Ever see that movie “Mean Girls“? Ever wonder what happens when girls like that reach adulthood? Apparently some of them become Mommy bloggers.

I’m not going to get into naming names and linking to other blogs because a) it’s not an isolated incident and b) why give them the traffic? Sure, it’s been happening a lot this week but this isn’t the first time I’ve seen it. It’s just the first time I’ve seen it taken to this level.

So let’s talk about it in general, shall we?

Anyone who has survived junior high knows what bullying is. When someone tries to intimidate you, threaten you, scare you or exert some kind of imaginary control over you, that’s bullying. A lot of the time it involves a group of people, sometimes it’s just one person, and sometimes it’s a mob of people following around one person like a flock of sheep.

Stalkers, on the other hand….well, that’s usually just one person. A cyberstalker will obsessively Google your name, read your blogs, spy on your Twitter stream, maybe even create fake profiles in an attempt to befriend you if they can’t get access to your private profiles.

Personally, I don’t get the mentality behind either one of these. I’m thinking that the Internet gives them some kind of courage that they don’t have in real life. Me? I’d never say something to you online that I didn’t have the balls to back up in real life. And I certainly don’t try to rally up a bunch of others to help fight my battles for me. As far as the stalkers go, they’re usually people who have some sort of insecurity or jealousy issue that creates and fuels their obsession with the stalkee. (Or, in some cases, they’re mentally unstable, delusional or paranoid and they think that everything you write or say online is about them.)

The common denominator between bullies and stalkers is the fact that they are, for lack of a more entertaining term, chicken shits. They have nothing more interesting or productive to do with their free time than harass someone else. Sometimes that little voice of reason and sanity will speak up and ask them “What the hell are you doing?!” and they might decide that maybe it’s time to just let it go. But that rarely ever lasts very long.

What a sad, sad way to live.

There’s not really a point to this post, just an observation rather than a lecture. I’ve learned through personal experience that the best way to get rid of these people is to just ignore them. Don’t acknowledge them or give them the attention they so desperately seek and they’ll get bored and move on to something or someone else.

I will say that the behaviors of some of the Mom bloggers this year, especially this week, is just beyond fucking stupid. How OLD are you? Really. Threatening to send people to their house to beat them up? Telling people you’re not going to be their Internet friend anymore if you even talk to the other person? Wow. Real mature. I bet all of those PR companies that keep sending all of that free shit to you are really proud to be working with you, huh? I know if I was the head of some big company, I’d be PROUD to be represented by a bunch of grown women who think they’re Hot Shit and act like a bunch of third graders who managed to get around Mommy’s website blocker to play on Twitter. /sarcasm

Ladies, you’re giving yourselves a bad name. No one takes you as seriously as you take yourselves. The Motrin moms, the Blog Her swag, the PR Blackout… keep it up and you’ll end up being such a liability that you might find yourselves going weeks or even months without the Fed Ex guy showing up at your door with more free shit to gush about. Oh noes!!!!! THEN what will you write about on your blogs??

*insert eyeroll here*

My daughter loves Snow White.  She wants a Snow White baby for Christmas.  In particular this one.  Long story short, she has the Belle baby from Beauty and the Beast.  Miss Thang doesn’t watch Beauty and the Beast.  She likes Snow White dammit.

Well guess what?  That Snow White is a pricey bitch.  $49.99 for a TODDLER doll?

What the fuck is this world coming too? Seriously?  As much as I’d like to make my little girls Christmas dreams…it’s ain’t happenin’.  Mama don’t have no money tree in the backyard.

Now, let’s move onto my favorite topic of the week.  Tiger-Douche Bag Woods.  What a goddamn tool.  Dude, your wife, she’s a fucking supermodel.  2., this isn’t 1930, dating a cocktail waitress (or 10) isn’t scandalous…unless you are married. C, let’s all say it together, celebrity.  You live a public life, and if you don’t want to live that life, then pack away those golf clubs buddy.

I love the term Tiger used.  Transgressions?  Excuse me?  I’d cut your “transgression” off and shove it directly up your fucking ass….how’s that for cozy?

