I'm Late

I'm late at posting this and need to:

Happy Anniversary, baby. I love you.

I can't believe I lucked out with your ass. I can't believe you wanted to marry mine. We were just a bunch of horny 20 year olds, most likely not even in love when we married, and look at us now. Mostly normal. How fun is that?


The Man, somehow sexy with a red beard and too much hair, in the Maryland summer sunset

PostSecret

This week, Anne sent me a link to a blog called PostSecret. I finally got around to looking at it. It's, it's...I'm speechless. I'm fascinated, yet it makes me cry, it reminds of myself and then of people I know, it makes me want to hug the world and comfort them, it horrifies me. It makes me think.

To see the site, click Here.

Explain it, just explain it to me

Please run over and read this article. Go Here. Go on, go on, I'll wait.

What the motherfuckingfuck is that?

The title indicates this is not about "working mothers," which I know is a highly personal decision for every mom AND dad, but the article is about "working wives." A smattering of points that irritated me:

More and more married women are beginning to accept the pressures of a job as normal. That is unfortunate, because wives provide a good family balance for their husbands, who generally have a tendency to work too much and too long.

WHAT?? First off, saying men have a "tendency" to work too long and hard is insulting to men as it implies that they simply don't have a choice...as if God made them to be assholes who put in too many long hours at the rough office with the hot co-worker and not enough at home. Second,women are not on earth to "provide" dogshit for anyone. Marriage/Partnership is give and take, a life journey together. Third, what is "beginning to accept the PRESSURES of a job?" Women have been working for all of humankind and just because paid work is the only valid kind work by this author, there must intrinsically be some higher "pressure" in a paid job? Bullshit, Dogshit, POOP ON THAT. Besides, my children have benefitted in ways I never predicted by my higher education and passion for my subject. They know what joy it can be to know and learn.

When wives shift their need for approval from the home to their work, problems generally follow.

What problems is he talking about? A sinkful of dirty dishes? An unmade bed? The author cites that a woman may feel a lack of closeness and blah, blah, blah...ya ever think a break is not so bad? I do feel a lack of closeness sometimes, and sometimes it's hard but sometimes I need it.

This crap goes on and on and on spouting how God has established the man as the head of the household and she needs to make sure that her authority figure and loyalties do not get confused as she feels the pressure of her job. It says that the couple should have set rules for her income. It says that as women are getting their emotional needs met outside the home, the children become undisciplined. It says many working wives gain their husband's approval to work by pressuring him.

Mike's job is not pressure-filled. This is not the 1950s and he can't pull the wool over my eyes that it is. We have guidelines for OUR income. If I am making all the dough (ha), then we have no issue with him staying home as the stay at home parent. And whoa, my "emotional needs" are met at work to exclusion of home? Am I that one dimensional? And of course I pressure him to do what I want. Why wouldn't I?

Seriously, fucking holy rolling SHEEP blow my mind.

Pussy Posse

Thank you, Pussy Posse, for loving me like no other. I'm going to miss your hugs and kisses but I won't miss your presence...Thank God for email and museum mugs.

Post Gay

Among other things I learned about me today (involving letterhead and Spain, it was cool), the one I think is most interesting is that I learned I'm a PoMoSexual. Good fucking God, I'm so sick of talking about so-called postmodernism (thank you very much, graduate school) that I would imagine myself running away from this label. I had figured I was Hetroflexible
a long time ago...um, let's say when Angelina burst on the scene and I nearly left my husband to stalk her. But oh, PoMoSexual is interesting. Apparently, this isn't new to many, many people but for those people, get over it. I'm running late as usual. Carol Queen first used the term PoMoSexual in the title of a 1997 anthology of essays, PoMoSexuals: Challenging Assumptions About Gender and Sexuality (Cleis Press).

According to a critic, Queen's idea was that "in-between' experiences prove that human qualities like gender and sexuality are far more fluid and mercurial than we tend to think. Bisexuality is not a fixed point on a scale but an aspect of lived experience, seen in the context of particular relations... Like postmodernism itself, it resists a stable referentiality."

What it comes down to is that I've always assumed most people fell somewhere on the great line chart of gay/straightness. You're either more gay or more straight, but I imagined that if someone amazing who fit you perfectly came around, you might get over the ridigity of your sexuality to experience a love like that. This, of course, could be all bunk and take what you will of it, but it's what makes sense to me. I know some people identify all straight or all gay. I'm not that rigid. I'm happy to identify PoMo. Call it a delayed sense of teenage rebellion or whatever you want; I like the idea of resisting a stable referentiality when it comes to my sexuality.

