Gather Christians!

Do I really want to go down this path?

Oh yes I do!

And, why?

No reason, just sitting here on a Saturday afternoon while my brood, well OK two cannot be a brood, but saying 'my pair' could cause those twisted minds to think I'm referring to my..... feet. So, while my twins (do I hear applause from fellow "blessed because we're special" twin mamas?) are probably enjoying their last afternoon with electricity at their grandma's place. After Phet hits us tonight, we know there won't be power, we know KESC will take it all very personally and probably not restore power for a week, we know Karachi will be flooded beyond belief, and we know the poor and homeless will be dying out there, while we sit and lament about no electricity and internet. Our phones will die and OMG it'll be like experiencing another Facebook ban! How will we survive?

Who cares? This post is about Christianity.

Oh no it isn't.

Oh yes, it bloody well is.

Well, to be fair it's about Catholics in Karachi.

So, if all denominations would like to join in and read, please take your places as if in heaven, and pretend you're the only ones with the True Word. And, Catholics please don't scramble for the front row seats... I know you have the basilica and all that expensive art, but there's no need to be snotty about it.

Are you getting your children ready to receive their First Holy Communion in a few years? Is the question I've been getting asked by a lot of people lately.

No, we're Satan worshipers!

Kidding fundies, please don't burn me at the stake.

Well, I really haven't thought about it. OK I have. Once. I mean which Christian raised (in Karachi) woman in her right mind would not think of her child's FHC? Where shall we have the reception? Will the guest list exceed 500 people? Who will design and make my daughter's first time virginal white dress? Will my family in the U.S/Canada/London/UAE offer to send us the flowers and candles? Must rush off to Khori Garden to check for just the right ceramic figurines for the giveaways. Who's the best cake maker? And speaking of cakes, there simply must be a centerpiece above it waiting to rain down confetti, when the cake is cut and champagne is popped, while drum rolls and cymbal songs crash out of the over sized speakers set up in strategic locations around the Sheraton's Darbar ballroom. Open bar? But, of course! That's a tradition we can never forgo on.... Our grandfathers would haunt us from their graves if we did.

Just in case you're wondering, I really am discussing First Holy Communions in the Catholic community of Karachi, not weddings. Note, I said 'Not weddings."

The season is nearly upon us now as a few hundred parents around Karachi are busy spending all of their summer, preparing for the FHCs in the fall. I've ordered my daughter's dress from ETC Collections, one over zealous mother informed me smugly a couple of weeks ago. The dresses are expensive this year, starting at around Rs. 15,000 and reaching nearly 25,000 or more.

Insert classic jaw-drops-to-the-floor moment, or in my world the typical OMGWTF-is-she-talking-about? moment.

Oh Trevor! (as in the Trevor Castellino, creator, designer, and overall head honcho of ETC Collections). How far you've come!

But, where are we going?

And, when I say 'we', I really mean they (as in them). Because, no way in all the raging fires of Satan's lair would I pay that much for a dress for my daughter's FHC, a time might I add, when she's supposed to be receiving the... ahem body of Christ for the first time.

Ballrooms? Really? To celebrate a spiritual sacrament of the church by a child who barely understands what is going on?

*Roars of disapproval from the front row Catholics.*

Of course they understand!!!!! They're all of nine years old! They understand what it means to accept Christ into their hearts, through a wafer on the tongue. They get it and you're a cynical bitch!

You bet your ass I am.

But, it doesn't take away from the fact that little Melissa has no frickin clue what she's doing. None, nada. Because, what she really cares about (and you Khi Catholics know I'm right) is that she'll be all pretty in gauzy white that day, with a wreath of flowers on her head, and low heeled, white patent leather dancing shoes on her feet. She's also counting the gift money btw, and will inwardly curse at Aunty Josephine and others like her, who gift pretty pink rosaries and prayer books. Although not as much as her mother does about her shocking pink banarasi sari and six inch high golden slippers, for the mass... For the reception it'll be form fitting, red silk, with courtesy plunging neckline and stilettos

Where's daddy?

On the phone with the booze supplier.

Where will daddy be on that day?

