By MaryMac
I survived Hershey Park with my 4 kids this week (plus teen friend, so five altogether, and…wouldn’t you think Hershey’s Chocolate Martinis would be an obvious concession stand? cuzzz……). I had a blast- the weather was perfect, my kids didn’t whine (Benadryl before amusement park? always a good idea*).
Ferris Wheel from which I would have hurled myself if Comet seat belt didn’t fit
Things to keep in mind for next amusement park trip: Lose ten pounds, because, seriously, my ass barely fit in the Comet roller coaster. When it was time to get in, I looked down and I was like wow, were we skinny in the 80s when they built this thing or what?! I had a complete moment of near-panic attack when I went to buckle up- I was like dude, If this thing doesn’t click, I am going to ride to the top of the Ferris wheel and HURL MYSELF OFF OF IT. I had to squish around for a sec, then thankfully, it clicked. Damn. Note to roller coaster and airplane seat makers: WE ARE A BUNCH OF FAT ASSES NOW. Get some bigger goddamn seat belts! (Yeah, yeah, condescending potential commenter: I could lose the goddamn ten- or, um, 30 pounds- but I had four kids. So fuck off.)
‘Guests of a larger size’ is the new politically correct. Size discrimination lawsuit, anyone?
Right before you go in the park there is a row of sign measuring things where the kids stand to see if they are a “Miniature” or a “Hershey’s Kiss” (my 3 year old) or a “Reese’s” (my 6 year old) or a “Jolly Rancher” (my older kids). I like the irony of it being CANDY measurements (”eat candy while you’re here! your ass will still fit on most of our rides!”) and think they are missing one: The “King Size.” This would involve a truck scale on which you stand, and an animated inflatable KING SIZE CANDY dude grinning at you. If rides had the “King Size” guy, you could ride them.
I have fond memories of loving the old clackety-clack wooden coasters, all jerky and old school and stuff and….NO. I had a slamming headache and my neck and back required the 800mg Motrin I’d stuffed in my bag.
Life realization: I am too old and too fat for roller coasters.
Now, I mostly spent the day riding the small stuff with my two smaller kids while my two older kids rode things like the Fahrenheit (which has a 110-degree angle- you go in a 90 degree angle straight up like 85 stories or whatev, then you dangle down but can’t see the ground because the hill is inverted. I threw up just looking up at it from the ground). So I plenty of time to compile the following collection of amusing signs around the park. All for you, readers:
I need one of these signs in my kitchen. Sorry kids, the dishwasher’s in motion. Go away.
LET.GO. (Seriously, who holds hands with an infant? And, can infants on leashes get in?)
So go put your dog back in the car, asshat.
By a Hershey highway mile, the Ferris Wheel wins the ‘funniest signs on a ride’ award at Hershey Park. We begin with:
Luckily, riders do not need to be balanced, and are free to be loaded.
And yes, you’re the only one here without a date. Go get married instead of trying to ride the Ferris Wheel alone, dork. Seriously, you are a Lah-hoo-zah-her.
So much for hurling myself off- my family would NEVER win a lawsuit with this warning sign around. Also, I consider them developmental challenges, not limitations, thankyouverymuch. Now where did I leave my supervising person??
If the Ferris Wheel’s a-rockin, don’t come knockin.
Because the shit-for-brains in the next gondola chucking Jolly Ranchers down at the water tube riders could seriously hurt someone- and GOD at least throw green apple, not WATERMELON! (Who says gondola?)
But really, besides going around the park looking like a moron for taking pictures of signs, I had a really fun day with the kids. Plus, the candy store right outside the exit was a perfect place to stock up on chocolate Twizzlers, King Size Reese’s bars and strawberry syrup.
So much for losing that ten pounds. Can I get a seat belt extender?
* no, asswipe potential commenter, I did NOT actually medicate my children before I took them to Hershey Park. That was a J O K E. it’s a shame i have to FOOTNOTE SARCASM, but whatever.
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VOTE NOTE: Voting closes Monday for the Funniest Blog contest. Right now I am in 9th place out of 168 blogs. Please click the box at upper left and vote- I don’t want to drop out of the top ten over the weekend and there are a few blogs closing in on me. You can vote every half hour with a different email address so if you have more than one, vote up! Thanks so much for your support.
