Wednesday, September 22, 2010


Hi. My name is Amy and I'm a douche. No, this does not mean I'm a feminine hygiene product. Wikipedia says: Douchebag, or simply douche, is considered to be a pejorative term. The slang usage of the term originated in the 1960s. The term usually refers to a person... with a variety of negative qualities, specifically arrogance and engaging in obnoxious and/or irritating actions, most often without malicious intent.

If you asked my 16-year-old daughter, Gwendolyn, me having included a definition of douche from Wikipedia on my blog about douches makes me a douche. *Sigh* Gwendolyn, aforementioned teen, frequently invokes this moniker. For me. Recently we were discussing what it means to be a douchebag. Though our personal definitions differ somewhat from Wikipedia's, several characteristics are agreed upon between us. These characteristics include, but are not limited to: Arrogance, whether righteously deserved or not; unwarranted spewage of expertise on any random topic; and especially 'abusing' others with pedantic attention to/recitation of details.
Picture this scenario, borrowed loosely from Family Guy: A guy in Starbucks, publicly writing on his laptop. That's a douche. Or more precisely, that's our brand of douche. Gwendolyn has a predilection for folk music. And folk singers. This makes her a douchebag. I enjoy reading and writing poetry. Therefore I am a douche.

Can you follow this? If you're having a hard time keeping up with all the douchebaggery, lemme school ya with the following multiple-choice quiz, with examples from my real life (BTW, writing this quiz using examples of being a douche based on my real-life makes me a douche). Here we go:

1) I consider myself a part of the slow-food movement, and also strive to be a locovore whenever feasible. Because I espouse these ideas (or even know what they mean) this makes me:

A) Socially conscientious.

B) Boring.

C) A douche.

2) I enjoy photography, both digital and film-based. I have had many photos published professionally over the course of my journalistic career. I often photograph my children and believe they are excellent subjects. Because I have taken photos professionally, I take umbrage when referred to as an MWAC (Mom With A Camera). Therefore, I am:

A) Defensive about my photos 'cause I currently don't bring home a paycheck and take lots of pictures of my precious babies.

B) Ridonculously pissed at no-one in particular for no good reason because technically no-one has ever actually called me an MWAC, but I know they're thinking it.

C) A douche.

3) I write this blog. Frequently, okay, always, it is "about" my family. But it pisses me off when I get called a "Mommy blogger" because to me this is so, so much more, it is way more, it is ME, in the raw, uncensored, pouring my soul into cyberspace. Because... because I was born to write and right now, this is my platform. And you are here reading this, so you feel it too, don't you? This blog is the Rainbow Connection, motherfuckers. But that's a topic for another day. So. I am:

A) So self-aggrandised it is vomit-inducing.

B) Willing to do anything to get out of folding another load of laundry, including baring my soul to any curious passerby of this blog spot.

C) A douche.

Answer key: The correct answer for every question is, of course, C. I'm a douche. But you know what? I own it, man. I wear that shit. I come by it natural-born and it's my steelo. Can I get a hollaback? If you're a douche too, lemme hear ya say it!

~Mahalo for listening.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Corn! And other stuff.

Corn! Corn is awesome! Have you seen this awesome corn? Have you seen this awesome baby eating his awesome corn?! Adorable!

Awesome baby attacked this beautiful corn as I was putting away groceries this morning after an early a.m. market trip. After carrying sacks into the kitchen and putting things up, Fletcher yelled for me to come quickly! See what that horrible baby is doing! And this is what I found. My beautiful boy, still in jammies, bathed in a sunbeam peeling and subsequently gnawing on his favorite thing, uncooked corn still on the cob.

I actually took many more photos, but since he was sitting right by the front door with the morning sun shining through the beveled window panes, it was impossible to get a focused shot. Except, for some reason, this one jewel in the whole rest of the unusable pile.

So F-Bomber is home with a temperature today and we are having a pajammy time, or, in Fletcher's case, an underpants-only time. There has been donut eating and video game playing and Yo Gabba Gabba viewing and whining about boredom and talking on the phone to grandma and a recitation of fake answering machine messages, all involving a certain sister and hilarious scenarios she's involved in which require immediate parental attention.

So about that certain sister. I would love so much to share with you, dear reader, some detail of this enigmatic being's life and times. But alas, when the subject was broached at a recent dinner, all possible topics were shot down. In flames. So, here is a brief synopsis of my daughter: She is 16, soon to be 17. She is gorgeous. She goes to high school. She drives Fletcher nuts but he's crazy about her in a good way. That's all you get to know.

And after posting about Fletcher last time, I realized there are some very important things I have omitted from his snapshot, so here they are: He hates bears! The only thing he hates more than bears is meatloaf! And the only thing he hates more than bears and meatloaf combined is cilantro! He has vowed to beat up every bear he ever meets, run away screaming form any meatloaf at any time, and obliterate cilantro from the world forever.

And one more thing: Thank you to husband Matt, who has designed the new F-Bomb and Mom header. Okay. That'll do for today. Back to enjoying donuts and video games in my underpants. Er, pajamas.

~Mahalo for listening.

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Lucky 7

This is what it looks like to be seven years old
and the member of an elite team of military action heroes.

My main man, the F-Bomber himself, has turned 7-years-old on me and I cannot believe how this impossibly impressive person has grown from a chubby toddler with unspeakably cute curls into the above incarnation, this firstie, the most damnably funny and cute kid to ever grace the state. Ladies and gentleman, I introduce the King of New Franklin.

So this post is for posterity, this is for my Fletcher. Fletcher, this is a snapshot of you, my firstborn son, turning seven years old:

Today at lunch I had to spoon-feed you macaroni and cheese while you held your eyes tightly shut because you said you had seen too much yellow this day, and all the yellow was nauseating, but the mac and cheese delicious. Your favorite color is orange, which I know you'd say is an obvious thing to write, but I felt it had to be included.

Your favorite television show is Adventure Time (which I find wildly inappropriate but hilarious). We love watching the Stay Puft marshmallow man scene from Ghostbusters together over and over. You said the best day of your life was when gramma came to stay with us and the worst day ever was when she left. You love root beer and The Very Hungry Caterpillar and just yesterday you asked me to not hold your hand in public anymore.

Steak is your favorite dinner and you told me tonight, "I'd rather eat steak than anything else in the world. Except for shrimp, I'd rather eat shrimp than anything else in the world, too."

Your best friends are Clint and Anna, the brother and sister next door. The three of you spend endless hours playing "military", jumping on the trampoline and constructing Lego monuments that I unwittingly injure my bare feet on pretty much daily. You are hot tempered yet sensitive. You can remember a personal affront from as far back as infancy and carefully plot your revenge.

Fletcher, you are funny. Imaginative, glorious, messy and hilarious. I am thankful every single day that God gave me your lovely soul to look after. And even though it is embarrassing when I hug you in front of your friends, every day at school drop-off we still blow each other kisses. And eat them.

Thank you for being so amazing. If you were anything less than the perfect little dirty dog cutie pie that you are, it would suck.

Love, your momma.
Mahalo for listening.