Looking uncomfortable in a three piece suit at the church, and sweating profusely. And, later at the reception, simultaneously guarding and guzzling the booze.

Our Father, who art in heaven

What kind of a father have you given me here on earth?

Where was I going with this?

Right! Am I getting my children ready for this? I guess the answer for me at the moment is, a resounding no.

No, I am not getting my kids ready to receive their FHC, no I do not want to join this particular herd of "must have confetti" and "My daughter's dress is more expensive than yours neener neener" bullshit crowd. I'm naturally competitive yes, but never at the expense of my kids.

I still have a few years to decide, and my decision will be based on whether I consider it the right time for my kids spiritually or not. Not silk and fluff.

Break the bullshit tradition... That's what I do.

So Catholics.... Lay off!

Posing for Facebook!

A few days ago, a good friend of mine posted something on her Facebook status, which gave me a laugh. It's been working it's way into a blog post ever since, and finally today after successfully putting aside all the stresses of daily life, I feel ready to write about it.

Her status:

I have been wondering about this for a while now. I thought I'd ask:-) You guys who go to bars and parties and all that...Is there ever any actual fun being had (i.e. dancing, drinking, laughing)? Or is just a bunch of people packed in a space taking hundreds of posed pictures of themselves to post on FB? Anyone?

Hmm, the Facebook generation strikes again. And, apparently they've been at it for quite a while, because this is not the first time I've encountered someone mentioning people at parties, obsessed with taking pictures for Facebook. I was at a get-together a while back, when I laughingly said we all hadn't yet taken a fb group picture. Big mistake! The cell phones appeared out of pockets and handbags almost magically, and everyone scrambled to group together as if drawn by a call for prayer.

I will never make such an asinine joke again.

Teenagers, I don't mind so much, and not even 20 somethings to be honest. Many of them are still living in denial of growing up. But 30 somethings? Really? You make plans to meet up with friends, get dressed to the nines, pour out the drinks, turn on the music, and spend the remainder of your time posing for pictures? For Facebook? I came across an album of 304 pictures taken by one person, at one party. And, said person was also tagged in several other albums, all containing not less than 200-300 pictures... At the same party.

If the Huz were around, I'd get him to do the math, because I suck at stuff like this.

OK, granted I come from a generation where cell phones were a luxury, and digital cameras probably didn't exist. Or if they did, we had no clue till our rich friends showed them off, while their parents weren't around. So, we made out OK with our stone age cameras, and waited patiently for our films to get developed at the Kodak shop, over a two or three day period. Later, we lucked out with "One Hour Only" developing, which really meant waiting two hours or more in the shop for it.

No, I'm not in my 50s.

Anyway, so with limited resources, we got around to taking maybe two or three pictures at parties. And, now should I come across any of those pictures (which my generation loves to scan and upload on Facebook, as if to say "Here you go you young constant picture taking suckers, we had fun too, so THERE!") I'm amazed to find that I can remember so many details of those events. Who hosted the party, who wore the most hideous outfit, who passed out from too much drinking (or other indulgences), the couple who never got off the dance floor, how the host's father got sloshed, and insisted on dancing with all the pretty, young girls, sometimes OK most times holding them in a death grip, while he attempted to jive on rap music.

My mind took snap shots.

And, now what have you but a generation who prefer to group together, all with extended right arms, the hands of which are firmly clutching the latest in Smart Phones, while they strike pose after pose after damn Facebook pose. Well, looky here folks, this is us entering the party, this is us saying hello to each other, this is us opening the beer bottles, this is us drinking the opened beer, see it's branded stuff, this is what we're wearing, this is the side view of our slutty outfits, now the back view, and these are our shoes. This is us in a 'couples only group,' and another group shot, and wait! Another group shot. Now this is us attempting to dance, and yes, the latest dance steps all require us to keep our right hands extended, while we move like robots so as not to blur the picture... And, here are another 50 group shots... Just the boys, just the girls, just the girls with one boy, just the boys showing off their middle fingers.

How do they not die from so much fun and happiness?

Why does Facebook not explode from the weight of all these albums?