By MaryMac
Howdy PJ&Cers! I was ‘tagged’ by another blogger in a game of photo blog tag. The deal is, you go into your Photo Folders- you choose the 6th folder, then the 6th picture, and you tell the story of the photo. I LOL’d when I saw what mine is, and it’s embarrassing, but here we go:
Ok, so the story of the picture. First of all, the obvious: I am WAY TOO FAT to be dressed as Sandy from Grease, but it was like a childhood fantasy, sooo…. Also, my husband and I REALLY should have splurged on better wigs! We did, of course, sing “You’re the One That I Want” (though were upstaged by our rockin neighbors dressed as the Village People and singing YMCA). My favorite thing about this photo? Um, hello, the glossy red stilettos. I had to stand still all night because God knows I couldn’t walk in them (I felt like a three year old playing dress-up) but Holy Greased Lightning, it was fun.
We have a huge adult Halloween party each year with like 75 of our closest pals- there’s a huge costume contest, good eats, humiliating karaoke, candlelight only in the 1881 haunted mansion my husband calls my ‘biggest Halloween decoration’ (see photo in the Who Are You section) and I obsess like mad over the decorations. For more on my Halloween fetish you can check out my other website Creative Halloween. And shout to Paula, thanks for tagging me on this because it gives me a chance to tell you guys, in case you haven’t heard me pimp it on Facebook: I have a brand new Halloween book that just released. If you are thinking of having a groan-up Halloween party this year, check it out!
And that’s the story (and whore-y!)
So, then I have to tag three other bloggers to take the Blog Photo Tag challenge. I have randomly selected three cool bloggers off my blogroll (who are ALL COOL!): so go for it Marybeth Poppins, Jennifer HipasIwannabe and Jason Outnumbered!
By the way…I don’t usually blog on Wednesdays, except at my gig as The Centrevillain (my local yokel town) blogger over at MidShoreLife.com- I have been in a sort of habit of blogging on Mondays and Thursdays (blogging early due to trip to Hershey Park with kids- because, that’s where they make chocolate!) Give me feedback- is two days a week too much? Not enough? Honestly I would blog each day Mon-Thurs if I thought people wouldn’t be bored to death of me. (Hubby works at home Fridays so I usually try to be relatively internet-free on weekends.) Give me your feedback!!!
In other news, I am in 9th place out of 168 blogs in the blog contest. For God’s sake, reader people, please don’t let me drop out of the top ten (click on the box on the left and vote PJ&C Funniest Blog! every day! every 30 minutes with a different email address!) or I will cry. And then quit writing this blog and go back to my former career as a successful crack whore. (wait…i bet people would totally read a crack whore blog. hmmmm…)
By MaryMac
Forgive me if you are sick of hearing about Michael Jackson’s recent death, because the International Blogger Society has required by law each and every blogger to do an MJ post (ahem), and I don’t want to be debloggified.
So here we go.
I am absolutely no more qualified than any other blogger to discuss the King of Pop other than the fact that I a.) had the above poster on my wall and b.) choreographed a dance routine to “Billie Jean” (complete with hats and single gloves) for my little sister’s girl scout troop in 1983. (Seriously? We rocked. Hard.) oh- wait and ooh! c.) I won the “Thriller” dance contest at the local bar Doc’s last Halloween.
I spent the weekend in like an “MJ Memorial” zone- on a trip to Philly to go see a play with my parents, my teenager and I listened to all-MJ stations both ways. Then I watched countless hours of documentary, music videos, and coverage. One of the things that struck me was that my daughter said “In my lifetime I only knew him as like a freakshow child molester.” She detailed to me that, since she was born in 1994, any media coverage of him that she’d seen had been all negative.
One of the jokes she told me that had been around her school with many others:
Q. How do you know when it’s bedtime at Neverland ranch?
A: When the big hand touches the little hand.
(Yikes, I didn’t know there was a whole Michael-Jackson-joke thing. There’s no escapin the jaws of the alien this time?)
She had never seen the Thriller video, and knew pretty much nothing about the Jackson 5.
I was like- wow. Whaaat?
So she went with me on the MJ Zone Weekend- she watched (first Thriller, then all the documentaries and videos) and learned. Because I told her that in my memory of him (as a 1987 high school grad) he was a superstar- I remember the words to hundreds of his songs, and I think my mind sort of blanked out on all the bad stuff about him (bad, the arrests/charges, not Bad the album). I guess I preferred to keep him more ‘normal’ in my mind because as an artist he was so influential in the music and dance industries.
