I’m a bad, shameless Mommy

Heads up! I’m going to be losing my Internet due to being an idiot and getting on a family plan where half the other people are weak willed idiots and the other half are dishonest, thieving idiots. That means goodbye blog until I can find access to the Internet. Yep, I own my idiocy.

Anyways, I’m a bad mommy and I should be ashamed of myself, according to everybody.

It started when my baby was born… Well no. Actually it started well before that. Being of “low socio-economic status” which is fancy talk for “undesirable” I procreated. And I’ve never used a condom, much less (cancer causing, hormone screwing) birth control. And then I didn’t kill my unborn baby. And before all that? I married an honest to God Mexican, who is as broke as I am. My worst offense are after the baby though…

I signed a “contract” of dubious legality at the hospital saying I’d never ever bedshare, because my alter ego will rise in my sleep to smother my baby. They also offered the helpful suggestion of sleeping upright in a recliner with the baby because baby dropping is healthy. If I didn’t sign that contract I wasn’t “allowed” to leave the hospital and go home with my own daughter.

Yeah, that lasted all of a week and a half. Blame it on me trusting my motherly instincts and my third world husband. We are still bed sharing and I’m only now considering stopping it because baby thinks its awesome to snuggle up to me, sigh, and then try to rip my nipples off with her cute chubby fingers.

And while sacrificing my huge, king size, comfy bed has been hard I still miraculously have sex pretty much everywhere else in my house. And out of my house.

In addition to doing something that isn’t even bad (check out Dr.Sears on bedsharing) I’ve apparently committed a faux pas that those with my level of education find appalling.

You see, my baby is a girl. I know, shameful right? How dare I say that aloud? What if her baby brain is confusing her vagina with a penis and she thinks she’s a boy??!? I think all the presumptuous crap about “cis-gender” is so clever it’s stupid. God created male and female, and my daughter isn’t going to be given only gender neutral toys and clothes that are actually just boy stuff with more yellow thrown in. Why? Because as a woman I’ve had it up to here with the implicit suggestion that anything strongly feminine is verboten and that anything strongly male is obscene. Bring on the pink and blue! And yes, I do know that pink used to be a boy color. 100 years ago. See all the fucks I give?

Other stuff I do that proves I’m evil or at least inadequate?

I’m raising my child Catholic. Latin, lace, incense, and rosaries. Not to mention excellent literature. And a veil.

I let my baby eat solids at 5, not 6 months. The horror! I also introduced a fruit first and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t organic since I didn’t have to take out a loan for it.

I swear in front of my kid. I try not to, but this is probably the proof that all Catholics are hypocrites or something. I just pray that her first word is something other than most of the words I say when driving. I don’t feel comfortable saying “God bless you” when my decidedly unsaintly mind is hoping God goes Sodom on you and that you end up in a ditch. If I’m going to be evil, I should be honestly evil.

I let my 6 month old baby watch a movie with me. Terrible!

I let her sleep on her stomach. Like her daddy, she flips all over the place when sleeping, and loves her stomach.

I don’t have a vendetta against all things Disney. I do plan on letting her see anything Hayao Miyazaki, because his art is better.

I don’t allow baby girl to see her maternal Grandparents. Sure, they’re abusive and dangerous people but they’re faaaaaaaaaamily! How dare I expose my kid to better examples!

We teach about the real Santa, who punched heretics and and survived prison, and was Turkish- not European.

There’s a host of things I do that are apparently borderline child abuse. Her bouncy chair is a torture device. The baby carrier I have doesn’t support her hips well at all, because poor people can’t afford the one for the low price of 155.99. I don’t have a savings account for her and my house is far from baby proof.

But I can accept that. And just when I think the sanctimommys of the Internet can’t possibly judge me for anything more I learn something new. I start reading this thread about annoying gifts from people, and it starts out innocently enough. Baby clothes that are stained and smell like smoke, toys that look designed to murder you as you sleepwalk via 1000 tiny, sharp little parts, and passive aggressive toxic grannies buying too small clothes for “fat kids”. But then came other comments, comments that denounced all other lesser mothers.

Do you let your kids wear clothes from Walmart? Did someone have the gall to buy you baby clothes from there and actually give them to you? BAD MOMMY! And if you bought them yourself, there’s no hope for you. CPS should definitely rescue your child, you trailer trash excuse for a human being!