It’s the holidays…everyone is happy, peachy keen.  Aside from the pricey son-of-a-bitchin’ Snow White doll, I’m done shopping.  Yes, miracles do happen to folks like me.  Now, if I could only get my ass to the post office.  Those packages aren’t going to mail themselves!

Photo from Ernst Vikne via Flickr

Ok, it’s time for April to get REALLY bad. I’m not going to sugarcoat it or dance around the topic and make vague references like everything is a big secret.

Some psycho with nothing better to do with her free time has decided to be a real pain in the ass here at BMB. And, damnit, it’s MY site and I’m not having it.

Comments are being moderated. IPs are being recorded. If this shit keeps up, IP addresses WILL be banned.

If you don’t like what’s being said here, I’ve got one very small yet powerful piece of advice for you… DON’T FUCKING READ IT.

If you are having comprehension difficulties, feel free to email me and I’ll explain to you just how to close your damn browser window and turn off your freakin’ computer.

Now….where were we?

The following is a typical conversation between me and my 7 year old daughter, a/k/a Munchkin. Just makes me want to pull my hair out…

Her: I want to draw a Christmas tree.

Me: Ok, so draw one.

Her: But I don’t know how.

Me: Draw it just like you would draw a snowman, but use triangles instead of circles.

Her: But I can’t.

Me: You haven’t even tried.

Her: I want you to do it for me.

Me: Then what’s the point of saying you want to draw a Christmas tree if I draw it for you?

Her: But I caaaaaaan’t!!!!

Me: Have you tried?

Her: No. (By this time, the arms are crossed, the brows are furrowed, and the bottom lip is poking out.)

Me: If you don’t at least try, you’ll never be able to.

Her: FINE. *draws 2 lines* Seeeee?? I caaaaaaan’t!!!

Me: You have to practice. You’re not always going to do things perfectly on the first try. Look, I’ll show you and then you try it…

Her: I want YOU to do it!!!!

Me: FINE. *draws a Christmas tree* There.

Her: Now I want to draw a star on top and some ornaments.

Me: Ok, so draw them.

Her: But I don’t know how.

Do you see where this is going? I swear, the next time I find myself out shopping and standing in front of the shelf with all of the crayons and pads of drawing papers, I’m going to run out of there as fast as I can and head to the liquor store instead.

I was a late bloomer when it came to sex. My first experience didn’t occur until after I had graduated from high school. While in high school, I had dozens of friends who had already jumped onto the sex bandwagon. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the opportunity. I just had little information and the information I had indicated that pain would be involved. Who wants pain?

Anyway, the end result was a bit like having chocolate for the first time. You take your first bite and all you can think of is “What the fuck? Why didn’t someone tell me how great chocolate was before? How have I gone all this time without the joys of chocolate?”. Seriously, it’s a good thing that sex doesn’t make you fat as I’d be one overweight chick.

The extent of my love for sex is evident in a few short stories.

The first is cutting a few years after my first sexual encounter and I’m in the US Army. I had been stationed in Pirmasens Germany and loved the culture – especially with regard to sex. Initially, I had been dating a few guys on base but my Colonel put the kabosh on that once I had my second instance of some poor guy standing outside my barracks window, drunken and crying about why I wasn’t going out with him any more. Yeah, I got called in and was politely requested to date only local nationals who couldn’t get on base.

After my stint in the Army, I discovered the “lifestyle” – swinging, for those not in the know. I had previously come to the conclusion that sex can be recreational and not solely for the purposes of creation. And I’ve been fine with that conclusion for a very long time. Being in the lifestyle is a bit like having a grand assortment of chocolate to choose from. Some of the experiences are fucking awesome and some are ones you wish you could burn from memory. All in all, participating in the lifestyle has been a glorious and grand adventure – one I don’t plan on quitting any time soon.

That all being said, the grand adventure has been on hiatus for a while. It’s a timing thing at the moment. My current partner is totally on-board – it’s how we met. But the details and agendas of children and work schedules has placed my participation on a back burner for the moment.