To me, there are sort of two Michael Jacksons. The pre-87 Michael Jackson, all moonwalk and waiting to see the Thriller video premiere at a friend’s house (because we had only Ghetto MTV, better known as Friday Night Videos) and PYT and all. Then there’s the post-87 Wacko Jacko, all vagina-for-a-nose, bleached white skin, surgical mask wearing, baby-dangling circus side show. It’s only natural that if you knew both MJ’s you’d choose ABC, glittery Rock With Me MJ, so I am honestly glad now that my daughter has been exposed has learned about Michael Jackson’s more long-ago history.
This weekend, I felt a lot of sadness for the King of Pop- is it possible we mourn a bit when we lose one of our cultual icons?
The words ‘flawed genius’ come to mind.
Consider the following lyric, which I heard MJ mention in the interview with Oprah as one of the songs he wrote the most from the heart:
Before you judge me, try hard to love me,
Look within your heart then ask,
Have you seen my Childhood?
People say I’m strange that way
‘Cause I love such elementary things,
It’s been my fate to compensate,
for the Childhood (Childhood) I’ve never known…
Ok, the reason I add this is that on Facebook I put up a post the day after MJ died asking what people’s fave or least fave MJ song was, and this guy wrote this thing about how the Pepsi commercial was nothing compared to the fire of hell where he was headed and I was like ‘whoa.’ And I don’t want to get into the whole fire-and-brimstone debate again (ugh- check comments in Better Gay Than Grumpy post). Cause really? No one’s excusing anything the King of Pop might have done that was illegal (or supremely creepy), but let’s at least let him rest in peace, can we?
I’m sorry it took his death for my teenager’s generation to learn about the first Michael Jackson, but at least now they have.
I close with another MJ quote, from one of my fave songs of his (cuz I always liked the more Disco-ey sound of Off the Wall …Off the Wall the album, not the artist… ), Rock With you:
And When The Groove Is Dead And Gone
You Know That Love Survives
So We Can Rock Forever
Rock on, King of Pop.
By MaryMac
I am too broke to send my kids to camps this summer. (it’s not “I believe in free range kids” it’s “I can’t afford to send four kids to four camps because they seem to like eating better.”) My high school kid is going to drama camp for a week (because- really? who DOESN’T want a high school girl to learn MORE DRAMA?!) but that’s it- other than that (she’s been going a few years so is ‘grandfathered’ under broke law), it’s just me and the four kids. Home. All summer. Insert echo: Allllllll summmmmerrrrr… 
Luckily we have a nice pool (please refrain from wisecracks about how maybe if I didn’t have a second mortgage maybe I could afford summer camps) and this provides hours upon hours of swimmy enjoyment. So in addition to CAMP SWIMTILYAWRINKLE (one towel a day, campers! One towel a day), we have a few other camp programs here at ChezMac.
Main survival technique this summer? CAMPHAPPYNAPPY. This term, introduced to our family this year by Bobby’s preschool, is what they call the 1-3pm period at school each day. So I have borrowed the concept for use here at home. Pool hours are 10-12, then lunch, then 1-3 HAPPY NAPPY (definition: you don’t have to go to sleep, but you can’t stay in my face). They can read, sleep, ipod, DS, watch a movie, eat peanut shells, or whatever the hell else they want except be on the first floor of the house or making noise from above. I often supply a huge bag of craft-making supplies for the 2 middle girls so they can do crafts. But these two hours at least let me get a slice of work done during the day- and maybe once a week, I indulge in a little Happy Nappy myself, curling up with Bobby and a book and snooze. 3-5 we usually swim again.
So another great camp program I’m offering this year is CAMPGOCLEANYAROOMA. This exciting once-a-week camp is full of fun activities for the young campers, from vacuuming and laundry management to bringing dishes back to the kitchen and get-whatever-that-is-out-from-under-your-bed, our campers are rewarded for their efforts with a bowling trip, trip to the movies, or day at the beach here on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, where we’re lucky to be surrounded by beaches.
Then of course there is CAMPFAMILYVACA- a one week trip to Cape May New Jersey which the kids look forward to all year. We used to stay in a huge herd of in-law family members, but I voted us off that little episode of Survivor and now it’s just our little 6-mac of family members in an adorable isolated cottage where I don’t have to have too much social interaction with anything other than horseshoe crabs (aahhh. Silence. Best part of vacation, no?)
