Yo, Special Snowflakes. NEWSFLASH.

An Open Letter to the Children of the Newest Generation

You’re all losers.

Yes, sure, you’re all unique little children. No one in the world is quite like you. Like snowflakes, you are one of a kind. However, there are also BILLIONS OF FUCKING SNOWFLAKES.

I never bought into that “no two snowflakes are the same” bullshit. Mother Nature is creative but she also creates a shitton of snow. Surely she repeats a pattern occasionally.


Not that special.

Not that special.

Many of you are being coddled by your parents, teachers, bus drivers, pediatricians, neighbors, tween bands, relatives, veterinarians, monkeys, pretty much anyone you come in contact with. And while their heads may all be in the right place, they are morphing you into a generation of noncompetitive wusses.

Everyone gets a trophy. Everyone gets a prize. Everyone gets a medal. No one feels left out.



The world is driven by competition. Getting into college, finding an internship, getting a job, busting your balls for a promotion, starting your own business…guess what, tiny shitheads. It all requires a competitive drive. Which you aren’t learning to hone. You’re learning that everyone wins. Sweet participant trophy, dude.

Why this rant, why now? Because making the game Operation have EASIER PIECES TO REMOVE is stupid. The whole fun point of that game is the buzz. I don’t ever recall actually PLAYING the game growing up, just fishing the pieces out or holding the thing against the metal to BE buzzed. Making it easier sounds boring as shit and I’m pretty sure that actual game play IS boring. Side note, is the fart noise and noxious cloud in that commercial really necessary? Are you guys sinking that low that a game itself isn’t enticing but added bonus TV farts will make you jump for joy and beg your parents to get it for you?

I mean, farts are funny but come on.

Still not that special.

Still not that special.

I also heard some of you don’t keep score in sports? What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re telling me that you play the game for an hour or through the acceptable amount of innings/periods/quarters and then….leave? What’s the point? I’m glad you’re getting exercise, but seriously. What’s the point? Next you’re going to tell me you don’t wear uniforms because you don’t want to differentiate from each other because you’re all so equally awesome.

Why even bother going through tournaments, then? Or do those just cease to exist in this non-score keeping world and everyone gets a Thanks for Playing, Champ type prize at the end of the season? We all got something in my softball summer leagues growing up, but you did NOT want to leave with one of those piddly participant Thanks for Trying to Play medals, you wanted the two #@%! foot tall monstrosity that you’d admire for a month and then shove in the corner of your closet.

But dammit, that was a glorious, prideful month of admiration. THAT YOU EARNED.

I took a softball TO THE FACE to earn that @%@#$! trophy. (True story. Except it was second place and the trophy was only like a foot and a half. BUT STILL.)

Someday, sooner than later, you’ll need to compete for something you really want.

I’m telling you this as a person who lacks a TRUE competitive drive, children. I know how hard it is to pull enough passion out of myself to push me forward. While I am good at what I do, I also lack the drive to aim for greatness. I am usually satisfied with mediocre and I’ll bitch about not getting a better job/salary/raise/promotion though deep down I know it’s my own fault.

OK, maybe some of you are a little special.

OK, maybe some of you are a little special.

Who do I blame? ME. Me, myself and those 15 years of dance lessons. I didn’t learned how to compete there but holy shit can I tap, especially in front of a room full of senior citizens. Lots of good that does me these days. I blame my short stature for not making the high school volleyball team, thus ending my competitive sport spirit. I blame my good brains for getting more than decent grades without seriously trying, thus ending desire to push for more.

I’M TRYING TO HELP YOU HERE. Be competitive. Fight. Strive for greatness. Find passion in something. Admit that you’re the best or find the person who IS the best and #@%!# beat them at their game. Not literally beat them. JUST AT THEIR GAME. Don’t be ashamed. But stay humble. Play the old version of Operation. You’re gonna get buzzed (and not from Boone’s Farm). Life stings. Get used to it.


Good luck. You’re gonna need it.


Parenting According to Big A

So I’m a little hopped up on (approved) cold meds and fruit juice and was just energetically ranting and raving to Big A about all the stuff we have to do and learn in a short time. Having never really dealt with babies and hearing a lot of semi-horror stories, I was not buying into his tale of all-they-do-is-eat-sleep-and-poop. BUT WHAT IF I DROP HIM OR MESS HIM UP SOME HOW?