*Sigh* I guess I sound all old and demented, but in my defense this is not what some of us consider fun. Good times don't revolve around how many pictures you get to take at your party or club night. I've been there, done it all (and probably much, much more because I didn't waste my time holding up a camera). I vividly remember laughing till my eyes smarted while I watched my friend S play out a charade, in a game which was not Charades, just a few months ago. He was hilarious! And, there were Smart Phones on the coffee table people! But, we were too busy having a good time to notice. I'm guessing a ton of us who are young enough to remember, yet old enough to know that this zillion picture taking nonsense is nothing but a waste of time, which would be better spent having a blast say WTF? to it all.

But, to each their own I guess.

Is it Wrong?

That every time my kids talk about stuff they're going to do when they grow up, like get married (their newest favorite thing to talk about) or become three or more of the six hundred things they want to be when they're older, or back talk adults because now they're kids and have to be "prespectful" (respectful) and "all that stuff grown ups think is how kids should be" ***insert gagging noises*** I remind them that it can happen only if they go to college first?

B was talking to the neighbor the other day, and she asked that typical adult to child question. "So what do you want to be when you grow up?" His standard response this month has been "A ROCK STAR." Up till last month, he wanted to be a red sports car, and the month before, a red dragon. This kid is obsessed with the color red, and I swear his TV time is limited. So, she's just about to alter the look of amusement on her face, (what would she have thought, had he told her her wanted to be a computer game and live in a monitor?) when he follows with "But, I have to go to Rock College first." She: Do you mean music school? He: No, Rock College is where rockers go to learn all about becoming Rock Stars.... You can't do anything in life if you don't go to college you know............ My mom says so."

He sounded like a parrot. His eyes took on a glassy look. How often do I say those words to my five year olds? How much am I brainwashing my kids? And, do they know when I say college, I really mean therapy?

Because, that's what J and I are saving for.

Fears of No Substance

I don't remember the last time we encountered a full weekend. And, by that I mean having some place to go, something different to do from Friday night, to Sunday evening.... Without a break. This weekend was somewhat like that... OK exactly like that, and I found I couldn't wake up on Monday morning, because my body ached, my head was the testing ground for atomic bombs, and my eyes itched.

It wasn't a hangover.

And, then I did something stupid. I got into an argument with an ultra Catholic boy scout type, who with every ounce of loyalty he possessed, every Bible verse he could Google, and every argument for "forgiveness" he could invent, defended the RCC for sheltering priests who were accused of child molestation.

I lost my cool in a way I haven't since the time I was a teenager, and full of self righteous rebellion against authority. It wasn't pretty, and it made the atomic bombs go off faster and with more power than Iran claims to have. So, I ranted to the huz who prefers to take the more laid back approach. "Don't argue with idiots."

But he isn't an idiot. He's a sanctimonious prick.

And, I probably need to stop speaking out against these types of things, or so people say. I don't see it happening anytime soon. I am incapable of allowing injustices to be swept under the rug once I've spotted them. It keeps my popularity ratings low (another nugget of information from folks around me), but I wasn't aware I even needed to have a rating, or was given one. I wasn't aware that I am by some silent, unofficial law not allowed to voice my opinion and disgust against an institution I was born and raised in. Although, sometimes vague memories of instructions on how to wear the blinders flit through my brain. It was part and parcel for belonging to the club. I refused to conform then, and I won't do it now. Besides, the punishment of ex-communication does not intimidate me. Never has, never will.

It's strange that today I feel a certain sense of gratitude towards the sanctimonious prick I argued with yesterday. He reminded me how dangerous it is to cave in to fear. Fear of an institution who can, and does wield it's power over the masses. Fear of not being accepted into what has become an elitist club for many, where leadership is faltering, and no one wants to do a damn thing about it. The fear of taking a stand and saying wrong is wrong, no matter what the cost to your social status, or promise for fulfillment in an afterlife.

Fears of no substance.

Dear "Elite" Mom

I've been growing increasingly irritated with you the last month or so, because I feel I'm being practically dragged into your sisterhood of mothers, with kids who just happen to attend the same school as mine do, yet have almost nothing in common with me. Nearly every week, I encounter one or three of you "elite" moms, and it's gotten to the point where I feel Karachi is loaded with ridiculous women. I mean thank you for inviting my kids to your child's birthday party, which resembles a circus, but it wouldn't be wise for us to meet up for coffee, or "do" lunch during the week. For one thing, I "do" lunch with my kids everyday.