But guess what, campers? There’s one more exciting camp coming up…and it’s Mommy’s favorite! CAMPGRANDMA is back! That’s right, pack up your bags and let’s go visit Grandma and Grandpa where you’ll be treated to a trip on Grandpa’s boat, unlimited spoiling, and bad behavior without consequences! Plus waffles. Have fun, kiddies!
In the meantime, Mommy will be hanging out over at CAMPHAPPYNAPPY and will see you in a few days! (or, Labor Day?)
By MaryMac
Since my last (relatively harmless, I thought) post inspired ‘hate-on-marymac’ comments in the comment section, I have decided to get one more thing off my chest and alienate and/or endear myself even further to my readers, who can either a. ) agree b.) say nothing, but take off and find a more conservative blog or c.) hide behind the title ‘Anonymous’, leave dbag comments then hopefully go away and leave the rest of us cool cats alone.
<clears throat>
So I’m sitting in the same day surgery waiting room while my daughter’s having the tubes removed from her ears and I am reading a magazine called ‘Trailer Life’ and dreaming about the RV lifestyle (cuz I am weird like that). Good Morning America is doing a promo for 20/20 coming on later that night, and they show a clip from the interview with Adam Lambert, who came in 2nd on American Idol. There had been some speculation about whether he lost because he is gay. I personally loved Lambert, actually voted for him like a teenybopper dork even while my kids were canceling out my votes with calls for Kris Allen. I loved Lambert’s voice, his drama, his costumes, his guyliner.
The interview clip goes on about him coming out and officially announcing that he is (gasp) gay on the the upcoming show. He tells the reporter, “I’ve never really had to come out, because I’ve never been in.”
I’m sitting there nodding my head and thinking about how this is absolutely fantastic! Good for him, to have never had to be self conscious about his sexuality. They also interviewed his mom, and the simple conversation they had when he was a teen.
Mom: “Do you have a girlfriend?”
Adam: “No.”
Mom: “Do you want one?”
Adam: “No.”
Mom: “Do you want to have a boyfriend?”
Adam: “Yeah. that’d be kind of cool.”
She was totally accepting. No angry tears. No drama.
If only every parent were so accepting of their child, I thought, wouldn’t the country be a happier place?
While I am nodding my head and thinking about how Adam’s honesty is so refreshing, on the other side of the room is a woman waiting for her husband who is in surgery. I’d seen him in the pre-op room next to my daughter. His doctor had asked him jokingly if he was there for the sex change or the brain transplant operation. (I chuckled, restraining myself from asking aloud if he was giving out free tummy tucks and boob jobs today too).
Anyway, the waiting room woman (as I am nodding, pleased that maybe somewhere, a teen is watching this and feeling less like an outcast, or someone’s watching, thinking maybe they should be more accepting of their family member) is shaking her head and audibly tsk-tsking. There is an African American man next to her and she is mumbling under her breath to him “Such a sin.”… “Isn’t it awful?”…and (not making this up…) “Disgusting.” and I am tempted to walk up to this intolerant, judgmental, polyester Walmart-shorts-wearing HAG and simply smack her with her own…what book is that? BIBLE?!
Are you kidding me?
Now I don’t sit around and read the Bible much, but I did survive 9 years of Catholic schooling and I am pretty sure there is something in there about like loving others, and not judging, and how I’D RATHER BE STUCK IN A WAITING ROOM WITH A COOL GUYLINER-WEARING BROADWAY-LICIOUS SUPERSTAR than a condescending polyester wearing BIBLE THUMPER!
Anyhoo, the woman dodged out to go piss out some indignation and ignorance and she asked the poor dude next to her (who for all we know has a gay son and totally digs Adam Lambert) and asks him to watch her bible, which she has now placed in its cloth zipper case.
Shoot me.
Ok, so here comes another ‘CLICK THE RED X IN THE UPPER RIGHT HAND CORNER OF YOUR SCREEN’ warning. I absolutely can’t stand it when people are intolerant of other people because of their sexuality (or race, or freaking brand of shoes for that matter).
