see how absolutely untrue that statement is. They never hear the word NO. That is so funny to me. In fact, I think I have tears streaming down my leg at the very thought. If anyone heard that word so much that they've learned to expect it, even now, it's me. There was no way in hell I was getting everything I asked for and no way I'd even ask for that much knowing the reaction I could get. When I see how many toys and electronics kids today have, kids with siblings, I have to laugh. That was not my house growing up. A play room, what the fuck is that? I had my bedroom. It housed my bed, my dresser, my desk, my bookcase, two night tables...where would all those supposed toys go? I grew up in a two bedroom apartment over a store, not in a giant house with a play room, backyard, and an IPad. Not that they existed, but I wouldn't have had one. I had a manual typewriter.

These children have imaginary friends. Who didn't? I know plenty of people who had siblings who also had some serious made up house inhabitants. If your sister was a bitch, I would think you'd make up a better one to play with on some occasions. If your brother bullied you, wouldn't you make up a great, fun, and kind brother to play with? Not that I would know for sure, I'm just considering the likelihood. Imaginary friends are not created solely out of being lonely. Some are created to take the heat for being a brat. Some are there to listen to the yelling when you can't anymore. Some take beatings for you. Being an only child is NOT the sole reason for having an imaginary friend or two. And it certainly isn't limited to only children.

We are dependent, needy. What the fuck? Who tells you this? That kind of behavior comes from having everything done for you. From having someone speak for you, help you do what you clearly can do for yourself, who fends for you long after you no longer need it. Hmm, sounds like someone with an older sibling. Only children don't have that luxury. We grow up in houses filled with adults. We have to keep up or shut up. We have to learn early on to do it ourselves since there is no other child to learn from or do it for us. Everything we learn and do is because we've watched an adult and done our own version on the theme. No one did it for us. I see siblings speaking for younger brothers and sisters, not allowing them to voice their opinions in their own way. Putting on jackets for a sister who can clearly do it herself but won't complain because why not have a servant? Or on the other end, who will get fiercely pissed off because she can and wants to, dammit!

Another doozy is that we mature too quickly. This is a bad thing? Please explain because I am trying my hardest to see that point of view but I can't shove my head that far up my ass. Being around adults more than children as an only child helps kids develop adult speech patterns, adult behaviors, and superior reasoning skills that benefit a child now and later on in school and in life. So many children do not develop the maturity and coping skills needed to become functional adults these days, and being an only child is actually a distinct advantage over the children with  siblings. We grew up hanging around with the grown ups and being engaged in far more interesting conversations than, "He took my car, Mooooommmm, he took my caaarrrr!" There were expectations regarding proper behavior, manners, speaking in turn, and keeping up your end of the conversation. Bad traits? I think not.

We are anti-social and couldn't care less about the feelings of others. Do you really believe that? Far from being anti-social, we do love the company of others, but we don't NEED it. We've been self-reliant our whole lives. We deal with shit on our own. It's not a reflection on you. We are just really prepared for dealing with life and don't like whining on someone else's shoulders about every little thing. We like you just fine, but as adults, we also have a great relationship with ourselves and can function without someone else attached to our hip all day long. Related to this is the thought that because of that, we also don't care about you. Even further from the truth, we do care enough about you to not argue with you. We know you can't handle the confrontation and will be butt hurt for an unreal length of time over a simple disagreement. Our early maturity and advanced coping skills have taught us that people are people and we aren't always going to agree, so just cut bait and move on. We know you can't. It's called being sensitive to your feelings.

Now that I've debunked all the bullshit you've been brainwashed to believe about only children, it's time to stop perpetuating these fucking stereotypes. Stop attributing every negative thought you have about our current behavior, decisions, way of speaking, manner of dress, career choices, marital status, or parenting style to our having being raised as an only child. That is only a small part of who we are and certainly not a bad character trait. We are sick and tired of hearing that everything we do is because we didn't have a sibling growing up. Do we attribute your neediness, hypersensitivity, inability to make decisions on your own, passive/aggressive behavior on having had siblings in your house? No, we call a spade, a spade. If you are an asshole, it's because you are an asshole, not because you are an older brother. No more snap judgments based on our birth order. Let's agree to judge each other on more important things, like the car you drive or the purse you carry. Think I'm not serious? Are you friggin kidding me right now???