Motherhood Uncensored

Check up.

Every now and then the bouts of anxiety can be a good thing, like when it sends you straight to the dermatologist for a skin check. 

I could have sworn that the freckle on my arm was growing and raised and after Googling images and crying my eyes out, I just made an appointment. 

Turns out that wasn't the one I should have been worried about. The one on my leg was questionable, but turned out to be fine after they removed it (and the one that was bugging me on my arm). 

The exam was free. The removals were $100. The peace of mind was priceless. 

I'm thankful for folks like Heather and Megan, who both openly shared their experiences with skin cancer on their blogs. There's my dear college friend Kara, who had skin cancer and then fought it again another two times. 

And then Dawn.

I don't really have any words. 

We can all agree that cancer's an asshole. A big fucking asshole.

But when it comes to skin cancer, you can actually beat much of it to the punch, which I admit to not being as vigilant as I should be. The kids get slathered up in sunscreen and I just spray and go, doing my best to barely smudge it on my face and shoulders. 

Remember the oxygen mask analogy? It applies here to. 

Heather is donating a dollar to March of Dimes and Melanoma Research Foundation for each comment left on her post through Wednesday. Please go and show your support.

Who's responsible for Seth MacFarlane's Oscar performance? We are.

I have a strict no-cartoon adult show personal policy, which is why I'd suck at The Simpsons trivia. It's also why I had no idea who Seth MacFarlane was last night other than a dead ringer for Peter Brady.

The Family Guy! Ted! 

I admit I was uncomfortable after the first joke he made about Ben Affleck's Best Director nomination snub, but then came the Boob Song and the "Aren't you glad you got the flu so you could fit in those dresses?" "jokes" and all I wanted was for the Jaws music to start playing for him any time he opened his mouth. 

Then it turns out The Onion called 9-year old Best Actress nominee a cunt on Twitter, which they later deleted and apologized for, but not until the Tweet became widely circulated and had most of us wondering what the fuck is going on with this world. 

As much ire as there is about The Onion's tweet, there's as much defense for Seth MacFarlane's performance, even though NPR, The Atlantic, USA Today, and Salon (just to name a bunch) pretty much tore him to pieces. 

"It's his act," a commenter replied. 

"You need to lighten up," someone told me on Twitter. 

And well, because Jennifer Lawrence thought it was funny then maybe we all just don't have a sense of humor. Because we can trust an Academy Award winner to critique the organization that just handed her a bazillion more dollars wrapped up in that coveted statue. 

No, we all just don't have a misogynist sense of humor.

I'm not surprised one bit that people are defending Seth MacFarlane, even women with boobs who somehow feel superior at their appreciation for his jokes. He's made these kind of jokes for 12 years, right? We've watched his shows and gone to his movies. We've handed over our money to support this crap. 

Well I haven't, anyway. But that's how he got the gig right? Not because no one had ever heard of him. 

Can you imagine if the tables were turned? And Tina Fey and Amy Poehler did a whole song and dance number about seeing the pensises of actors in films. Or they riffed about Christianity. Or made a black face joke.

Sounds awful, not to mention sexist and racist. 

Yeah, it's not their schtick but it never would be. We'd never allow women to be so woefully offensive without verbally casting stones at her in a public forum. 

So why does Seth MacFarlane get a "get out of jail free" card? 

Because we give it to him, willingly. 

Edited: Gawker did a montage of all the sexist and racist Seth MacFarlane jokes. 

The best accidental conversation with a voice in my rearview mirror that I've ever had.

Last night I was trying to adjust the rearview mirror in my husband's car and I accidentally called OnStar. 

I was looking for the button tab thing that you just flip, but he has a fancy new car with the mirrors that are supposed to automatically change or something but they didn't and instead of pulling the tab or just, you know, adjusting the entire mirror, I pushed the OnStar button. 

I then pushed it a few hundred more times to get it to stop ringing but it was too late and suddenly I was talking to a perky lady in my rearview mirror. 

"Hello! How can we help you this evening? Have you called to get instructions on how to use your new Chevy Sonic?" 

OH. THE. IRONY. 

"Oh, uh, hi there, actually, I just accidentally pushed the button trying to figure out how to fix the rearview mirror." 

"Well, that's no problem Mrs. MY HUSBAND'S NAME HOLY SHIT HOW DOES SHE KNOW THIS. I can send you over to our NAME OF DEPARTMENT FOR IDIOTS LIKE YOU WHO DON'T KNOW HOW TO USE THEIR CAR." 

