Women! Gah!

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.

I don’t understand women.

And not just the obvious things like why I want to carry a pink purse so badly and how many centimeters women get dilated before a baby pops out. I don't understand a lot of other stuff either.

Take Star Jones for example. I saw a big headline today that said the following:

STAR JONES: I HAD GASTRIC BYPASS SURGERY.

Did she really need to make a big, dramatic announcement regarding that? If so, here is my big, dramatic announcement to Star Jones:

EVERYONE ELSE OTHER THAN STAR JONES: WE ALREADY KNOW. YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO TELL US.

Let’s see. One day you are 307 pounds. Six months later you weigh like, ten. I think all of us figured it was not from walking your dog a lot.

I mean, I don’t care that she had it. Whatever. It’s not a big deal to me if someone has surgical “intervention” to lose weight. I’m just offended that she wants to make it into the most obvious non-news story since Lance Bass announced he was gay.

Also, last night I had to spend time with a group of women who have absolutely nothing in life other than their children and like to talk about said children in loud, grating voices. I adore my children and have a lot to say about them, but I also have a lot to say about other, important issues such as Where the Hell did Jesse McCartney go? and how stupid the people I work with all seem to be. But these women seem to not even be WATCHING the E! network and just look at me blankly when I try to explain that no, I actually can’t be at this meeting at 10am on a Tuesday morning because, GASP, I have a freaking job.

I don’t care if people are stay-at-home moms. I actually think that’s kind of awesome and more power to them if they can do it. Financially, it was never an option for me. I do have issue with women who look down on me because I’m not nearly as involved as they feel I should be in my children’s lives. I do have an issue with people rolling their eyes at me when I give my opinion. If my opinion is stupid as hell, then by all means, roll your eyes. But if you are rolling your eyes at me merely because you don’t think my opinion is valid because it would require less than a crowbar to get me out of my own child’s ass? Then I just don’t think that’s my problem.

What I really, really don’t get and what really frosts my pickle about the whole situation? Is that these women claim to be doing this FOR THE CHILDREN. And yet? When it comes time to actually interact with the, you know, actual children, they can be found in the kitchen talking smack about everyone else who couldn’t make it (because of their JOBS! The horror!) and drinking coffee.

Meanwhile I am out doing the hula with the children.

So who’s wrong here?

I mean, I know I’m bitter and not funny and all that, but good Lord. Those people just did not turn out.

Yet, I don't have a penis. So I just don't fit in with anyone.

She's having a baby.

My little sister.

Well, okay, technically she's not little. She's almost thirty. And if you listen to her, which I don't about this, she's enormously pregnant and therefore not little.

But she's my girl. She'll always be my girl.

She and I had a fairly typical I-hate-you-and-I-wish-you'd-die-even-though-you're-the-best-I-got relationship growing up. Forced to share a room and be dressed alike, even though I was two years older, I resented her for being far cuter than I was. Mainly because we would go sell Girl Scout cookies together and all the people would be like, "Oh! She's so cute!" and buy ten boxes off of her and none off of me. She resented me for existing and probably two hundred other reasons. I'm sure I am not easy to live with.

At some point in our lives, and I'm not even sure when, we saw past our differences and realized, mutually, "Good Lord. These people surrounding us are insane." We bonded. And now we are friends.

Also, especially wonderful? Our kids are best friends.



We do feed those boys, by the way. Honestly.

We are really blessed. Both of us. Because we have great kids. We are both able to give our kids a lot more than we ever had. Our kids adore each other.

And we have each other.

I don't see my sister very often. Not nearly enough in fact. She's the funniest person alive. She makes me laugh every single time I talk to her. She's the smartest, bravest person I know.

Growing up, I never saw my sister as a mother, even though she's great with kids. But honestly, I've never seen anyone with such a natural ability to be a mother. Whereas I was just sort of dazed and confused and perplexed by my children, she took hold of her little son and began to sing him a song, right there in the delivery room. And this was after a particularly difficult delivery which included her mother-in-law taking pictures of her sister-in-law who was pointing at her butt. (It's the funniest story ever, now. When she tells it I can't breathe I laugh so hard).

And she is an amazing mom. She's got mad skilz when it comes to those kids.

Her new little girl is such an amazing blessing. She's going to do a fantastic job with her.

I am so, so proud of her.

I hope she knows it.
I can't be there that day. But in my heart, I'm right there beside of you, holding your hand.

Plans which are not well thought out.

In an effort to better myself and stop saying so many damn curse words, I have instituted a "cursing jar" in my office. Except I call it a "cussin' jar". Because I live in East Tennessee.

I am charging myself a fine every time I curse. The fine is 25 cents.

It is currently 8:26am. There is a total of six dollars in the jar.

Also? An IOU for $12.

Additionally? I think I really need to rethink this plan. Because I'm paying myself. And frankly? That just motivates me to curse more. Because I really need a new pair of capri pants.

Maybe I should give myself a quarter every time I don't say a curse word. Like when Moron #12 that I work with comes in and says something really stupid and I don't say, "You are a damn waste of sperm!" and instead say, "You are like a monkey flinging poo at the zoo." He'd probably get the point anyway, right?

Maybe?

I don't know. I really want those capri pants.