Shocking!

But yes, sadly (in your opinion) this is the life I chose when I decided to stay home and raise my kids. And no, I do not have a nanny who cares for them while I attend mid week lunches, or spend hours at the salon. Sue me.

And, second of all I think it's both pathetic and hilarious that you arrive at the school gate, allow your driver to hold up traffic while he jumps out of the car, and opens your door, and you instruct one of your maids to sit still, while your two year old screams bloody murder in her lap, and then proceed to yell at the other maid to hurry up and get out of the car because you don't want to be late.

I slip my phone out of my pocket, and yeah, I don't carry my handbag to school because I have two hands to hold, two backpacks to juggle, two water bottles to prevent from being dragged on the road, and crazy traffic to fight my way through, while listening to a couple of excited voices telling me about their day. And, no I don't carry designer bags everywhere I go. But, moving on... I'm going to pretend now you don't exist, because I know you'll grab my attention in one way or another.

You don't disappoint.

I'm about to start pretending, when you march right up to the closed gate and loudly ask what time the bell rings. The guard gives you a look which says "You don't know what time your child gets off from school?" and then mumbles that you need to wait five more minutes. So, you huff and haw, till you realize there are people around you. Also waiting. Your eyes quickly pass over the two hijab clad women with whom you avoid making eye contact, as if they're contagious. You step away from the males, stare at a few maids, wrinkle your nose at another woman's shoes, and then glance down at your pretty slippers and smile.

And, then you spot me.

I pretend I'm busy texting someone on my phone.

I feel your eyes raking over my jeans and kurti, my barely combed hair, twisted into a knot and held with a clip, my phone which wild horses couldn't drag my eyes away from at that moment. You move closer... It is a Blackberry!

And, you've found a friend.

"Does your child go to school here?" You ask.

I groan inwardly, and look up at your face half hidden by massive Jackie O shades (which look ridiculous on your face btw). "Yes they do" Because you know, otherwise I would be just another psycho woman who hangs around outside school gates in the burning sun.

And, so begins the conversation

You: Which class?

Me: Kindergarten

You: Oh, my daughter is in Kindergarten.

Me: That's nice.

You: I don't usually pick her up, but the teacher wanted to see me today. She sent a note yesterday... Such short notice... I have a lunch appointment at 1:30, so this is really inconvenient.

Me: I can imagine.

Then I start my slow turn away, but it's not meant to be.

"And, my maid took the day off today, so it's been chaos since morning!"

I cannot.ever. and I mean EVER, resist this kind of stuff. I'm such a sucker for punishment, and a complete blog fodder instigator.

Me: How many maids do you have?

You: I have three... Well, two are nannies, and one does all the cleaning etc. I have a man who cooks.

And when you say "man," you do not mean "husband." I know that much.

Me: And, how many children do you have?

You (confused): Just two... That's why I have two nannies.

Me: That makes sense.

You: You know how difficult it is to manage kids, and my maid knows exactly the kind of day I would have if she doesn't show up, so she takes advantage and all these days off, and then my other maid has to neglect my daughter so she can do all the housework.

School Bell!

I smile sympathetically, but it's really a "STFU" grimace, and start walking. But, you match me step for step, rambling on about your maid problems, and the stress you endure daily at the hands of your three shrews. Then suddenly, all that's forgotten and I feel you pressing something into my hand, while you beam at me and say "Let's get together for coffee or lunch one day, it was SO nice meeting you... How about Thursday morning? Is 11:30 good? I'll ask a few friends to join us.... But, I have to be done by 1:00 because I have to be somewhere else by then."

So, while the tune for The Twilight Zone fills my head, I look down at a pretty cream color business card, with a golden motif and lettering. Your name and cell phone number printed neatly in the middle. And, nothing else. I mumble something about my kids waiting and practically run off.