Who the fuck are you, Bible Thumper, to tell someone what they can do in their own bedroom? How AT ALL is it any of your business? When did you CHOOSE to be heterosexual? And don’t give me that crap about marriage being between a man and a woman. Laws change every day and hopefully (if Obama grows- er, a bigger set….cuzzzzz I totally dig him and all but I think pissing off the gays is way dumb for him and he better get crackalackin on some campaign promises instead of dicking around with stalling tactics like dental benefits) that one will, state by state, change as well.
Maybe I am being judgmental too (and polyester Bible thumpers have blogs too, I’m sure, so Google away if you are into that fire and brimstone crap) but you don’t see intolerant rednecks being denied any rights, capisce?
I spent a lot of my childhood with an aunt who played me Grateful Dead songs on her guitar, took me to the Philadelphia Folk Festival, had an apartment that smelled like ‘incense,’ and who now, actually, is a man (and thus is a transgender). I had a sister who is now a brother (necessitating on my part a brief use of the term ‘brister’). I was in general raised to believe that no one is better than you are; that we are all equal regardless of the color of our skin or who we go to bed with at night, or how much guyliner we wear.
I don’t mean to go all patriotic-background music and ‘Four score and seven years ago’ and ‘all men are created equal’ (because, duh, women rule) but I wish I could just fast-forward the United States of America to a place where no matter who you were, you had the same rights as anyone else.
I have been called a ‘fag hag’ because of my general worship for Gay Guys, and you know what? Doesn’t bother me a bit.
Better than being a homophobic hypocrite.
By MaryMac
We all know what we mean when we call someone a douchebag, yes?
actual bag. for douche.
In case you are not aware of the vernacular, I did a little Googling for the occasion and found that, while you can read an astonishing 197 definitions for the term ‘douche bag’ (and another 111 for the compound ‘douchebag’, which I prefer, cuz I’m compoundy like that) on Urban Dictionary, you could more easily settle on the perfectly reasonable one found on Wikipedia:
“Douchebag, or simply douche, is considered to be a pejorative term in North America. In other English speaking countries the term is not well known. The slang usage of the term dates back to the 1960s. The term implies a variety of negative qualities, specifically arrogance and engaging in obnoxious and/or irritating actions without malicious intent. It is generally used for males only.”
A-ha, but not so anymore. Back at Urban Dictionary we learn of the term “douchebaguette.” Although one of the ever-entertaining definitions of this term reads as follows:
“A thin loaf of french bread that a woman inserts in her vaginal canal for purposes of enhancing her pleasure and its flavor for dinner later. Let’s eat a douche baguette for dinner tonight.”
Ahem. Not hungry, thanks. Clearly the term ‘douchebaguette’ was created simply for a feminine version of the pejorative traditionally male ‘douchebag.’ (That’s the thing about Urban Dictionary…people are always making shit up- cuzzzz, French bread dildo? In your hoo-ha? Ew. And ouch.)
Although it was allegedly coined in the 60s, I became familiar with the term in the 80s, in high school, when we used it (and its convenient abbreviation, ‘d-bag’) on a quite regular basis. Just the other day, my husband Bob, myself and our oldest daughter (who was informing us that the term, like most things from the 80s, has once again become popular) were chatting about how there always seems to be a ‘douchebag character’ in 80s movies.
My personal favorite douchebag character was the douchebag lawyer Philip Stuckey played by Jason Alexander in Pretty Woman (who tries to rape Julia Roberts? Seriously.), but alas, it’s out on a technicality: the movie came out in 1990 (note: he is still a douche and a half in that movie).
I’ll sweep YOUR knee, d-bag.
So I mentioned I’d be doing this post on twitter, Facebook, and here at Jammies and Java (wait, did I just give my own blog a nickname? Weird.), and without further ado (and thanks to your fantastic participation!), I give you the list of
Biggest Douchebags in 80s Films: (there are 9, because I am random like that.)
#9 Craig Sheffer as Hardy Jenns in Some Kind of Wonderful (1987).
#8 Chris Sarandon as Prince Humperdinck in The Princess Bride (1987).
#7. Jeffrey Jones as Ed Rooney (the Principal) in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986) (”I did not achieve this position in life by having some snot-nosed punk leave my cheese out in the wind.” Douche quote of the decade.)
#6 a special DESERVEDLY DEAD DOUCHEBAG shout out to Leif Garrett as Bob the Ponyboy-drowning Johnny-killer in one of my fave movies, The Outsiders (1983). (note: how can you resist giving a Douchebag award to Leif Garrett?)