In a nutshell, I love my husband dearly but I know that if Angelina calls me, I'm not snubbing her.

The Tyrant is Depressed!

Our typically skittish yet oh so macho 1 1/2 year old cat, Ivan, is apparently depressed. That, or he's absolutely pissed at us. He has this little, say, habit of peeing behind our bedroom door and playing Easter egg hunt with his poop under the basement stairs. We just thought he was a punk but online cat whisperers suggest he's depressed and is attempting to garner attention. As IF he is lacking in attention. The moment we brought home this gorgeous cat, and by we I mean my sister and me as my husband stomped and whined at the idea of a cat in the house, Ivan has been the belle of the ball. In fact, my husband calls him "Princess." Then again, the man does spew that sobriquet around quite a bit. He is and always will be true to his name, Ivan the Great/Ivan the Terrible. (Yes, we have a thing for tyrants. The other cat is named, Nero.) He is sweet and lovey, until he bites you so hard you see the baby Jesus before you pass out. He is soft and pretty but will cry at the back door until your ears bleed. He refuses to sleep in bed with us and only really likes Mike. However, he is spoiled rotten. Ivan the G/T has special snackies, a very particular brand of wet food although he is generally fed by carefully chosen dry food, he is the king of an old, orange triangle-shaped ottoman I wish I could throw out, he loves Mike and will only allow himself to be pet by him most days, we shove our corpulence under the furniture for his fantastico toys....you get the picture. We've tried making sure his litter is pristine, cleaning the area with bleach, and sprinkling paprika and red chili powder on it.

Well, the macho Princess is depressed and making it known around the house. Perhaps he would like a masculine title. Any advice is clearly needed. Help!


Musings of a Tyrant to Be

Lindy

It has been 1,267 days
and LINDY IS STILL NOT ENGAGED.

Seriously, are they not perfect for each other?

DTN update

On Sunday the family got together for Father's Day. For the first time in months, the DTN* wore a few pieces of actual clothing instead of a bikini. Halter. Camel Toe Daisy Dukes. No Bra to be found. And oh yes, Drunk.

*For the newbies, the DTN is my mother, popularly known as the Drunken Teenage Nana for her status of Nana to my children, teenage behavior, and propensity for drunkenness.

Excuse me, Sir? When you dress like a woman, please don't wear your grandmama's clothes

First order of business:
I am officially part of the staff at nearly all major cultural institutions in St. Louis. I have the badges and parking tags to prove it.

What you were looking for when you saw the phrase, "dress like a woman":
This past Saturday night, I went out with Anne, Lindy, and Anne's good friend Aaron who was visiting from out of town. Aaron has a Prince Albert, the first and only one I've ever seen. His penis rocks, in a wow way not the biblical way. Enjoying a few fun martini's at a great bar in town (yes, my Pussy Galore tasted like heaven, thank you very much) and then attempting to dance to Lil' Jon all (fucking) night made for loads of finger pointing laughs. We are sadly the type who gets off laughing at others even though we would actually admonish you if we caught you doing it. Bad girl, no Pussy Galore for you.

The best part of the night occurred in the 4th bar of the night, when a slew of badly crossdressed men arrived. First of all, there is nothing any of us has against crossdressing or even feel phased by it in general. Secondly, I am too well aware that there are soooo many transvestites that are the epitome of feminine beauty and I can't hold a candle to them. These men were not those beauties and dammit, it was funny. These were over 40/50ers most likely married to unsuspecting women, dressed in their grandma's clothes and thick hose a la "Bosom Buddies," and wearing the most hideously bad wigs I've ever seen...ever. Pure gold, funny no matter how tolerant one tends to be otherwise.

I had a great time with my sisters and Aaron, thanks guys!

Celebrating the Real Dads

It's fairly common knowledge that my dad is not in the running for World's Greatest Dad. Nor is he a molesting abuser. He is that special brand of apathetic, lazy Dad. The kind who truly loves you and misses you, but makes no effort to actually be your father or even someone you kind of know. I love my father, but he's frustrating. My sister believes he's the anti-Christ; I believe he married it. The jury is still out on that.