Much later, once the kids have eaten lunch, and settled into boisterous play at home, I remove your embossed card from my pocket, place it on the table, pull my note book and pen toward me, and start to write.

Things to Do Before Calling and Confirming Meet-Up with School Gate Mom

Get your hair cut and styled.

Reserve a table three days a week for club coffee mornings.

Go to the gym everyday and work out.

Eat a 1500 calorie meal at some swanky place right after that.

Apply for 9-5 job, or insist J get rich enough, and then join at least two charity committees.

Employ someone to drive the car, or alternatively employ someone who will sit quietly in the back seat while you drive yourself everywhere.

Name him "Driver."

Import maids and nannies from remote villages across the country.

The younger the better.

Pretend you shop in Dubai and Europe only, but sneak into Zainab Market and buy all the export reject clothes you can.

Tut Tut and snicker at anyone who buys shoes from a Zamzama shop.

Insist J leave his job and start up some "business" so you can talk about it vaguely to your new friends.

Learn to complain incessantly about maid problems.

Find male, Bengali cook.

I rip your card to shreds and throw it in the trash.

The Imaginary Child Prodigy!

A couple of days ago while sorting through some old papers, I came across a few drawings made by my daughter, which really should have been in her box file and not mine. But, when I turned it over I knew why I had kept it. It was the first colored picture she made of the two of us together. In typical four year old style, there were two stick figures (even though I'm no stick), both with flowing long hair, and triangle looking dresses which I know she'll one day argue are "A line and cool." As I stared at the picture, smiling at the butterflies she had drawn in the background, which really resemble ants marching across the page, I noticed she had spent considerable time paying attention to detail. The shoes on both our feet (also looking like ants marching) matched, and they contrasted with our dresses, which also matched each other, while the butterflies matched the color of the dresses and shoes. "She's a regular Picasso" I thought to myself, or rather "Valentino, watch out!"

She happily attended Art Camp last year with her brother, and I ran out of places to display all sorts of strange and wonderful pieces of art they created every.single.day! We smile, we gush, we tell them it looks "FABULOUS" while racking our brains trying to guess what it really is, because they're standing there, looking at us all excited and gleeful. And, if you don't guess correctly, you're screwed!

Children are wonderful creatures.

And, they're not all geniuses!

So, now I'm going to slide into the rant you knew was coming. Mothers who give birth to budding Picassos aka child prodigies. And, I'm not talking about real child prodigies! I'm talking about the imaginary ones, some mothers insist are several cuts above their counterparts. Have you seen an oil painting done by a two year old?

I was gifted one.

It must be so satisfying to dip your child's fingers in oil paint and then forcibly drag it across a canvas, to create a riot of colors designed to look childlike, yet professional.

Who are they kidding? Other moms?

Moms who are almost daily presented with some piece of art, or a pebble dripping ink, or a cupcake with teeth dents in it, and a proud voice saying "Look Mommy, I made train tracks on the muffin!" Are they trying to kid those mothers? Well, we're not being fooled for a second.

Your child is not a genius, and you need to give it a rest. Or rather give little Jane a piece of paper and some crayons and let her draw stick figure pictures of her grandparents. Allow your child to be a child, and get over your stupid desire to raise perfect children, when you yourself are average or below that.

Stop caking their faces with makeup at beauty pageants when they're 4 years old! Or even 10. Forcing them to attend the dance classes they loathe, because you one day dreamed of being a ballerina is ridiculous. And, just because your great-uncle Jim strums a guitar at family get togethers, while singing off key, does not mean musical talent runs in your family. Doing their homework is not cool either.

And, don't even get me started on extremist red-shirting plans, when they should have started Kindergarten two years ago.

Of course people have the right to raise their kids how they want to. But, I wish these mothers would stop for a minute and think of the damage they're doing to their own child. Forget about the rest of us with kids who are just average, and might one day surprise us with some hidden talent. Think of how much your little one thinks they have to live up to? How insecure they must feel, because they know it's really Mommy who drew the picture for the competition she insisted they enter. How do you think she feels not being appreciated for who she is, and what she can do?

You're far from perfect, just like the rest of us.

Don't expect perfection from your kids.