Do you let your kids play with electronic toys? OMG you’re going to give them ADD! They will find a way to eat the batteries! They will have seizures and Rumplestiltskin will steal them and probably be a pedophile! Your children’s imagination will shrivel up and die just like your sex drive and common sense! Arrrgh! You are a terrible mommy!

Do you let your kids play with anything other than wooden, Hipster toys? Do you let them associate with kids who play with (shudder) plastic toys? YOU ARE OBVIOUSLY A HELLSPAWN OF SATAN! Plastic toys are cheap, and cheap is evil! Anything in your modest price range is evil, and so are YOU!

Seriously, the more I slip into my mother role (complete with lactating boobies, spanx, and improving cooking abilities) the thicker my skin gets. I’m almost gleefully anticipating the next rich white judgmental mommy comment. I’ve already been judged for buying a Graco seat instead of a Chico one, even though both do a good job. I also bought a ton of second hand things, and even yard saled for baby stuff.

At least I’m exclusively breastfeeding, so I guess I win in that department lol.

Any moms out there, especially fist time ones reading my blog- remember this phrase “Look at all the fucks I give!” That is a helpful mantra. Use it often.

Falsehoods, falsehoods everywhere!

Waking up to see my daughter’s smile is the best part of my day. Watching her learn and exposing her to new stuff is 100 times more rewarding than any other thing I have done. I love my little snuggle buddy, with her daddy’s eyes and chipmunk cheeks, and her laser like focus when she’s trying her hardest to get her hands to do what her mind commands.

Funny how having a kid changes the way you look at things. The things people are being taught are terrible. Women are “liberated” by grinding up against some guy while sticking their tongue out because apparently chicken butt, a terrible haircut, and looking like you’re having a seizure made up of equal parts stupid and awkward is “sexy”. “Real men” let a woman simulate sex on stage with them and sing about date rape and NOBODY bats an eye.

Before I had a baby I would have just rolled my eyes. Now I feel a little sick to my stomach, because this is the culture my kids will be raised in. My husband and I are going to have to work our asses off to teach our boys to respect women no matter what, and we are going to have to teach our girls to respect themselves in a culture that sees them as highly advanced male masturbation toys.

Awesome. Just great. Sigh.

Morals aside, I also want to teach my kids, especially my daughters, all about the human body. I specifically want to teach about the reproductive system because it is AWESOME! Unfortunately, there’s a lot of unscientific lies flying around.

For example, apparently some “feminists” believe there is no hymen, and that it can’t be broken. Yes, yes there is a hymen, and without going into an awkward amount of details I personally know that it can be broken. Some women may not have a hymen. Some women do. Some women barely have a hymen, and some women have a hymen that is very thick.

Speaking of the hymen, its also a lie that it’s all the woman’s fault if it hurts during her first few times having sex. As a 25 year old virgin, I googled to see what to expect on my wedding night. When websites weren’t claiming hymens don’t exist, they were claiming hymens only hurt if you aren’t well lubricated, excited, happy, confident, etc. Virgin ladies out in Internet land, your hymen may or may not hurt, or it may hurt a little or a lot. Don’t accept the usual claptrap that its all the frigid woman’s fault (or that the man isn’t a skillful lover) for something your anatomy is designed to do. Mine hurt like a bitch, and trust me I was all those things +100.

Beyond the hymen, have you ever tried doing a search for information about the menstrual cycle? So. Much. Bullshit.

Lies I learned:

-You can get pregnant any time during your cycle.

-You can get pregnant during your period.

-You can’t know when ovulation is, but it usually happens in the 14th day of your cycle.

-(on the same site that said you couldn’t know your ovulation) your period will happen 14 days after ovulation.

-Condoms protect against STD’s.

The actual truth?

What They Tell You

Most amazing corn on the cob recipe ever: Elotes

You will need:
Lots of shucked corn, or unshucked if you want to heat it right on the grill
Queso Oaxaca (smells like a farm tastes like paradise)
Mayonnaise
Or Butter
Cayenne pepper (ground. Look for the bright red color- that means its fresher.)

