The Snowflake Defense

Hello my darlings, It seems to be a hip thing nowadays to flounce about the internet with a high level of pretentiousness and denounce people for whatever is denouncable. “This thing you like I find stupid, therefore, you are stupid.” It’s important you all note just how hard I roll my eyes at these people. One of the most irritating denouncements is the “special snowflake” quips. “You’re not a special snowflake, mmkay?” I see this in varying contexts. In publishing, it’s usually your book isn’t special, you aren’t special, you don’t deserve anything special, so STFU and take a seat, loser. In parenting, you and your kid are the same nameless, faceless morons that fill up the rest of the world and no one cares. In life, no one gives two fucks about what you are doing so stop posting about it on social media, for chrissake. Like, okay. We get it, Pretentiouspants. You’re super cool and above everyone else. What a weighty crown to bear. How truly burdensome to be the one true special snowflake that is cursed with looking down on all the rest of the yellow snow with disdain and loathsome pity. I’ve heard actual people in real life discussing people like Neil Gaiman and JK Rowling saying things like, “Well, sure, he sells, but he’s not that special, so.” and “She’s not a good writer. She’s not special. She’s lucky.” These are actual things that I’ve heard come out of actual mouths. And not just from random internet fans, but people in publishing. Over the last few years, I’ve watched people become “special snowflakes” to people who feel they are qualified to make that assessment. Someone who one day didn’t matter suddenly was deemed worthy. I’m not going to lie, it’s kind of gross to...

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Fizz-lite Holidays

Hello my loves, Last night, my son’s preschool had their annual Christmas program. Our kids have gone to this school since my daughter was two, so this is our fifth straight year of this festive jaunt. I wasn’t in the mood last night, I really wasn’t. I wanted to not have to wear pants and stay in bed and it was raining and cold and blah. But we got the lad dressed in a sweater and jeans, our daughter threw together an outfit that looked like her dress-up box threw up on her, but that was fine because she’s a kid and kids can so rock that look. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Hubs was still rocking his work look. We got the the church (it’s a Christian preschool) and oh my god everyone was dressed up like Jesus himself was coming for the show. Like, full-tilt holiday gear. Girls were in frilly red dresses. Men were in suits. The little boys had shiny dress shoes on. And there’s my son in jeans and shabby Spider-Man sneakers. And there’s me in a Firefly t-shirt that says CAPTAIN MAL’S BIG DAMN GUARANTEE. In church. Surrounded by children. (In my defense, I didn’t realize my shirt said that until I looked down in horror at my clothing.) So, I kept my coat on and tried to ignore how trashy I felt surrounded by all the holiday cheer. The program went great, the kids were adorable, my son like, rocked that show. Very super cute. When we got home and the kids were in bed, I felt all deflated. Every year since the kids were born, I’ve gotten them each a Christmas outfit for these shows, and then to rewear to all the holiday parties. I didn’t this year. I...

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Saving Santa

Hello my dears! A few years ago, I was driving through our quaint little town, and when I passed our courthouse, I saw what will always be one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever witnessed. Our town Santa was standing there, holding a big sign that said ‘GOD HATES F@GS! KEEP THE QUEERS OUT OF BOY SCOUTS! SAVE OUR CHILDREN!’ I don’t recall ever being so feels-punched so hard. I mean, it was fucking Santa standing there spreading hate. He had the full white beard and everything. I mean damn. I couldn’t process it. I drove by, in actual, literal tears thinking about any little kid who might see him standing there, a little kid who knew in their heart who they were, but now would think Santa freaking Claus hated them for being that person. It’s been years, but the anger and hurt I felt at that moment hasn’t diminished even slightly. Here’s the thing; this isn’t just the Santa that pops up at Christmas to show up at the library for kids to come take pictures with. Our local Santa is kind of a legend. Every trash day, Santa drives through town, in a red truck, no less, and scours the curbs for cast away toys that he will take and fix up to hand out to less-fortunate children. I mean…dude. Saint Nick, amirite? And he’s there every week! Our trash pick-up day is Tuesday, and every damn week, the kids and I stand at the bus stop and watch that red truck go by. When the kids have toys they’ve outgrown or want to donate, we will leave them by the curb just to see if we can catch Santa picking them up. For years it was a fun thing for me to see, watching...

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Exit Stage Mom

Hello my loves! Okay, so I’m sort of prat-falling through life right now, working to find some footing post-heart drama, current-brain damage and it’s created some interesting moments. Mostly it’s full of inconveniences that I can laugh at. Like how I’ve forgotten how to use apostrophes. Seriously. That’s a thing that happened. The laws of apostrophes escape me. I know what they are, and that I’m supposed to use them, but other than contractions, I’ve got nothing. I will use them completely wrong. It’s bizarre. (It’s okay to laugh at this. People do.) Or like when I’m signing my kid out of preschool and I forget how to spell his name. That I can laugh at. There have been some unfortunate glitches like thinking I paid a bill in cash only to discover later I actually wrote a check that I big fat did not mark down in my checkbook. That wasn’t cool. But hardy har! Glitch! I can laugh these things off, people! I did a presentation on social media last week and I was a little worried about glitching on words mid-speech and had a plan to throw candy at whoever could call out the word I’d forgotten. I worried about possible insurance scenarios, so I just giggled at the idea in my head. So, like I said, mostly just annoying, nothing too hideous. Until tonight. Lord save me. Through all the medical drama and hooplah, I’ve done my darndest to keep life relatively copacetic for the tots. My daughter had been asking for months to start up with this theater group in our town, and being a former theater major, I was like, HELL YES THE LEGACY LIVES ON. Once I’d gotten to a functional state, I signed her up, and all was well with the...

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The Eyes Have It

Hello my darlings! “I’m not much of a crier.” I say this to people when the topic of crying comes up. And it was true. I’ve never been much of a tear shedding type. When I was a kid, if I got in trouble, I wouldn’t cry. I’d turn into a stormy-faced robot, back up to a wall, and attempt to bore holes into the floor with my laser scowl. Even as an adult, if I get really pissed, or into a feels-heavy argument, you could count on me to turn into this bizarre, calm, lawyer-esque creature which actually kind of terrified me a lot. I like feelings. It makes little sense that I will legit shut down over sadness. A very confusing situation. So, a year or so ago, I was relaying my cold dead heart concerns to my husband and I honestly couldn’t think of a time I’d been so sad I’d cried tears. Seriously, other than my cat getting hit by a car in the second grade, I never get sad enough to cry. I get angry. Upset. Hurt. Scared. Not so much sad. At funerals, I’m the weirdo making inappropriate jokes because I don’t like to see other people sad and I figure any smile is a good smile? Or I’m just awkward as ass and my verbal filter is on back-order. When my kids were born? I teared up, but no tears fell. And those were happy tears, so. But still. No crying. Maybe it’s because I brought it into focus, but ever since we had that conversation, it takes basically nothing to turn me into a sniveling idiot. I have a friend, and every time we’ve talked on the phone, maybe three or four times in the last year, I have cried. And...

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