Our New Digs!

The last couple of weeks have been nothing but a whirlwind of activity, while we packed up our stuff and moved into our new home. Good Lord! What a boring start to a blog post. Let me try again.

Moving can be a royal fucking pain in the ass!

When one has OCD!

Better?

Anyway, quick history. We were looking out for another place for a while now, and finally came across something which suited us well. However, since we're Pakistani and all, what suits us might not be considered acceptable for most people. Yes, I mean you western types. You should know that in Pakistan, everyone lives in huts.

Yes, huts!

We razed everything the British built for us after they left.

Who needs fantastic architecture right?

Contrary to what people in the west get to see on the news, Pakistan is a typical third world country, and we are poor. Dirt poor. So poor in fact, that only the very rich among us can afford to bake bricks to lay as walls for their homes. The rest of us poor folk settle for thatched roofs and bamboo walls, straw or mud flooring, and four foot holes in the ground which serve as our toilets.

But, we have wireless internet!

I get so tired of people constantly thinking we Pakistanis are a modern country. Tired of them thinking we have cable television, cars, fine dining restaurants and educational institutions. Tired of them thinking some of us actually wear western clothes, shop at malls and ***gasp*** speak English! So, I'll take this moment to give credit to my Mexican born English translator, without whom I could never blog, or sign my name. She's the "Press 1 for English" kind in case you were wondering.

Her family who have lived in America for a decade still press '2.'

So, our new house. It's fantastic, and since words cannot do it enough justice, I asked a British tourist to take a picture of it for everyone to see. In exchange I gave him some flat bread which was supposed to be my kids' dinner.

Isn't it awesome?

We're ordering our furniture from Pottery Barn!

Pictures of the interior coming soon! Have a good weekend everyone!

Valentine's Day Ideas - Umm Really?

So, I got another email forward today, and no there were no corpses in it. But, what with all the overflowing of love and mush because Valentine's day is tomorrow, this email titled "Valentine's Day Ideas" gave one some insight into how this day should be celebrated with the one you love. Honestly, they were practically insisting everyone do what they suggested.

Heading the list was

1. Think Back

It went on to ask the reader to remember those wonderful days, when they openly demonstrated their love for their spouse, in many small but meaningful ways. I remember writing little notes to my husband (then boyfriend). You know, those cute little bits of paper, with Have a great day hun, I love you... Muuuuah written in purple ink, and decorated with a few hearts? No really, I'm lying, I never did that even though I loved writing in purple ink then. So, I thought, why not write him a little note today, so I could slip it into his shoe tomorrow morning, and won't he be pleasantly surprised to find it. Grabbed my note cards, a black pen (sorry, no purple ink anymore since I'm all grown up now) and chewed the end trying to think of something romantic to write, without sounding 18.

I ended up writing out our grocery list for the week.

2. Create a Top 10 List of What You Like About Your Partner

Again, I tried...

Top 10 Things I Like About You

10. I like that you're a great father and husband, no wait.. I love that.

9. I like how you love me. Umm nope, I love that too.

8. I don't like how that sounded as if I were 15 years old

7. Oh, I like your taste in movies!

6. I like that you'll forget I said such a lame thing.

5. I can't do this.

4. Wait, let me try again.

3. I like how laid back you are.

2. This is the most asinine thing I've ever done.

1. I'd rather buy you boxers.

Moving on...

3. Jolt up happy memories with a blow-up print out of a picture of those "carefree days" and put it in a conspicuous place.

Clearly the author of that has NO idea how depressing it is to see "carefree" pictures of oneself from over a decade ago. Old pictures belong in albums for our children, and their children to laugh over. Please!

4. Instead of sitting in separate chairs while you watch your next movie on television, sit together on the couch, so that you can cuddle, and perhaps even steal a little kiss every now and then. For the Valentine weekend, you could rent a romantic movie.

What? And, not watch some thriller, while we munch take-out pizza, and maybe drink some beer while the kids sleep?

5. Give your partner a nice shoulder rub, a back or foot massage and/or a back scratching session.

Sometimes sex is the answer, believe me.