His cool-headed response?

“You know how many idiots raise babies? All we have to do is keep it alive. He won’t be a douche because we aren’t douchebags.”

Words to parent by. Thanks, honey. I feel better already.

There’s Something About Facebook

I’ve told my family. I’ve told a handful of close friends. I’ve told utter strangers on the interwebz.

But there’s just something about Facebook.

It’s not that I don’t want people to know. They’re all going to find out eventually.

It’s not that I don’t want the attention. I love attention. I’m the baby of my family and the only girl. I thrive on attention.

I figured I would do it after the first visual confirmation. Got that. Then it was upon entering the second trimester. Well, that’s, like, practically tomorrow (where the F did that time go??). I am still holding out.

Drink beer. Get name on wall.

College. Drink beer. Get name on wall.

I think it’s because the majority of my Facebook friends are from the college era. And I wasn’t exactly the picture of responsibility back then. Unless your definition of responsibility includes not studying, copious drinking, fake IDs and 4am cheese fries (I miss you, Richards!). Usually the night(s) before finals. AND my frat boy husband was worse than me.

Will our parenting style be the same way? Probably.

And everyone knows it.

Shit Just Got Real

Dearest Doughhead,

You really do exist. There you were, on-screen, in black and white and shades of grey, having made yourself a nice little squatter home. You look like a hamster.

There was only one of you, thank Taco Bell.

Now, if I was a normal, excited mommy-to-be, I would post this lovely image of fact:

But I’m not. I am a Bourbon thirsty crazy woman who thinks ultrasounds look like blobs with no discernible features which require no squee-ing over. So, to help those like me who can never find the head, butt or anything in between and find regular ultrasounds to be a yawnfest, I am posting this:

Party over heeee-re!

But I swear to god, tiny little doughhead hamster, if you pull the Full House Aunt-Becky-and-Uncle-Jesse-are-having-twins thing I will f$@^ing RAGE. You know, the episode where Becky had all her tests and everything and then BAM! Seven months into it SURPRISE MOTHERF@$%*S, you have two in there lol one must have been hiding. I love the shit outta Full House, but don’t you dare suddenly morph into two and pretend it’s funny to make that episode my real life. You got it, dude?

But holy hell you’re really in there. #cuescarymusic

You’re a Football Fan, Baby!

Dear !#^$ Baby.

Congrats! You love football! If you don’t, you will be punted from the family. From August thru January, you will live and die by all-day Sundays, Monday nights and the occasional Thursday. NO SATURDAYS. We don’t do the College Football thing in this house. Fantasy football? Stats? Player facts? You’ll know it all.

It would be in your best interest to be a Steelers fan. Sadly, my #1 team is the Vikings and, well, aside from one player, they aren’t really going anywhere. Your dad, and I by proxy and because he has made me watch the games every season for six years and it’s hard not to be a fan, is a Steelers fan and they are way less embarrassing to root for. Plus, Polamalu’s hair is a-maz-ing. (Although, to be fair, Jared Allen used to have a mullet. And you will learn that your mom @#%*ing loves mullets.)

Not only that, you’ve already been to a game at Heinz field where they kicked the snot out of the Patriots (Sidenote: If you’re a Patriots fan you will also be booted from the family). Remember a few weeks ago when there may have been a lot of up and down movement in your little bubble and you may have gotten a little seasick? My bad, I didn’t know you were there yet and I was jumping up and down a lot. I don’t think you had ears yet, so hopefully there is no ear drum damage. And, once again, sorry about the beer.

During game time you will be expected to be on your best behavior and entertain yourself so Daddy and I can watch the game and curse in peace. If you want to get all riled up with us, we’d love that. I’m just trying to give you fair warning on what goes on in this household.

So there you have it. You’ll probably be put in football onesies and all that shit because that shit is ridiculously cute. Probably also some baseball crap, but that’s a different post. And at least with baseball, my team is better than your dad’s choice, but I’m sure he’d beg to differ.

Football. You’ll love it. If not, find something to do quietly in your lame corner.