Boil or cook the elotes.
Grate some Oaxaca cheese in the meantime.
When the elotes are done, sprinkle queso all over the corn and add squirt able butter. Top with cayenne pepper for some oomph.

Or

When the elotes are done, slather in mayo, sprinkle the queso, and add whatever you like on top, or nothing more.

I used to think the Japanese had the best recipe for corn on the cob ever. Then I met my husband. Mexico wins!

On to my post!

777

777. That’s the number of times you are supposed to forgive someone. Well, not literally. Much like 144,000, or 7 days of creation, 40 days in the desert, and 40 days and nights of rain, 777 is a metaphorical number signifying completeness. Sorry, numerous heretical Christian and pseudoChristian sects, but those Biblical numbers are more than just black and white.

I thought I had forgiven my parents. I had. But the number 777 implies a process. You keep forgiving until the job is done. Sometimes things come to light that you didn’t know before, or ignored because it was too psychologically painful to handle.

It must be that my brain started to open up, or God revealed to me something that I hadn’t realized and was not ready to realize until now. I still don’t want to believe its true. It would feel better to not know what I know.

My biological dad runs his own business. Business, while I was in college, was very good in spite of a terrible economy. He got audited by the IRS every year I was in college. He claimed it was because he had his own business and kids going to college at the same time. I always accepted that lie, even when friends with parents who had businesses told me that that sounded odd. While I was in college my parents had money to go out to nice restaurants on a semi regular basis. They bought nice things for my brother and gave him cash. On rare occasions I would get very little cash for something I really needed. It usually wasn’t really enough but I am great at being frugal and thrifty. Plus, I never felt entitled to anything. Their money, their rules, right?

The thing is during college I practically lived in my van. Home was an unsafe place to be so I was back at midnight and out by 6 am. I barely had enough gas money to make the commute, and always drove praying that something else wouldn’t break down on me. My van even had a name “Deathbox on Wheels” because it was infamous for doing crazy things like turning off in the middle of traffic, or deciding that a left turn would really make a great right turn at the last second, or it would suddenly charge forward like a demon possessed transportation nightmare- usually about when I would be stuck behind an old driver or some other vulnerable person.

My van was finally sold to the junk yard after the breaks went out going down a steep hill during my “honeymoon” in my home town.

During college I relied on myself, my husband, and kind friends for food. It was embarrassing and some days I would maybe just eat a yogurt (75 cents). I actually did eat some food someone just left once, feeling ashamed the whole time and hoping nobody saw. I couldn’t eat at home because my mere presence would enrage my mother, and any leftovers were saved for someone else until they rotted and she could throw them out.

One semester I worked 2 jobs, did well over 100 hours of classroom supervising (obviously no pay) and volunteer work, and 18 credits, most of which were not in my native language. I did that to get out of college quicker so that my debt would quit climbing.

Speaking of debt, I had barely enough money for books. In fact I went part of the semester without books in almost all of my classes. Thank God for helpful students who let me photocopy pages. It goes without saying that I didn’t have enough for nice clothes. I still wore what I had from high school- raggedy, stained, full of holes clothes. So I used a credit card to get books and gas and food…and I’m still paying that off due to usurious interest rates.

Don’t misunderstand. There are people in the world that have it FAR worse than I ever did. I at least had clothes, and could eat something, and had a lot f friends to help me. Many people don’t get to go to college- my husband never made it last elementary school due to poverty. So I am thankful for what I did have. No thanks to my biological parents.

The point is, during my entire time at college I had little food, almost no access to healthcare, was stressed and living in my van, and just at my wit’s end tryin to make ends meet and my biological parents meanwhile, lived very well.

They stopped living well after I graduated and began to pay back loans. The thing is, they had taken out loans too, to “help out”. And it was understood that I was going to owe then for being so “gracious”. They took out PLUS loans. I covered all of my tuition. I had scholarships am loans to cover what I couldn’t pay outright, and there was rarely enough left over for anything- not one dollar.

The PLUS loans were supposed to go towards gas and living expenses. They were supposed to be how parents help their kids- that is their original purpose.

I must not have wanted to accept the facts. I remember going in and talking with a Sister about getting a loan so that I could get an apartment. (My college was “Catholic” in a very loose way) I was told I couldn’t, since PLUS loans had already been applied for and granted. The Sister seemed alarmed and confused that they weren’t enough for me to live independently.