Do my children know? Nope. Will I let them know in the future? Possibly. It depends on the child and how the topic comes up. Perpetual Princess is pretty progressive and wouldn’t have a problem with it. Roblox Girl…she’s like me when I was young and is appalled at the entire pain process involved with first time sex and child-birth pain. I don’t foresee the topic coming up any time soon. And Sir Laughs His Ass Off? Yeah, I think that is a moot point at the moment. He’s too busy finding the latest dumbass YouTube video to even think about sex.

For the moment, I’m looking forward to when details, agendas and schedules all align and I’m able to take off with my guy to some fabulous gathering where people like us get together and have some healthy fun. Until then, I’ll just sit here and relive some memories…

I want to start off by saying all moms are working moms.  I don’t give a shit if you stay home, work part or full time.  We work our asses off.

That said, this part-time working mom has fuckin’ had it.  Saturday is my “long” day.  I put in a full eight hours (please, hold your applause).  I’m telling you what, nothing chaps my ass more than coming home to a sink full of goddamn dishes.  To give you some background, my husband has a normal Monday – Friday, 8-5 job.  I have wonky hours that will just bore you to tears confuse the shit out of you, so I won’t go into detail .  Most Saturdays, my husband takes the kids to his folks and works on something or other over there.  In my mind, it’s just fiddle-fucking around.  In the garage.  All day long.  At his folks house.

(This is where I go on about what projects need to be finished at our house…Remind me to tell you about the 10 year bathroom, it really deserves it’s own post)

Tonight we got home about the same time.  Lo and behold…a sink full of dirty dishes were awaiting me.  Here’s where I go from sane to bitch in 0.23 seconds.  Oh yes, I do.  Do you blame me?

No.

So, DW (Dick Wad for tonight) asked for a kiss.  I told him that if he wanted a kiss he needed to go see Mommy, since that’s where he spent his day.  Then, he had the audacity to say “I thought I’d get some tonight.”  ThankYouSweetBabyJesus…the kids were out of the room.  I completely ripped him a new asshole.  No, after working all fucking day and coming home to a house that looks like a shithole and a sink full of dirty fucking dishes…he’ll be lucky if he gets any before the New Year.

It’s going to be some happy fucking holidays around here!

1950's Housewife

I live in an aging house (built in the late 1950’s) with three children (hence forth to be known as “Perpetual Princess”, “Roblox Girl” and “Sir Laughs His Ass Off” from oldest to youngest), a grown man (Captain “It’s-So-Hard-Living-With-Always-Being-Right”), a Pomeranian (“Grand Master P”), a Labrador/Chow mix (“The Fabulous Miss D”), a Labrador/German Shepard mix (“Mooby the Cow”) and a domestic cat (doesn’t matter what you call her, she doesn’t respond).

Everything that breathes in this house has a different schedule. Domestic cat and Grand Master P are nocturnal – forever banging around and generally causing as much mayhem as possible with couch pillows and doormats. Captain “It’s-So-Hard-Living-With-Always-Being-Right” is a swing shift Boeing employee so he’s more of a mid-morning to afternoon kind of guy. This time of day we affectionately call “Call of Duty Time”. Perpetual Princess is a teenager, so only other teenagers are privy to her schedule. Roblox Girl attends the Washington State Virtual Academy at home – she gets to sleep in, attend her six hours of school daily and then utilizes the rest of her time creating new, you guessed it, Roblox games. Sir Laughs His Ass Off is one of the few in this house with a regular schedule though a greater portion of that time, while not in school, is taken with finding the most idiotic YouTube videos one can possibly find.

That all having been said, it now will make sense to you, dear reader, when I say my day begins at 6:30 am and ends at 11:00 pm every day of the week. My schedule is created around those in this house so I can ensure the house is clean, laundry is completed, meals are made and eaten and a myriad of other day-to-day tasks are tackled in addition to my freelance writing.

Now, having made that previous statement, I feel compelled to say that when I’m online, working and socializing, the very last thing that will fall from this keyboard onto your screen is what fucking part of my house I just cleaned up or what meal was cooked that no one on the planet could give a flying shit about.