#5 Ted McGinley as Stan Gable (head of Alpha Betas) in Revenge of the Nerds (1984)
#4 Bill Paxton as Chet Donnelly (the older brother) in Weird Science (1985)
#3 Paul Gleason as Richard (”Dick”) Vernon in The Breakfast Club (1985)
#2 (see photo) William Zabka as Johnny in Karate Kid (with an honorable mention Douchebag-in-Chief shout-out to his Sensei, Martin Cove as John Kreese.) (1984)
#1 James Spader as Steff in Pretty in Pink and also as Mr. Richards in Mannequin and ohmygod also as Rip in Less Than Zero. (James Spader deserves like a Best Douchebag Lifetime Achievement OSCAR) (1986, 1987, 1987- this guy was a douche in two films in one year!)
So there ya have it. You know, didn’t get quite as many nominations for Douchebaguettes, (other than “all the Heathers in the Heathers”)- and I’d add the older sister character in Pretty in Pink- so chime in with a comment of your favorite memorable 80s Douchebag/Douchbaguettes.
Because one thing’s for sure: in other English speaking countries, the term should be more well known.
By MaryMac
How Does Marymac’s Garden Grow?
Well, I haven’t noticed any cockle shells- and believe me, if they were attached to a cute pool boy/tiki bartender, I’d be happy to welcome them! Funny, but if you check Wikipedia under Mary Mary Quite Contrary there’s like a whole thing about Mary Queen of Scots, and her affairs and miscarriages and all this stuff that the nursery rhyme was allegedly based on and wow- writing nursery rhymes to symbolically slam other people must have been a pretty cool writing job back in the day.
(found in a box of stuff at an auction and bought whole box for $2- it’s a 1930s Home Arts magazine cover. My newspaper column was called “Quite Contrary” in honor of the nursery rhyme)
I have what I lovingly refer to as a Darwinian garden. What this means is that I am willing to put plants in the ground, but they are then ON THEIR OWN, forced to deal with drought, famine, flood, dog crap and kid-stomping. When I plant them, I give them a little cheer, like ‘go for it! hang in there, little plant!’ but it is all-out survival of the fittest.
(aren’t nursery rhymes a tiny bit creepy? I mean “When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall and down will come baby cradle and all”? Really? Who writes lullabies about dead babies?)
Our home is on less than half an acre, which thankfully doesn’t leave me too much room for killing innocent flowers. Over the years I have started doing like a thing where I put annuals in pots and perennials (good luck, dudes!) in the ground. The annual pots then land in a circular formation around my pool. The hose reaches to the pool, and treading water in the deep end while watering all the pots from the pool is my favorite summer activity (ok, second favorite after drinking margaritas/daiquiris or- oops, third, after eating crabs which we are required to do by law here in Maryland and which I would do every day if I could afford $5 per crab.)
Ok, I have a confession to make. Someday, I want to be a Garden Club lady. Now, look, they will all totally hate me and talk shit about me behind my back but I won’t care, because when they come over to check out my garden it will be BETTER THAN THEIRS. I wouldn’t be the kind of Garden Club Lady that was like into it for the cucumber sandwiches and coffees served in antique china. I would be like your (garden variety! har!) digging-in-the-dirt, plant sale running, start-a-neighborhood veggie garden on the poor side of town kind Garden Club member.
Whose garden would be better than everyone else’s.
(except the gay guys’ gardens because dude, you can’t beat them and I wouldn’t even try.)
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Housekeeping Notes:
- I updated my Who Are You? page, so if you feel like learning more about your Pajamas and Coffee blogger, you’re welcome to check it out- with new pictures and all.
- Also the coolio websites and blogroll thingys are a tab now- so check those out if you want to find a few cool blogs to read, etc. Want to trade bloglinks? Hit me up at marytmccarthy@msn.com.
- I have an advertiser! See the little blinky pajamagram ad? How cool is that? Well, I write this site for free and so in an effort to be able to buy school shoes for 4 kids or, say, milk, I am trying it out. If you click on the box and buy a pajamagram for someone (and they are totally cool- if you don’t have a gift-giving occasion coming up, send one to your favorite blogger! <wink>) I get like a small percentage of the sale. This could be the difference between me continuing to write PJ&C versus, say, writing boring shit for pay on other websites. Which I hate. I would blog every day if I didn’t have to work!