My first husband, the father of my boys, is a whole other brand of Dad. He's a fun, loving Dad who's a tad misguided in actual parenting. He's their friend instead of a parent, he likes to see them and what not but he forgets to do things like encourage bathing and sleeping at night. He's like that now but he spent several years growing up, several years away from the boys when they were toddlers. These days, he just allows them to watch him play the Playstation every other weekend, eat chips for dinner, and stay up all night. He has four children with three women.

Our chosen sister, Anne, has a father that was also apparently out to populate the world. He's just as apathetic as our dad with just as evil of a wife, and just as frustrating, but with a couple of extra kids Anne didn't know about until she was an adult. My sister's daughter has a father who is an overgrown kid who is still trying to impress the cool kids. He was MIA for several years as well, but instead of coming back to her a tad more mature, he came back pretty much the same. My friend Christine has two daughters with her ex-husband. This is a guy who came to the birth of their second daughter with TWO black eyes and an 8-ball of cocaine in his pocket, regularly soiled his pants due to being impaired, and has spent a lot of time in prison for not paying child support (among a slew of other things).

This post is NOT ABOUT THOSE DADS!!

This is about the real dads I know. The amazing, non-biological parents and grandparents who have shaped and changed my life.

Dear Papa,

I love you more than anything. Thank you for being the best grandpa in the world. You are always there, always funny, and always my Papa. You can stick my head between my ears anytime you want. Without you, I wouldn't be sane today. Without you, I wouldn't feel so proud of my family and my parenting. Thank you.

*Biologically, Papa is my mother's stepfather and has been since she was 14, my stepgrandfather.
---

Dear Mike,

Oh my god. Where do I start with you? You are the most amazing father I've ever seen in action. You have been there for diapers, potty training, wrestling on the floor, soccer games, family trips, heartaches and illnesses, math questions, life questions, and everything in between. The boys adore you. You are the reason they will grow into good men. I am proud to co-parent with you. Thank you.

*Mike is my husband, the stepfather of my children.
---

Dear Big Daddy,

Wow you are a great grandpa! The boys love the time they spend with you at the farm. They love riding tractors and tooling around in the ground with you. They know they are so loved and enjoyed it's ridiculous. Thank you.

*Big Daddy is Mike's father, my children's stepgrandfather. The boys named him "Big Daddy" since he was the Dad for Mike and his 6 siblings.

---

Dear Jason,

Ashley is the luckiest girl in the world. You are so down to earth with her, which that little spitfire needs! I love when she says, "Boy, get my shoes!" You are there when she comes home from school, goes to bed, and to teach her how to be safe on her scary four-wheeler. Thank you.

*Jason is my sister's longtime boyfriend. He's been around Ashley her whole life and an active parent for about 6 of her 9 years.

---

That, my friends, is who I am celebrating on Father's Day.

It's here! It's here!

I don't know if I'm the only nerd out there that has these issues, but every time I've graduated something I freak out that maybe, just maybe there's a mistake and I didn't actually graduate. I do this momentary panic during the time school ends and the diploma reaches my mailbox. I have done something like this every year since middle school, after the last day of class I always waited for the letter that stated I was NOT moving to the next grade. For every diploma thing, I just knew I didn't really graduate. This year was no exception. Screw the honorable GPA, screw the assistantship and fellowships, screw the thesis (otherwise known as the MFB), screw the two years...I honestly thought I must have messed up somewhere and didn't really graduate. Ask the coordinator of our program, Amy. She has the emails and voice messages that prove my insanity.

In general, I have a whopping case of "Imposter Syndrome." A classmate identified this for me, about me, and I was floored. I have always thought I would be "found out" by others. I feel absolutely silly trusting my own intellectual work and can't believe it when someone else thinks I'm doing good, quality work. I expect my superiors to realize that I am not as smart as I somehow seem...and then promptly send me out the door. I feel every success is a stroke of luck and I've been lucky to meet the right people at the right time. I'm just now dealing with this. Although for every success my first instinct is to revert to the Imposter way of thinking, I'm oh so slowly learning that hey, I did encourage some of this goodness come about. I'm not THAT lucky all the time; I work very hard to make the goodness happen. Read about the Imposter Syndrome: Here.

That being said, my DIPLOMA arrived today! All official with signatures and stuff. It says "Master" on it. I think they mean it. But don't tell anyone about my inferiority, I absolutely must keep the wool over their eyes until I land a full time gig someday. With benefits.

Egads!

This weekend I went bra shopping at my staple lingerie store, Victoria's Secret. Learning that my instinct for a smaller band size with a bigger cup is valid (thank you very much, Oprah), I needed bras in the size I feel most comfortable in...a 34DD. Fabulous bosoms for me.