Seriously.  Can you imagine? In the middle of researching social media trends or writing about the environmental impact that web hosting companies are trying to reverse I should suddenly spout out “I scrubbed my toilet!”? Or while interviewing and researching prominent authors and bloggers on the Web, the big deal is what meal I just magically created from the crock pot for the household?

I promise to continue on this trend of not telling you the countless boring details of my life. Because I’m pretty convinced that the browsing audience could really give less than two shits about the state of my laundry.

Whew. I feel better getting that off my chest. Now, it’s got to be noon somewhere on this planet – where’s my Tequila shot?

I know you love ‘Twilight’ and boys that sparkle. You’ve posted about it, you’ve left comments. But, really, is THIS necessary? (Link is NSFW and don’t click it with kids or a nosy husband around unless you’re prepared to deal with being nagged for sex for the next few hours. From the husband, I mean.)

In case you can’t open that link at the moment, what you’re missing is a cold, sparkly d!ldo.

Really?

I mean, would you really get the sensation of being penetrated by a scruffy, meticulously tousled teenager if you bought one of these? And if you said “yes” then my next question would be “What is wrong with you?”

I know, I know. I shouldn’t judge. Actually, what’s even more disappointing is this:

• Length: 6.75″ Diameter: 1.55″

Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. If I’m going to risk my mortal life for sex, it’s gonna have to be for more than 6.75 inches. I prefer having my bloodsucker’s super sized. I’d put money on it that Eric the Viking is packing at least 7.

Did I mention that it’s COLD? Just pop that baby in the fridge – try explaining that to the hubby and kids – for what the website says is an “authentic experience.” As if there’s anything authentic about fucking a dead guy…

Hey Tantus? You really wanna get my attention? Make a Fantastic Four vibrator. Something hard like The Thing, warm like the Human Torch, easily concealed like the Invisible Woman, and that stretches to any length like Mr. Fantastic.

Seriously. Anyone who calls me a Mom blogger from here on out will be welcomed with a swift kick to the groinal area.

I can not even measure the amount of distance I want to put between myself and that label. I’ve even stopped blogging on my usual domain and moved to one that makes no mention of motherhood in the URL at all.

Why? Because Mommy bloggers have become the pariahs of online communities everywhere – except for their own, of course, where they will continue to worship and kiss the asses of their self-appointed idols and spokesmodels.

Look, if you wanna be a Mommy blogger, you go right ahead. Yes, we know, you blog about more than poopy diapers and your militant stance on breastfeeding and vaccinating. Yes, we know you enjoy doing product reviews and giveaways and the PR companies don’t OWN you, damnit! We’ve heard you (very) loudly and clearly.

And while your Mommy buddies will cheer you on and tell you how awesome you are, you should probably step outside of your little corner of the Internet and take a look at what others are saying. Its not pretty.

Let’s take the whole PR Blackout thing as an example. Apparently the ladies over at MomDot think that the best way to stop letting PR companies own your blogs is to organize some kind of boycott and not do any reviews or giveaways for a week. I’m sorry…WHAT? How about just telling the PR companies ‘no thanks’? And if that doesn’t work and they won’t take no for an answer, tell them to go f**k themselves!

As far as I know, the world of PR has survived for a very long time without a bunch of PMSing harpies armed with laptops telling them how they should do their jobs. Besides, haven’t you ever heard the saying about catching more flies with honey than vinegar? Throwing tantrums and demanding high dollar compensation to share your opinion about wet wipes specially designed to wipe your kids snotty nose isn’t going to get you very far. You may even find it backfiring on you and you find yourself wishing the PR people were flooding your inbox again.

Now let’s talk about the way some of you acted at BlogHer. Now, I will admit that I wasn’t there but some of the blog posts I’ve read around the Internets basically confirm my own observations based on the #BlogHer tweets I saw. Last year, I remember being so jealous of the ladies who were able to attend Blog Her. The topics sounded so interesting, the panelists were intelligent, savvy and witty women that I admired and I loved reading all of the tweets coming from women who were lucky enough to be there live.