"Oh *chuckle* that's not necessary. It appears I have actually figured it out myself. You'd never know it but I do actually have a college degree!"

"*Laughter* Oh I needed to hear that tonight!"

Glad to provide you with some entertainment, lady in my rearview mirror.

"Now, is there anything else I can help you with?" 

"No no! But thank you so much for your, uh, company. Sorry to bother you!" 

I hung up and giggled a bit about with my daughter, who seemed completely unphased that I just called someone who knew pretty much everything about me with my rearview mirror because like duh this happens all the time. 

Is this how it felt for our parents when they first saw a fax machine and were like BUT HOW DOES IT SEND THE WORDS?

God, I'm getting old. 

{photo via}

Don't call me sweetheart. It's ma'am to you

To be fair, I was completely exhausted and probably a bit hungover after a few days of walking, gambling and boozing in Las Vegas, about to board a red-eye flight home.

I was also still a little riled up from a few ridiculously sexist interactions at CES 2013 that Liz and I had experienced. 

Which is why it's a miracle I didn't go completely male flight attendant who called me "sweetheart" when I tried to get my small, undersized carry-on on the plane. 

And no, it wasn't a nice "sweetheart" or a loving "sweetheart" it was a "Hey, you stupid bitch I'm going to say this because I'm pretending to be nice but I'm actually an asshole" kind of "sweetheart." 

I've flown enough to know that if you've got a fairly small bag, you can bring it down the jetway and the flight attendants at the door should allow you to try to get your bag on if they haven't been notified from the back of the plane if there is absolutely no bin space left. 

This happened on the way to Las Vegas, and the lovely female flight attendant told me to give it a try since she hadn't heard the official word from the back of the plane. 

However, on this flight, the gate agents forced me to tag it, but when I got to the door, I figured it couldn't hurt to try; if I couldn't fit the bag in, I'd walk it back out myself. 

But I couldn't even step onto the plane without this guy basically grabbing the bag out of my hand and forcing me to put it aside for checking. 

"Is there absolutely no space," I asked him. "Because I'd really like to try to bring it on if..." He interrupted me. 

"No, sweetheart. It has a tag. It has to be checked." 

I don't even remember if that's what he said because I was so pissed about him calling me "sweetheart." 

Would he have called a guy "dude?" 

I'm guessing a business traveler, or the like, who might have been treated just as rudely would have at least been afforded a "sir." 

As I put my bag down and entered the plane, I looked him in the eyes and told him "Don't call me sweetheart" as I made my way back to my seat. And surprise, tons of overhead bin space, at which point I asked the flight attendant in the back if I could go get my bag to place it there. 

"Sure!" she said. "Let's make room!" 

Needless to say, I smiled smugly as I walked off the plane and back on again with my bag, the guy again trying to stop me until I interrupted him to say "I found a spot in the back and the flight attendant instructed me to come get my bag, HONEY." 

Which was not a nice "honey" or a loving "honey" but a "screw you asshole" kind of "honey." 

Next time I won't be so nice. 

2013: Days full of wonder without any mistakes in them. Yet.

Maybe it's because I'm pretty sure I'm an atheist. Or that my husband has been away every single Christmas for the last six years.

But more and more I feel like the New Year is my biggest holiday of the year. 

There's a drive inside me to clean up and clear out the closets, the cabinets, and yes, the cubby holes in my mind (and heart) still carrying the crap from the year before. 

I can't quite say how long they'll all stay so organized and empty, but the possibility that comes with January 1 brings me more hope than December 25 and Baby Jesus ever did. 

My imaginative mind has always conjured up the wildest of fantasies because that's how I survived a fairly unhappy childhood. And as adult, the stories I create in my head, the endless possibilities of awesome and awful help me cope with anxiety that brews beneath the surface. 

But every year I'm shocked and surprised, not just by the sad, scary events, in both my life and in the world, but also by the exciting new opportunities, the jaw-dropping "holy shit I can't believe this is happening" moments, none of which I, the great anxious visionary, could have ever seen coming. 

And this is what makes me hopeful for 2013.

Because if good things are happening that even I haven't imagined, then that leaves lots of room for amazing things. 

May this year be THE year. A fresh, new start. 

Days full of wonder without any mistakes in them. 

Well yet, anyway. 

Happy 2013.