See, on Oprah they had a bra guru on and she says most women wear the wrong bra size. For the most part, women wear a band size that's too big. If your bra rides up in the back or you are adjusting yourself throughout the day, your band size is too big and it isn't staying in place. A smaller band size doesn't ride up. Have back fat? Get a smaller band size; trust me on this, a looser band rides up and pushes your back fat into view. Think you're a 36 or a 38 or higher? Doubt it. Try to go down a band size and go up in cup sizes. Cup sizes are different for each band size, a D for a 34 is not the same as a D for a 40. Play around or get fitted by a specialist, you'll be soooo happy you did.

Okay, point is...I have found my best comfortable size is the 34DD. I know I like Victoria's Secret bras. So I GO to the Victoria's Secret store. Despite the fact that most women are not 32A's, apparently Victoria's Secret is no longer carrying "bigger sizes," as my oh so kind sales lady said. This is a newer trend in stores. Although you can get their ahem, bigger sizes online, stores are now pulling their in-store garments. Stores cite that the people who wear these sizes are more comfortable shopping from home...who did they ask? If we are uncomfortable at the store it's because we are made uncomfortable by sales people. Other than that, why wouldn't I want to try things on or just shop around, you know, looking at actual clothes instead of jpegs. The kicker is that clothing stores say that basically, fat isn't fashionable. Karl Lagerfield said, "What I created was fashion for slim, slender people." He is 5'4" and weighs 80 pounds in order to look "good." Read about it in the Washington Post, Here.

Now, I can't buy my bras in the store because I have boobs? What?? Does this make sense to anyone else? No, I am not a size 2 and clothes shopping is a whole other issue. But are my boobs considered fat?

Have they seen my boobs? They're not fat, they are FANTASTIC.

Exthpertlicious

Today, mama landed a consulting job as an "Expert Curator" for an amazing institution. It won't interfere with my main cool job and it will end before I begin the fantastic teaching gig. Benefits? Hell no. Vacation? Nah. I'm a part time QUEEN.

Kids, all I can say is that in any career track you're in, intern. INTERN. Do you hear me? BE A FUCKING SLAVE TO YOUR SUPERIORS as many times as you can in places you want to work in someday. All of my opportunities have come from networking through internships and fellowships. I've worked for free or for very, very little for years. And although I just wanted the chance to get near objects (a.k.a. "the stuff") and do research, I am so grateful for the experience.

My first internship was in the institution where I now work, although I got this job more from another institution in which that boss jumped ship to this institution. This new job came from knowing a woman in a third internship at one institution but she jumped ship to the new institution. Confused? Yeahhh.

People you intern with (at least in my field) either change to a similar institution as they move up the ladder or they stay until they die. Either way, you inadvertently network in your field and those people learn what kind of person and worker you are...they share that information with others and you win. The experience you get along the way is absolutely invaluable. Although working for free sucks, you get so much out of it. I did, anyway.

Thank you people involved in my internships and fellowships...I'm having a blast.

Desk Sets, Wool, Copper, and Other Items I Simply Don't Need for my Anniversary

Our 7th wedding anniversary is coming up this month. Seven years with each other seems like a pretty big deal, especially since there's no sign of the seven year itch. That sore, itchy redness came early, around the three to four year mark, when I sort of flew off to Vegas one weekend. Vegas strip sulking and missing of the spouse while walking amongst sparkly, fake-breasted emaciated women ensued. But I digress. All things considered, our marriage is moving along swimmingly. We are still very much in love, really enjoy the nookie, and like our life together. I'm happy to have made it this far and I can't wait to spend more of my life with this amazing man who adores me, my boys, my friends, and my family.

The traditional wedding gift list says that I should be receiving wool or copper as a seventh anniversary gift. Fuck. Let's check the modern list. It says I should get a desk sets (or as I keep accidently saying, desk sex). I don't really need that either. But geez, desk sets, wool, and copper all seem so romantic.

This amazing man has not a single romantic bone in his body and it's driving me bonkers. Yes, he has absolutely pulled through at times, but an attempt every six months to a year is hard. I don't need much romance to keep me going. I don't read romance novels and I'm not sold on sappy expressions of love. In fact, I actually determine the intelligence of others by whether or not they read romance novels. Yes, even as light reading. Your intelligence, in my view, is only at an acceptable level if you abstain from romance novels along with Thomas Kinkade, Painter of Light. Okay, sorry about that. (Shivers off romance novel and TKPOL willies.) I need this man to remotely think about being lovey and romantic with me, not just saying, "Nice tits," when I change my top. Also, "Hey, wanna do it," is fine as foreplay 80% of the time, but the other 20% I'd like to hear that I'm loved a bit. And it would be nice if when taking pictures, he pretended he knew me and actually liked me. I often have to remind him that I'm his wife and not another one of his brothers.