- Speaking of blogging, I am working my next post: TOP TEN DOUCHEBAGS FROM 80s FILMS. Want to nominate a movie character from the 80s? Leave a comment!
- And finally… IF YOU LIKE IT, YOU SHOULD GO PUT A RING ON IT. Vote Pajamas and Coffee for Funniest Blogger here. I am in like 6th place out of like 120 bloggers, which is amazing and THANKS for all your votes! (Did you know you can vote every day?!). At first, my goal was to land in top ten, now my goal is to land in top five but I am pretty far out. (which we knew! ahur.)
- Cheers, PJ&Cers! xoxoxo
By MaryMac
You gotta be fucking kidding me.
Apparently there’s a debate raging in the blogosphere, more specifically (God help us) the ‘Mommyblogosphere’ about ‘bad moms’ versus ‘good moms’ and how some bloggers are like pretending to be a ‘bad mom’ because ‘it’s cool,’ and they are almost ashamed to admit they are really a ‘good mom.’ The best synopsis of this debate can be found in this post by one of my favorite bloggers theredneckmommy.com. She summarizes the issue well, including links to original posts.
You wanna know what I think? (as redneckmommy points out… if you don’t, help yourself to that big red “X” in the upper right hand corner of the page.)
I think that with like 10,000 blogs out there, readers should be able to find a few they enjoy reading. What is the matter with people that they feel like they have the right to go out and judge everyone?
There’s a 92-year old woman who lives in the house behind mine and she always says “It just wouldn’t do if we were all alike.” (of course, she says it like in a cluck-cluck way after she’s been talking smack about someone, which I think is hilarious.)
She’s right.
Whether you are conservative or liberal, serious or funny, religious or agnostic, etc etc - there’s a blog out there for you. My last post, on a dead goldfish, earned me a little nastygram comment by someone who wrote “What I find in this post is drinking, cussing, and a lack of respect for our Creator. I hope you are feeling better. Maybe your heavyhandedness does not pass for humor.”
I deleted it. Shouldn’t have (because now, in retrospect, it’s a riot), but was self-conscious about it and embarrassed. I should have responded:
Dear Asshat: You are reading the wrong goddamned blog. Do you really think I drank tequila over a dead fish? Get a fucking grip. P.S. I feel fine.
Which brings me back to the whole bad mom/good mom thing. I do not ‘pretend’ to be a bad mom or a good mom or any kind of mom on my blog. (Why is everyone so preoccupied with labels anyway?)
I’m just me. In the real world, as well as here on the blog, people either tend to love me or hate me. It is my hope that the haters will simply avoid me in both the real and virtual worlds. Chances are, I will not miss them, as those real people, AND those oh-look-what-a-chic-mom-I-am-and-how-cute-my-kids-are and come-win-a-free-giveaway bullshit blogs annoy the crap out of me anyway.
I have to say one thing I think is missing in the ‘debate’ is an understanding of the concept of sarcasm (do these preppy, minivan-and-sliced-apple blogs really think we so-called bad-mom bloggers inject Grey Goose into juice boxes via syringes on field trips? Because that would be FUNNY, but chances are no one actually does it.) There needs to be an understanding of writing style-or, what we are really talking about, which is VOICE.
I was a newspaper and magazine writer for nearly a decade and a half before I became an online writer. I’ve been a mom for 15 years. I have four kids, though I suffered three miscarriages between #2 and #3, so I’ve been pregnant 7 times. I grew up Catholic, pretty poor (still am!) and the oldest of 6 kids in Pennsylvania, live on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, and am a liberal Democrat. All of these facts are things that influence my writing, that give me a different ‘voice’ than someone else.
There are days I am a ‘bad mom’ and days I am a ‘good mom’ (and I would take a bullet for any one of my kids no matter what ‘day’ it is)- I just choose, in my writing, to describe things I find funny in a situation.
Does my reader want to hear about how fantastic one of my kids were in their soccer/drama/recital? Because to me, that would be boring. So I’ll try to find something funny in my everyday life and write about that. (and I better get back to it soon, huh? Ugh with all this intellectual yakkety-yak.)
Every day I am thankful to have readers. When someone comes up to me (or comments on the blog) and tells me they regularly read my blog, I am thankful to the point of feeling guilty that they have spent the time.*
If there are any other bloggers reading this, I’d say this: hone your own voice. Don’t try to become what you think someone else would like- that makes you a phony. Be who you are.