6. Make a fun desert for after dinner

Fun! After cooking all day, feeding the kids, making menu plans for the week, all I want to really do is cook some more stuff for after dinner. I'll send the kids to the neighbor's house, ignore that they have school the next day, and make dessert with the huz, so we can refuckingconnect! Lovely!

7. Heart Shaped Burgers

You are not.fucking.serious!

I don't get this.. All this "Be romantic" crap for Valentine's Day. I get that it's one of those overly commercial holidays, but can they please leave (some of) us very married people out of it? I love the odd card, and bunch of roses as much as the next wife, but my husband and I don't need to "re-connect" thank you very much. We're connected in ways most 20 somethings won't have a clue about, till they've birthed and lost sleep over a few babies of their own.

Our mundane day to day crap is what re-connects us. Those calls to say "I'll be home late," laughing together about something the kids did, talking about our tiring day every night, or even twice a week, brief "Hey, how are you doing honey?" moments all keep the love steady and strong. I no longer need to give my husband a foot massage to "bond" with him, because the looks we share over our helplessly laughing children's heads, bonds us for life. Completing years of marriage, knowing how much we've overcome, and how far we still have to go, holds us together better than concrete would. I don't have a list of 10 things I like about my husband, because I have a mental list of a billion things I love about him. He lives in our home, he earns a living which feeds my kids, he sleeps in my bed every night, he drops our kids to school each morning, he cleans up puke off the carpet ffs.

That's better than any store bought Hallmark card, my friends. And, if I want to just kick back, and relax in my PJs, while watching a movie with my husband this Valentine's Day, I will. Our sex life will not suffer for it, so screw you.

Happy Valentine's Day honey, I love you! Don't forget I still love purple roses! :D

Good Morning, Gone Bad!

So, picture this. You're up early on a lovely Wednesday morning, enjoy a nice cup of coffee out on your balcony, before you wake the huz and kids. You get them ready (the kids, not the huz), pack their lunches, and spend a good ten extra minutes taking care of those "must dos" they probably plan and plot every night to spring on your already cluttered brain each a.m. I must remove my pencil case from my backpack, rearrange it's contents, and put it back in... I must, I must! or I must ask Mommy if I can take my favorite doll to school, or my other favorite doll, or my other, other favorite doll. You get the picture. So, once they all leave, and silence descends, what do you do?

The laundry!

Well, yes, but only after you make yourself a nice big mug of coffee, and either watch the news, or go online. You never do laundry before you de-stress from the morning's madness. Never! And, if you do, then stop doing it, because it makes the rest of us lazy ass stay at home parents look bad.

Right, so you were supposed to be picturing something, and here it is again. The kids are gone, the spouse has left for work, you have your coffee cup steaming, the house is quiet and humming, and everything is lovely. Then you check your email, and there's one from estranged FIL. Nothing to be alarmed about, since all mails from the in-law camp are email forwards. You know, those annoying and crappy mails which you just delete without another thought? So, you get ready to hit 'delete' when you notice the title "Incorruptible Corpses."

Hmmm could this be some scientific article? You wonder, and you click 'Open'

BAD move!

Very bad!

Image after image after damn image of saint corpses! Or corpses of saints.

I mean... Who? Why? WTF?

Who sends people shit like that? Why the hell do they need to send it to anyone? WTF is their problem? Seriously!

And, some of them had their eyes open! OMG it freaked me the hell out! Like who the fuck wouldn't be freaked out by an image of an eyes open corpse of Imelda Lambertini, who apparently is some fourteenth century saint, who was twelve years old when she died?

Twelve!

Eyes wide open!

Corpse!

For the love of God, would people please, please stop ramming all this religious stuff down everyone's throats already? I am so sick of this shit, honestly! And, if that wasn't enough, there was all this bolded text praising Jesus and God. Really? You're praising God for a corpse? Have you stopped taking your meds? Do you even have meds? Is it OK if I insist you take meds? Like right now?

It's bad enough living in a place, where every other day you're subjected to news stories of violence, and horrible images, without having to open your personal email and see more crap. Now, I'll be dreaming about Imelda and all those saint corpses all night.

Message: Catholics! Bury your dead... PLEASE!