I have told you time and again how much I love twitter? (Even though my dearest friend is all, “I don’t get it.” Well, of course she doesn’t get it. She still reads books on paper. So retro!)

Well, twitter decided to change their interface. And this isn’t a small change – it’s pretty dramatic. Like 40′s film noir dramatic. I love it.

But, oy! The bitching. If I had a dime every time someone tweeted an iteration of  ”I hate the new twitter” I would have five dollars. Now, I don’t know about anyone else, but if I have to listen to you complain, I damn well better be earning more than five dollars.

So I have decided to let you in on a secret;

THINGS CHANGE.

Yes, they do. Sometimes it is for a good reason, sometimes it’s not.

Don’t like it? Don’t care.

I feel the same way when I see people lament the loss of newspapers. Actual print. I just don’t understand all the mourning. Newspapers have been around, what? three or four hundred years? Why was it assumed that they would be around forever? And don’t give me the ‘loss of excellent reporting and unbiased opinion’ argument, because I will choke on my laughter while I say *cough cough Hearst cough cough Murdoch*.

Even worse is pining for what never was. For instance, when people my father’s age reminisce about ‘the good ole days’ when people showed ‘respect’. REALLY? Yeah, I see a whole bunch of respect pouring out of those fire hoses from the Civil Rights movement or the gender pay gap. I think we have different definitions of respect.

Wow, tangent much, Amy? What were we talking about again?

Oh, yeah. Twitter.

It changed.

Adapt.

I love this picture, it is a good representation of how much nature respects our burial traditions. Which is not at all.

Here’s the thing. I think graves and our system of burying people is an INCREDIBLE waste. Basically, we take someone whose soul is gone, pump them full of toxic chemicals, dress them up, and then stare at them for a few hours. Then we put them in the ground atop a few feet of concrete in a box that will be there FOREVER, and then cover them with dirt. And in 50 years no one will even care who is in that box. There is just no need for it. Because in a hundred years your tombstone will be covered in dirt and no one is going to care what your casket looked like or what dress you were buried in or what you looked like at the funeral. When I die, take everything medicine can use, burn my body and scatter my ashes somewhere. I’ll be dead. I WON’T CARE.

Yes, yes I am full of sunshine today, sue me.

Century Old Grave in Westminster

The kids are going to be gone again this Christmas. You would think that would be my daily rant, but it isn’t. I am so happy that I don’t have ‘do’ Christmas. Christmas is a hassle. A huge dance of traditions that I don’t even like. I wasn’t always this way – I, like most new moms, cherished those times with my kids when they were younger and the magic of Christmas was infectious. I braved the busy malls, the lines to see Santa, the Black Friday deals, and the mountain of wrapping that came with making sure that my kids had a ‘good’ Christmas.

Now that they are a little bit older, they don’t expect quite as much, and I am so damn grateful. And when I stripped away all the things that make this season such a chore I realized something –  I don’t really like Christmas. If you’ve followed this blog for a while you know that this isn’t a new gripe. I just find the whole ritual tedious, obligatory, and governed by archaic traditions I am ‘supposed’ to be following. And I think we all know how well I do with words like ‘obligations’ and ‘supposed to do’.

This year I have a reprieve. The kids are going to their Dad’s for Christmas break. I shall dance with joy when they board that plane.

I was hoping that this meant that I could get away without having to decorate too heavily, I mean they aren’t going to be here….so what is the point?

But…NOPE.

I still have decorate AND put up a DAMN TREE.

Oh, the humanity!

At least there is eggnog, and bourbon. Lots and lots of bourbon.

As you may or may not know, I have been on this whole ‘learning about me’ thing since I got divorced. As you may also know, it turns out I am kind of an asshole. Shocking, I know.

One of the things that really bugs me is sick people. I just assume that everyone that is sick made the conscious choice to do so just to piss me off. I KNOW that isn’t how it really works, but deep in my mind that’s what I always think. Like you got the flu? That’s a shame – now, stay away from me.

This situation isn’t helped by the fact that my kids are very healthy people. I mean, we rarely get sick. And don’t come to me with that “I have a cold so I have to stay home” sob story. If you aren’t throwing up, you go to school.

They are this way by the benefit of genes and by design. My kids growing up stuck some gross shit in their mouths, crawled around on all manner of strange floors, and were for the most part kept away from hand sanitizers. I am a big believer in tolerance, and for the most part that strategy has paid off. My children do not have allergies or asthma, and have great immune systems. Yes, I know there other biological and environmental factors that play into that…but this over-clean thing mothers are doing all the time? That is a recipe for a sick kid all the time.

But people do get sick, oh yes they do. And those jerks want you to CARE.  Holy chicken soup, batman! I am  NOT your mother. If you are sick, go lay down until you feel better, I do not need a play by play or your bodily fluids or mucus. REALLY. And when your kids are sick? NOT THE END OF THE WORLD!

I am also really awkward around people are really sick, like with cancer or other constant illness. I want them to be better, and not be sick. And since I can’t do that, I never really know what to say or do.

So it is with a heavy heart I tell you – if you are sick, don’t tell me about it. My only advice is: “Get over it.”

Pity my children.

It happened. Everyone said it would happen, eventually. I am not sure I believed them until I saw it with my own eyes. But to tell the truth, now that I have seen it, I am dumbfounded that the universe would create such a ferocious monster. I feared for my sanity and my eardrums. Surely, no one else that has seen this has survived. How would it be possible?

I am still in shock.

Yes, my daughter….my former blond-haired, everything-has-to-be-pink, Barbies-are-amazing, swing-me-higher-mommy, giggelbox-of-girl has had her first full fledged hormonal fueled meltdown.

There were tears, and stomping of the feet, the slamming of doors, vows of hatred against all things parental, and declarations that it was not her that was the cause of the meltdown but me. Yes, me who had quietly been trying to work this evening sent her into a rage that was NOT TO BE CALMED.

I did not believe it existed, but there it was – my daughter had let the hormone monster take over.

I have said it before, I will say it again.

Nunneries. Bring ‘em back.

Having a daughter who has decided to follow the pagan religion is an adventure. It is also tricky when she attends Catholic School. I regulary get comments like this one -

“Challenges  her faith regularly.  Needs to improve independent work habits.”

All I can think of is : Damn Straight. I would be angry if she WASN’T challenging your silly stories.

The other night I am laying in bed having this really weird dream. I dreamed that attached to my leg was this huge bug, almost like a lobster or a roach. I mean this…THING or monster (or whatever) covered my whole calf. And in my dream I am walking around with this thing on my leg saying to myself, “It’s no big deal, don’t freak out. It’s no big deal, don’t freak out.”

THEN this roach/lobster thing takes out a huge stinger appendage from its head and digs it into my calf. There was no way I could shake this thing off, it was ANNOYING.

Well, clearly we all know what this dream means, right?

Exactly, don’t have cats that try to sleep on your legs during the night. Because when you try to shake the asshole off your leg they will use their claws to hang on.