After a certain point I didn’t hear what she was saying. I am convinced it was because my brain knew but my heart did not want to accept.

My parents were taking the loans in their name that were supposed to be applied to me and were pocketing if not everything, then close to.

That part isn’t what hurt me so much. After all, I just realized this a couple of days ago. This is after learning that my biological dad tried to use me to lie to the IRS, and he’s always lied about the amount of money he gives to charity (zero).

What hurt me is remembering how I was in his office, crying my heart out because I couldn’t get an apartment and had to stay at “home” with an abusive mother. No matter how I stretched my dollars, I had no money to escape, even with a roommate or two. Even with the money I could save by biking to school, and I was willing to walk through snow too.

That bastard knew what I was going through. He knew I had no food, no clothing, was driving a van that had already almost killed me, and was at my wit’s end. And not only did he stand by and fail me by letting me be abused, he took away what should have been there to support me. And then he watched me sob and pretended to feel bad for me and just sighed and said “I’m so sorry that’s how life is”, all the while living nicely off my misery.

And then he and my biological mother had the gall to try to make me pay for their misuse of money that was intended to help me with college. All so they could use me, all so they could control me, all so they could continue to abuse me. Oh and money, which they blame for abuse they claim they can’t remember. And they want thanks and money for what they did.

That’s sick. That is an onion of sick- layer upon layer of sick and wrong.

I keep wishing I am delusional. I keep praying that I am the “bad daughter”. I don’t want to believe my parents are that sick, and yet here is the ugly truth. They are sick. I have to forgive them.

Before, I still had a sliver of hope that someday, maybe when they were old and dying, I could see them again and they would have somehow had a conversion that made them into better people. Now, I don’t. I don’t. It’s like a pedophile- they’re unsafe and highly unlikely to reform. Can a pedophile reform and not molest children? Yes. Is it remotely likely? No. Have I ever seen a pedophile try or succeed? Never, and I have known a few pedophiles, because my biological parents left me open to abuse (thanks be to God, I was never molested).

Right now I don’t know if I’m capable of forgiving. I haven’t properly grieved yet. I’m still running from it to an extent. All I can think is “why?”

My best friend asked me if I would try to sue. I wouldn’t know where to start, and I don’t want to. I feel like being the demon in the Porky Pig cartoon- “So it’s MONEY you want, eh? WELL HAVE ALL THE MONEY YOU CAN HANDLE!”

Besides. They’re already not well off. All that thieving and scheming has left them pretty much where they started. I don’t want to punish them- God is much better at punishing than I am. Even if I were to sue, they wouldn’t be able to pay me back and have enough to live. They will be elderly soon, and I am not the sick person they are. I hope they will live as comfortably as their spoils will allow.

I just never want to see them again. Ever.

Spiritual Direction

Well, I survived Thanksgiving. It was mostly great, with my awesome in laws but dear lord the amount of sanctimommy (and sanctidaddy) reached an all time high. Lets just say that 1) my inlaws think carseats are optional fancy things, so I automatically take their “advice” with a heaping dose of salt and 2) my husband is teaching me the art of one-liners that charitably shut people up.

Blurgh… Apparently parents need to put on a strong armor of “do not give a flying crap” to make it gracefully through the holidays.

Ah well, a blessed Advent to all! Also, Happy Saint Nicholas day tomorrow. Celebrate by giving alms or some chocolate candies and tell stories about how jolly old Saint Nick punched a heretic in the face.

Yes. You can read about that here-> Saint Nicholas Center granted, he was sorry he had lost his temper but this is a great way to show that while the Saints were in Earth they were works in progress like the rest of us.

Which leads me to the point of my post. I’ve got to get a spiritual director. They are hard to find, especially for an oddball like me. I haven’t been searching as well as I should. I’m very afraid of rejection. I also do not want to talk about some things except with a priest.

First, I need to find an orthodox priest. In my area that’s a challenge. When I find that priest, he has to have time, which is also a challenge.

Second, I need to speak with a priest who isn’t shy about the devil, visions, demons, angels and other supernatural things. I’ve had a lot of weird experiences in my life (and no, I’m not mentally ill and have never even smoked pot) that need to be addressed. If what I have experienced is real, and not my imagination, then I need to have the Church helping me along. 2000+ years is greater than a measly 26.