Cause it just wouldn’t do if we were all alike.
*which reminds me, spend one more second and please click the box to the left and vote Pajamas & Coffee for Funniest Blog? I promise to get right back to your regularly scheduled ‘funniest’ after this soapbox post. I heart you guys.
By MaryMac
It started out as a lovely evening at our local Catholic church “Lawn Fete” (which is French for “spending like $100 on crappy toy prizes”). The food is fantastic, my son loved the tractor hayride and giant slide. I won a plant and my 11 year old won a cake for us. Little kids played games. There were smiles, and lemonade, and my friend who lives across from the church made kick-ass Mojitos.
Then, it all went to hell, which, since I’m on my way there, makes me wonder if it was God’s revenge for our status as THE FAMILY THAT GOES TO THE LAWN FETE BUT NOT SUNDAY SCHOOL. OR CHURCH.
My Kindergartner, a sweet, angelic, not-hating-mom-yet little angel, asked if she could play the goldfish game- you know, ping pong balls, goldfish bowls containing half-dead looking fish. Being a practical mother with 15 years of parenting experience at fair/carnival settings (and therefore dead goldfish), I of course said “No, honey, the fish always die.”
Then she looked up and me with those big blue eyes and she said “Pleeeeassse, Mommy.”
In my moment of talking-to-a-neighbor distraction, combined with a glance over to be sure she had like a zero chance of winning one, I said ‘ok’ and handed her a ticket. I saw the keeper-of-the-halfdead-goldfish let her go UNDER THE COUNTER to get CLOSER and then, holy crap, here she is holding a bag with like a half inch of water in it and a pathetic looking fish.
“Honey, did you know that goldfish can only live for a day or so? The longest that one has ever lived is maybe a week.” I grin.
She replied with the whole but-he’s-the-first-pet-I-ever-had-all-to-myself routine, and canwegogetfishfoooood?? She then gave him the kiss of fish death: she named him (because when you are in Kindergarten you name WORMS and LADYBUGS, so of course her cripple of a fish was instantly baptized in his unholy water).
Anyone care to wager on what happened next?
He started the whole swimming-sideways thing within an hour and was dead soon after, prompting my sweet 6 year old to cry hysterically, and me to search hysterically for tequila of which to do shots. It was gonna be a long night, and Jose Cuervo was going to have to be my new best friend since Jesus had abandoned me. And don’t give me the crap about the single set of footprints in the sand/Jesus carrying me BULLSHIT because atheism became a very valid option at this point.
(Plus: I thought Jesus was supposed to have fish MULTIPLY to GIVE THEM OUT at parties, not TORTURE INNOCENT KINDERGARTNERS with them!)
Before I could begin drinking I had to get her tucked into bed and not crying anymore. So I hugged her, I said I was sorry (muttering under my breath ‘yeah, sorry the church tells you to believe in a God who kills your fish’). Her friend told her she could draw a picture of him to remember him.
You will notice the fish is facing in the wrong direction in his bag of death. Ugh. You can practically see his thought bubble, “I’m fucked. Bloop.”
Then my husband did something for which any judge, in any court of law, would declare JUSTIFIABLE HOMICIDE if I were to, say, murder him by casually dropping a few piranhas into the pool while he’s swimming. This would be cosmic fish justice for the fact that he then:
OFFERED TO BUY HER A NEW FISH. And fish tank.
And food. AND POOP. AND ADDITIONAL DEATH!!!!!!!
So poor grief-stricken Faith and I took a walk outside because it was a full moon, which she knew because she has a calendar next to her bed that shows the cycles of the moon. After silently wishing it was legal to give just like a half shot of tequila to a minor child in these type of traumas, I gave her a speech about how if you prayed (to your fish-killing God) for your pet that died, it would wait up in heaven for you and then be your pet again when you get there.
I wonder what pets will be waiting for me in hell.
By MaryMac
I am thrilled to have been nominated by my readers for the “Funniest Blog” award. Tons of my own favorite blogs are also nominated, so it’s an honor to have the Pajamas and Coffee name right up there next to some of the best. I’d love if you voted for me:
http://www.socialluxelounge.com/blogluxe/
…but while you’re there, check out some of the hilarious blogs out there. (think they are funny but vote for PJ&C- wink!) The contest allows you to vote each day for each email address up til July 6. Vote often!
Thanks for your vote- but mostly, thanks for reading!