I KNOW I am loved. I know Mike loves me and everyone who knows us knows Mike loves me. A lot. But last night, we were in the presence of several ultra-lovey couples. First, there was the wedding couple. Ryan seems so comfortable kissing Megan, hugging her, etc. Yes, I know it was their wedding, but this isn't new. Sarah and Carrie are so lovey with each other, it's amazing. They cuddle, kiss, sit close together, you get the picture. They are so in love and it shows. I have to turn to Mike, actually hold his head, and kiss him. I don't want a make out session, I want a romantic closed mouth kiss, an arm around my waist, something.

For our anniversary, I'd love to receive something romantic. I'd love giving something romantic, even though it is usually lost on him.

I assume we'll be settling on Desk Sex.

Twain smiled today

Today, my friend Megan was wedded and bedded. All before her reception. Yep, that sucker was consumated immediately.

I met Megan in grad school, we took most of our classes together and she is a key member of the Pussy Posse. I am, indeed, one of her bitches.

Megan, I love you. You were gorgeous today. You were the absolute epitome of wedding day beautiful. I wish you and Ryan all the best in the world. Congratulations baby!

Tacos are cool. Ho.

Happy Birthday, peanut.





Thank you to Lindy, Tammy, and the Jasons for making Mike's birthday so fun.

Off with its Head

Welcome to the new look. The old one displeased me.

Oh my God, Brad Pitt emailed me!

On the eve of Mr. and Mrs. Smith, otherwise known as "Foreplay for Melissa," I opened my email and there it was, a letter from Brad Pitt. Now, I did not see a letter from Angelina Jolie, but I'm expecting it any day. Whoever thought of this DOUBLE YUM movie is a goddamn genius. Plot? Who cares? Not me. Not a bit.

Now to be fair (and well, truthful), the letter is on behalf of The ONE.org, the American contigent of Make Poverty History.org. It is really an important cause and so I am sharing the letter with you (note how he called me his friend):

Dear Friend,

Every single day 30,000 children die from the effects of extreme poverty and it almost never makes the news. Tonight, that's going to be different.

I visited Africa last month with Diane Sawyer to record a "Primetime Live" special, and tonight that program will air at 10pm/9pm Central on ABC. The show is not only about the emergency in Africa, but also about successful projects that are saving people's lives and building new hope in entire communities.

Yesterday the ONE campaign asked all of us to do something that will make a real difference for the people we met in Africa: Sign a letter to President Bush asking him to seize the best opportunity we've had in decades to actually end extreme poverty. The ONE letter asks the President to support three bold commitments at the G8 summit of world leaders on July 6th: more and better international assistance, debt cancellation and trade reform.

Last week I signed the ONE letter to President Bush, and since yesterday thousands of you have too. That is an amazing show of support. The ONE campaign has set a goal to get ONE million letter signatures by the upcoming G8 summit on July 6th. We can get half way there by the end of this week if you join with me and sign the ONE letter to President Bush and ask your friends and family to sign as well:

Sign the ONE letter to President Bush.

Thanks, and please tell all your friends to watch the show tonight: 10pm/9pm Central on ABC.

Brad Pitt (my new lovahhhh)

*Note, the show aired on Tuesday, I totally missed it. But seriously, take a moment and sign this letter. Thank you good people.

Zoolicious

This Tuesday, the boys and I went to the Saint Louis Zoo. If you've never been, go. It's the 2nd best zoo in the US and it's free. The #1 zoo, San Diego, is not so much doing the free admission thing. Read about the Saint Louis Zoo at Good Zoos, an organization that reviews and evaluates zoos for the reasons they exist in a world that supposedly doesn't believe in caging animals Click Here. The point is, we got off our lazy asses and did something fun. Please note the children's visors, they made them on their own at school. Brett's has his name on it and Daniel's says, "Dragons Made Real." Those visors are fantastic. They wore them almost the whole time, eschewing sunglasses for them. Here are a few pictures:

Debbie Gibson is the Devil (Part 2)

Anne came through with a buttload of amazing titles for our tell-all book. These honestly made me pee a little when I was laughing out loud in safe, sane rememberence. Enjoy:

-Bumbleland and the Adventures Beyond

-"Cool your jets", "stop being assanine", and other key phrases to use as a mother to guarantee that your kids will write a tell all book about you

-Life after being busted for getting penny candy at Ben Franklin

-Tape, scissors, and other "important" items to scream to your children about

-Free,and mostly illegal and/or morally incorrect,things to do while hiding from your unstable and undermedicated maternal figure

-Ice Cream Soup, Two Rude Dogs, the Ramona Quimby, and Divorcee Perms: Why did this have to happen?