Third, I have to find a priest that is comfortable talking about abusive situations, and marriage (my marriage is not abusive, but my parents were abusive).

That seems a tall order, but I don’t feel comfortable dealing with the spiritual side of things with anyone other than a priest, or maybe a Sister. Often when I’ve gone to confession priests have told me I should seek out counseling…but while therapy has been good they just don’t know how to deal with the spiritual side of my issues. Even if I could find one that is Christian, let alone Catholic, there would still be difficulties that go beyond theological differences.

Seriously, therapists, you need to murder your glitter pooping unicorns. I’ve had so many basically boil their philosophy down to “just lay flatter and be a better doormat for your parents” so I can hope everything will magically get better. I had one therapist who actually told me that cutting off my parents might be psychologically healthy, and she admitted it is rare she ever recommends something like that.

Besides, I’m kind of…over therapy for the most part. Therapy from what I have seen is a lot of self reflection, with added wisdom from a third party. It’s a great thing but at the moment I don’t feel it to be necessary, especially since my spiritual concerns have never been welcomed or understood in a therapy setting.

Ever try explaining to an atheistic/secular therapist what receiving the Eucharist is like? It’s probably all very bizarre to them. I once explained to a Christian Reformed therapist the reason I got so worked up over a liturgical issue. First I had to explain what I meant by liturgy, then I had to explain John 6, then I had to tie it all together with the behavior of some person I knew…it got complicated fast. It would be nice to talk spirituality with someone who could correct me if I’m wrong and have the authority to do so.

So all you followers out there, if you aren’t spam bloggers, have you ever tried spiritual direction? Did it go well? Was it hard to find a director? In short, share your experience in the comments.

So I broke up with my parents

First, a recipe!

Tacos from the Heart

Needed:
1 dead cow
Skills in butchering animals for food (serial killers need not apply)
1 cow heart from said dead cow.

Boil the heart slowly over a few hours, in water and salt. Beef heart is big, so you might need to cut it to fit in the pan. Let it cool, make sure it’s tender, and cut off the excess fat. Then cut it into long, thin strips.

Heat up some oil in a pan and throw in onion and garlic to taste. Then throw in some cut hot chiles. And salt. Salt is good. Throw in more onions if you love them like I do. Let it all simmer.

Serve with your favorite non store bought salsa, beans, and tortillas. (Corn tortillas, or even flour ones but avoid the nasty wheat tortillas. Them’s nasty.)

Now, on to the break up. I find it highly ironic that my first big break up was with my parents. My only boyfriend is now married to me, and by the grace of God our marriage is doing well so far. So my first big break up is not a boyfriend, or even a fiancé, but my parents.

Oh sure, I’ve told old “friends” to hit the road before. But that is less a break up and more because of our ages and maturity levels. It was mostly mutual, except in the case of a genuine stalker I had that took YEARS to remove from my life.

In any case, this is awkward. Who breaks up with their parents? I might even try writing a book about it, because it feels that weird.

So a few nights ago, after taking a long break from the crazy people I call my parents, we met at a local restaurant. My husband went with me for support. Right away, as soon as I let them know what was up, they tried to attack me by getting through to my husband. Classy.

There was a lot of gas lighting. Gas lighting is when one person flat out denies, minimizes, or ignores the experience of another for the purposes of getting the other under control and questioning their own memories, experiences, or even sanity. In their case, my parents claimed not to remember anything that I said. When I pressed, they said I must have an incorrect memory. Because I am a human blood hound for lies and half truths, I kept pressing relentlessly until my mom blamed her conveniently faulty memory in anti-depressants.

I looked at my father, and asked him “So what is YOUR excuse?”

“Stress”, he replied. He didn’t even acknowledge that I called my mother out on her excuse, and his.

What followed was nothing that interesting, just lots of implying that I was the crazy one, conveniently recovered memories that were very sharp concerning my perceived faults, and finally dwindled down into telling me that I was a terrible person, wrong, that this was all “bullshit”, and that I was being “vindictive”.

In short it went about as crappy as I thought it would. I did come into the break up meeting offering an olive branch. What it boiled down to was either they acknowledge the past, take responsibility, and apologize, or I no longer have contact with them. What was more important- their pride and emotional self preservation or their relationship with their daughter?