This year, not so much. All I heard about this year on Twitter was free shit (a/k/a “swag”), some bowling party, and Moms squealing with delight because they got to meet so-and-so who is some kind of celebrity in their world for reasons I don’t quite understand. Oh, and apparently some of you can take something as simple as a bar refusing to allow an infant to attend a cocktail party into some kind of “Corporate America hates Moms and Kids” drama. Give me a fucking break. Yeah, sure, your kid is cute but there are LAWS about minors being in bars.

Oh, hey, that reminds me. All of these conferences you want to attend…? Stop begging for sponsors. Seriously. Put together a sponsorship package, pitch the companies, tell them WHY they should spend their money on sending you away to some conference so you can get more free shit and get away from those kids you base your entire identity upon, and handle it like a professional.

I mean REALLY….you’re embarrassing us all. You are not Norma Rae or Gloria Steinem so drop the “I am Mommy, hear me roar” speeches. Just go back to doing what you enjoy…blogging about your life, sharing those precious moments of motherhood so you’ll have something to look back on and keep you from strangling them when they’re teenagers…and quit worrying about sponsors and ads and how many comments or subscribers or Twitter followers you have. But if you DO enjoy that side of Mommy blogging, then quit whining about it.

Shit like this is the reason Bad Mommy Blogger came to exist in the first place.

P.S. Did I mention we’re back? Yeah, welcome to Bad Mommy Blogger 2: The Resurrection.

I am a very weird woman. I know this. I embrace it. And because of my weirdness, I am into some very strange things.

Vampires, for example. I loved vampires before they were cool. I read Anne Rice’s “Interview With the Vampire” when Tom Cruise was still a cocky fighter pilot and Buffy was still playing Susan Lucci’s daughter. I remember seeing the movie Salem’s Lot when I was a kid! Now they’re everywhere. I can’t add Flair or Bumper Stickers on my Facebook or MySpace profiles without seeing 7 different pieces of Twilight shit on every page. And people are salivating over the new vampire show, True Blood, on HBO.

So it was only a matter of time before I got started on The Twilight Saga . I bought the first book for my daughter when it first came out, before it was popular, because….well, she’s my kid and she’s just as weird as me. She likes to read and she was outgrowing her fascination with the Anne Frank-ish Holocaust stories so I turned her on to vampires. (That’s not a big leap is it? Nazis to vampires…from one blood-sucking monster to another.) Anyway, she read the first 3 books and here I am now, a year later, cracking open the first one.

My opinion? Meh. You’ve lusted after one pale skinned parasite, you’ve lusted after them all. I can see the appeal in this Edward Cullen kid though. Its romantic. Lestat didn’t have a Bella. He was too fucked up on power and control to ever let some clumsy little teen stand in his way.

Then last night, I indulged in another one of my demented guilty pleasures…zombies! In case you haven’t noticed, zombies kick ass. They’re not as clever as vampires but when it comes to devouring human flesh, they have a one track mind and nothing will stop them. Well, except cutting off their head but anyone who has ever thought out their zombie defense plan knows that.

So last night I’m flipping through the channels and I see that Zombie Strippers is on cable. Sweet! As if the title doesn’t scream “CAMPY HORROR FLICK” the fact that Robert Englund (the Freddie Krueger dude) and Jenna Jameson are the stars should’ve given it away. I didn’t watch the whole thing because I promised my latest Boy Toy that I’d wait until we can get it on DVD and watch it together but I watched enough of it to know that its right up my twisted alley.

Ok, so now you know. I have come out of the freak closet a little bit more and confessed my love for vampires, zombies, and strippers. I know this isn’t your typical “Mom blog” material but this isn’t your typical “Mom blog” either, now is it?

And before you start thinking to yourself “Holy shit, April really is losing what’s left of her mind!”, let me just say that I have a point to this post. I want to hear about YOUR weirdness factor. What kind of sick stuff makes you happy? Leave a comment or submit a post about it by clicking over on that big red star thingy that says “Submit An Anonymous Post” and let your freak flag fly high!