-Molester Ministers, Mullets with Silver Dollar Titties, and Married Adulterers: Male figures that shaped my life.

-Role Reversal in the single parent household or How my mother's tube top ate my adolescence.

-You are fuckt, how am I sane?

-Forgive me, my role models sucked. This is the best I could do.

-Your head looks like a cherry tomato when you scream and other observations of angry mothers.

-Switzerland is a country, not a behavior, Dad.

-Your wife is evil and you are a spineless ass: an synopsis of the every other weekend parental experience.

Debbie Gibson is the Devil

My sister and I talk about how we really should write a book on our life. Our chosen sister Anne is a definite co-author on this one. We figure we have a story to two to tell. Fun stories about our life, you know the one with parents who did the vacuum naked thing to Prince at 3 am thing or who took off for a year to have more fun at bars or who claim to be a Vietnam war hero when in fact, he's never been anywhere near Southeast Asia. Fun, but usually funny, and perhaps relate to our generation. For those of you who know us, these are going to be much funnier than for the rest of you. Here are a few titles we've toyed around with:

My Dad, the War Hero

Prince, Chris, and the Long Dead Grandpa

The Divorcee Haircut and the Wine Cooler

What Wrong with my Mom and Where's my Daddy?

Ancestor Queens, Gypsies, Witches, and Faeries

Debbie Gibson is the Devil

Two Sisters: Two Pregnant Teenagers

One Slutty Naked Breast Quarters Stud

My Dad Knows Everyone in the World

Getting Kicked Out so the Cops Can Pick You Up as a Runaway

The Pretty One and the Smart One


Send your ideas! We'd love to hear them.

Let me hear you say...

If you've ever been a cheerleader, you undoubtedly knew that Gwen Stefani's new song "Hollaback Girl" would have a cheerleader theme in the video. That beat, those chants, pure joy! Although I admit, I seem to have no choice but to respond positively to the song, I had NO clue what she was saying. Something about bleachers and principals. Girl, honey, baby, Gwen...you're 35. If you are worried about your principal, you are not quite as smart as I had hoped, you know, being the oldest high schooler and all. But she can still pull off the little uniform in a way that I just can't.

This said, I had to figure out what the hell I was singing in car. Googling the song, I found this great article that goes through the whole song, phrase by phrase. In it, we learn all about Gwen's shit and her captain complex. My god, didn't all captains have a leader problem? (Note: I was one of a pair of co-captains, my bitches.) Read the article Here.

All you former cheerleaders, you get one more shot to chant something ridiculous. Say it with me: "this shit is Bananas. B A N A N A YEAH!" Now bitches, less sing songy and more powerful. Use your man voice!

"THIS SHIT IS BANANAS!
B A N A N A YEAH!!!!"

For all of you who weren't cheerleaders but your big sisters were, this is your chance to once again puke a little bit in your mouth.

You maladroit fucking fuck

It is NOT a compliment to tell me how impressed you or your brother are with my intelligence or parenting...when it is followed with "for a girl who got pregnant as a teenager."

You fucking fuck.

Not that I wish for your commentary on my brain or my mothering. Your commentary is actually worthless to me since I believe you are the kind who is impressed by Thomas Kinkade, Painter of Light.

Yes, people, this is the man my mother is dating. He actually works with children in a middle school, I'm sure he's this kind to them. He tells me these things and then my mom repeats this to me with a big smile, as if to clap her hands at his approval of me. His oh so charming brother, the one who they made me take my picture with a thousand times, said the same. damn. thing.

The kicker? They DO NOT say this to my sister. You know, the highly succsessful one with the full time job, great house, amazing daughter, fantastic life partner, and an IQ you would dry hump your pillow about in your sleep? You fucking fuck. Be impressed with HER, but not "for a girl who...," just fucking be impressed with her. She's impressing.