As always, the former won over the latter. The closest I got was a “sorry for whatever the hell we did, but we don’t remember”.

Here is the reason apologies are important. Many people would say I should just accept that my parents are who they are and that I should lie flatter so they can happily keep walking over me. I would say those people are ignorant. An apology doesn’t fix hurt feelings, or heal broken pasts. What it does, is show that the person making the apology is aware of how they have failed. If you can see where you have failed, you can avoid doing the same failure again. It also shows that if you don’t avoid that failure, then you are responsible enough to continue taking responsibility. An apology is humility which is a necessary ingredient for friendship.

That is why apologies are important, especially in cases of abuse.

I’ve already forgiven my parents, but reconciliation is not possible. In their minds I’m “vindictive”, crazy, and “punishing” them. They aren’t mature enough to examine the reasons why their daughter is so ready to leave them in the past. Forgiving them I can do, but the power of reconciliation is out of my hands. I can be willing (reluctantly, but I could try) except that it isn’t possible on their end.

If I were to try reconciliation with these people who still see me as their bad little scapegoat, reconciliation would not happen. Instead, I’d be volunteering for abuse, sadness, anger, frustration all on my part. Instead of being a victim I’d be volunteering.

Their pride and egos are far more important to them than making a real, healthy relationship with me. I am not willing to teach my own daughter that that sort of unhealthy dynamic is acceptable.

They want me to come back and be a better doormat. I want them to be the parents they never were.

So I broke up with them.

OMG THIS IS AWESOME

I was going to write about my break up with my parents (and I will soon) but this is just too cool.

I’ve been using an app called Kindara. It’s more in alignment with FAM (fertility awareness method) than with NFP (Natural Family planning) but it is an AWESOME family planning app. The major difference is that FAM allows for condoms, but I just plan on not using condoms anyways. In any case it’s a great app that really helps empower women to know what their body is doing and why.

All I can say is that I am beyond excited. Because of my home study course in NFP and Kindara (not to mention double checking with scientific articles that are peer reviewed) and using some ovulation sticks…

I now not only know what a luteal phase is, I know how long mine currently is. Not only do I know that, but I can predict when my period will be. (Well, I have a period right now but I have a short luteal phase due to breast feeding) I now know when I can get pregnant, and when it’s less likely.

WHY don’t they teach girls this in high school? Or when we hit puberty? My sex Ed classes were a joke, were almost all centered on the almighty penis and the scary boogie man of venereal disease. We had condoms thrown at us luke theyvwere magic wands against STI’s (pro-tip: they’re not magically effective) and were all but ordered to take the pill. Heck, it wasn’t even taught to us that you can only get pregnant a handful of days each month, and that for some women it can be difficult. The luteal phase was glossed over, and all we knew about it was that at some point we would begin menstruating again.

It wasn’t until I was pregnant that I had an understanding of how the uterus works, where it is, and how fertilization occurs. It wasn’t until I was interested in breast feeding that I learned how the breast works.

I was LUCKY that I had a period so regular I could literally set my clock to it. Before I got pregnant, barring extreme stress I could have followed the Rhythm Method. In fact that is what I used to get pregnant!

Even then though I felt a little annoyed I couldn’t pinpoint my ovulation, and had a dim understanding at beat what a luteal phase is and how that affects my cycle and ability to get pregnant. Now I know.

Even if you’re pro-birth control (which I strongly suggest you do research and reconsider that) I encourage anyone out there stumbling on this blog to go and learn about FAM and NFP. There are many methods, and all can bring a greater awareness of your own female body (and for men, it can be interesting to know how your wife or girlfriend works).

I am just beyond excited. I successfully avoided a pregnancy (not that I don’t want more kids but yeesh, lets give the bank account and my body a chance to breathe) I know about when to expect a period even though my cycles are a lot longer than they used to be, and I also know that if I were to try conceiving now it would be difficult due to a shorter luteal phase…which is affected by breast feeding!

My body is no longer some magical boogie woman mystery to me that sends a period when I least want it and magically sprouts a baby when I only kinda sorta know how or why!

This is awesome. Lets hope the real feminists out there promote this more often. I don’t need a damn pill to “cure”me of being a fertile woman. I need knowledge and understanding so I can be as fertile and as womanly as I should be.

You don’t need to be Catholic to like that. Get on it women- we aren’t “mysterious” and “peculiar” as if that means we can’t explain how our own organs work! Lets drag this stuff out into the 21st century, and ditch the idea that women and their reproductive systems are “too complicated” to interpret or know.

PS even though I know that this may not work, when I get a job I will soooo try to time my baby making so that the birth is hopefully around a big holiday. Hhehehee, I shall be sneaky and squeeze out a couple more weeks out of the measly maternity leave American women are given. (Seriously, America… 1-6 weeks max is not enough time, especially for the women who work so hard for peanuts. And quit telling women to be proud of going back to work a day after giving birth. That’s not brag worthy that’s actually dangerous, you sexist idiots.)

Maybe A New Method?

So I am on my first and second month of using the Creighton model of NFP, and so far I’m not a fan. I co-sleep, breast feed, and I’m post partum. Using breast feeding as a control method works only until you have a period, and boy was I pissed to find out that those are already returning. I liked not using tampons or pads, and I am jealous of the women who don’t have them until 12 or more months post partum.

My breast feeding and co sleeping and post partum weirdness makes my mucous wacky, my temps wacky, everything wacky and difficult to interpret. It also makes sex a little more stressful. Don’t get me wrong- I do want another baby. But I’d like to wait at least a year. And both husband and I have crazy high sex drives.

So I bought the books, thinking this should all be easy. It would be, if I were not post partum and were like before I got pregnant. I had a cycle so regular it probably would have actually worked with the rhythm method!

Creighton, after about two months, doesn’t seem to be working well with me. I’m just all over the place, and I have no clue when my next period will be. I would really like to know that, please and thank you.

So the other week, I decided I wanted something other than my own observations to back me up. I’m terrible at science and observations after all. So I picked up a Clear Blue ovulation kit (digital, because I am not wasting my time staring at two lines and second guessing the darkness) and started using it.

I also kept charting my mucous, my cervical position and whether or not the os was open, and my temps, annnnd my internal sensations.

Holy crap, for the first time in my life I believe I have pinpointed where my ovulation was.

My mucous was a bit iffy, but the same day I hit the smiley face my cervix was high, soft, and OPEN! I had wondered if it was open before. I had thought it was open before. NOPE. Now I know what open feels like. Also, I finally got that crampy feeling that I always used to wonder why…turns out that that I likely my ovulation. And as soon as that two day smiley period went away, my cervix got lower, harder, and more closed. I might have an idea when my upcoming period will be.

As a woman, this is intoxicating. It is possible I can start to understand my own cycle.

The Creighton method is nice, but for me it feels like I am driving a car with only one working headlight. I can see enough but I am not very confident. God help me if the four legged monster of doom (aka deer) jumps into the road.

So I did some more research and found out that what I am doing is actually similar to the Marquettte method. I might switch to that. It is more expensive, but…I will pay for less stress and more confidence.

Plus I kinda like peeing on a stick. I’m wierd.

Lol with all this natural stuff I’m doing I may just go crunchy. I have been researching cloth diapers…

Task List Woo!

Well, since its clearly useless to try looking for a job (thanks would be employers. I can’t wait to watch your businesses crash and burn so I can hear you whine about being “poor”) I am turning my attention to running the house as well as I can.

Granted, the damn landlord never fixes anything, and there is some stuff we just can’t do (or maybe we can, if the landlord won’t send anyone other than a couple of drunks to fix things) but other things I can do.

This past week I’ve had it. My husband, though he works hard outside of the house, is a total slob inside of it. I have a tendency to get disorganized. Both of us together at our worst equals disaster. To top it off, I grew up with conditions that if they weren’t worthy of an episode on Hoarders, they were close.

I’m talking dishes not cleaned for weeks, potatoes left to rot so long they had maggots (I almost threw up on that one) dead ants in various foods, and always a mysterious stench you didn’t want to know the source of. And that’s to say nothing of the piles of junk. When I left for Useless University, I was determined to never live like that again.

I’ve succeeded for the most part, but my house is ridiculously disorganized. The dishes never seem to get all the way done. Almost all our floors are tile because the landlord is cheap, so dust accumulates. The bathrooms aren’t gross but they aren’t pretty either. My husband’s problem is being lazy. Mine is letting my ADD take control.

House cleaning with ADD is a pain in the ass. About a third of the dishes get done and suddenly it occurs to me that I should really dust the surfaces. Halfway through dusting I remember some clothes need cleaning so I put them in the wash, and forget to turn the knob because I remember that I was supposed to be done with the dishes already! By the end if the day none of my projects are finished, it looks like I was lazy, and I’m cranky and exhausted. Oh and the laundry has dried soap on it. Ewwww.

So yesterday I managed to force myself to sit still long enough to make a list of all the chores that need to be done, dividing the rooms and days they needed to be done. I also assigned my husband tasks because if I didn’t, he would not be compelled at all to do them. It’s domestic abuse, but I really want to slap him when he says “but it’s so easy when you do it!” Haaaa haaa haaaah. Then I went to search for a free app to manage my tasks.

Astrid got bought up by Yahoo, and so they ruined it like they do with anything good on the Internet. Eventually, after going through many wastes of memory, aka “lite apps” I came upon Any.Do.

I’m in love. Cute, simple, quick and so far free of bugs.

Suddenly, shit is getting done. My house is looking more lived in and less like a hurricane, and I think just a couple says more and the routine will be down enough so that we will actually not have to do any serious cleaning if visitors come over.

This might not work for every ADD person out there but it works for me. Just having a list, even if its all over the place, makes me feel competitive. Plus, the Any.Do app sends me coupons. Sure it’s for stuff that I would never buy anyways because its either impractical or way too expensive…but dude…coupons!

Now to get out my off brand lemon pledge and make like Consuela from Family Guy.

“Afuera afuera. No, no, noooo. Shitty kitty go afuera.”

I give up

I didn’t even get a chance to fill out the app, much less an interview. Some lady who doesn’t even have interpreter training got the job before it even posted.

Because its all who you know. It doesn’t matter how hard working you are, how ridiculously over qualified you are, how honest, friendly, and willing to bend over backwards you are for the chance to maybe not live like a slave. No, it doesn’t matter.

All you need to get a job is to know the right people and hey presto you have a job and even a promotion. Go ahead and hit on your workers, including the married ones. Be lazy, drink yourself into alcoholism, don’t go to college. Abuse your kids and be irresponsible with money. Do all that, but kiss the right ass and you will get everything you will never appreciate.

After that, bash the generation that was constantly threatened that if we didn’t get good grades and go to college, we’d end up working at McDonald’s. Call that generation lazy and entitled for wanting what we were promised- that if we worked out asses off, took out excessive loans, and got scholarships we would gain a job we could maybe like but would at least be worth all the hard work we did because we’d be starting better than if we had just dropped out of high school.

Nobody told us that the barely literate alcoholic football player from high school would never go to college, but he would get to be a supervisor who sends out emails so badly worded people wonder if English really is his first language. He would get to be a supervisor right out of high school, all because his darling, enabling coach found him a job.

Nobody told us that after avoiding parties, studying hard, and working two part time jobs during college all we could look forward to working was the same two part time jobs. Jobs that would disappear as soon as we graduated, or got married, or committed the ultimate modern day sin of conceiving naturally at a natural age.

Nobody told us that we’d be “lucky” to work three jobs with no benefits, no way to be promoted, no way to apply anything we had learned, no insurance, and that those three jobs barely cover rent let alone food. And then we would get fined (oh sorry, “taxed”) for being too poor for Obamacare and yet not qualifying for Medicare. (Let’s be fair, the conservatives were telling everybody but well…Obama is going to bring change and fart rainbows everywhere!)

So go ahead and bash my generation. And for the record, this is on an iPhone. Because, you middle aged middle class pot bellied white prick, the only Internet I can get is on the phone, on a family plan that allows me 1.5 gb per month. Because 35 dollars a month is all I can afford for phone and Internet, which isn’t just for spreading chain letters written in comic sans, watching stupid Youtube videos, and posting memes on Facebook.

Not that it really does me any good, but I actually use this damn device to apply for jobs I will never have. Oh, how selfish I am. I should totally have gotten a more expensive, useless phone that couldn’t access the Internet so I could feel smug about it.

Yep. Fuck it.