Category Archives: Scary Mommy

No, We’re Not Worried About the Exchange Program, and Please Stop Asking (via Scary Mommy)

Scary Mommy — “Aren’t you worried?” people seem to keep asking us when they learn that our 13-year-old will spend two weeks in France this summer. “With all the…” and here they pause, fumbling for the way to say “gun violence” and make inferences about Muslim terrorists in a manner appropriate for Saturday soccer.

And here we pause, searching for the appropriate way to say “Well, duh,” which, it turns out, is pretty much just “Well, duh.” (Happily, that term translates wherever you go.) I like to think we’re worried about our son every day, when he boards the bus, when he baits his own sharp pokey hook, when he comes sprinting down the stairs, when he walks home from his buddy’s down the street, when he skates down the driveway without a helmet because he doesn’t listen, and when he goes to karate class, where as a rule, they kick and punch at other children. The question is doofy. We exist in a state of low-level concern; we all do.

But are we worried about shipping him overseas, because of all the…?

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Margaritaville Without Mom: A Story of Loss and Cheeseburgers (via The Mid)

It's been a lovely cruise.

Drink it up, this one’s for you.

The Mid — There aren’t too many ways you can make yourself laugh at funerals, but you try, because you tell yourself that’s what the deceased would have wanted, right? Mom would have rolled her eyes at some somber visitation weighed down by synthetic cathedral music and Kleenex; she’d have much preferred a tropical theme and Jimmy Buffett songs about islands and boats, things she, like the vast majority of Buffett fans, loved but never pursued. (If you’ve never seen a room full of adults burst into tears while researching lyrics by a guy famous for a song about a cheeseburger, I can assure you it makes for a weird afternoon.)

So that’s what we did, mostly. A couple times during her visitation (we called it a “time of sharing,” because no one wanted to say “visitation”), someone would ask to turn the music up, which is a strange request for a visitation/time of sharing. I hope the other two families in the funeral home didn’t mind; I’m sure they were trying to hold a traditional service while the weirdos in Room C listened to something called “Trying To Reason With Hurricane Season.”

So this year, having now turned into someone who can get actually emotionally unhinged listening to a song called “Fins,” we thought we’d do one last round, one last splash, one more trip out to the show for Mom. Here’s what happened.

 

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Oh Sure, Like You’ve Never Watched a Cow Give Birth With Your Sons Before (via The Mid)

JUST PRODUCING A CALF, NOTHING TO SEE HERE.

JUST PRODUCING A CALF, NOTHING TO SEE HERE.

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The Mid — GRAPHIC CONTENT WARNING: This piece contains explicit descriptions of cow birth, but trust me when I say that though they’re all true, detailed and kind of slidey, reading them is not nearly as bad as BEING 10 FEET AWAY FROM A LIVE COW GIVING BIRTH. So everyone just relax.

Indeed, on purpose, with my own eyes and with a mind toward “experiencing nature” (or whatever nonsense you tell yourself when you’re about to witness something grody for no practical purpose), I recently watched a large cow deliver another smaller but still pretty large cow. I realize that most readers here have either witnessed or starred in the production of another human being, and as of press time I’ve only done the former, but I’m pretty sure the cow version is much funkier. Much.

The actual gross birth happens over at The Mid.

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My Son Tends to Vanish Into the Wilderness a Lot (via The Mid)

vanish into the wilderness

JUST KEEP GOING, IT’S NOT LIKE THERE ARE BEARS AROUND HERE OR ANYTHING.

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The Mid — The thing about losing your child in an unfamiliar state park is how it hones your senses. Everything else falls away—everything. The scenery, the green, the humming of the birds, the voices of the other hikers. It all collapses, slips off black edges in your peripheral vision, so your mind and your instincts can focus on one thought, just one crucial thought: When I find him, I am going to kill him. 

I mean, we didn’t lose him lose him, in the sense that he was gone for days, or even hours. It was maybe 40 minutes, tops, although it’s hard to tell because time stands still when you’re tromping through riverbeds and into small valleys and over fallen logs muttering a near-constant torrent of curse words. There were four of us: me, my wife, our effervescent and adventurous 11-year-old and his much wobblier, less calibrated 3-year-old brother. If you’ve ever gone hiking, or walked on a beach, or in a parking lot, or in your house, you know it’s not easy to keep a party of children together, especially one of varying ages. So we came to a spot that required some climbing, and the 11-year-old went first, leaving the three of us behind. And apparently this is where there was some miscommunication: Where we said, “Wait for us at the top,” he heard, “Please wander off alone into the forest, and if you could take the bag with the water bottles, that’d be great.”

(We find him over on The Mid.)

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Relax, Everyone, That’s Not Rain, It’s Just Spiders (via The Mid)

spider-blanket

Yeah, that’s not snow. You cannot imagine how much I hate this picture right now.

The Mid — You guys can worry about your global warming and your melting polar ice caps and all those asteroids aiming at us from space, but it’s raining spiders in Australia so it’s pretty clear we need to start vacating the planet immediately, find another one like those nice people in Interstellar and those equally nice but gelatinous people in WALL-E.

To recap: It’s raining spiders. I’m a grown man with a beautiful wife, two kids, a financial planner for some reason, hotel rewards cards, stove-cleaning solution and a Honda, and I am not ashamed to say that the idea of spiders raining down from the sky makes me want to crawl into a kangaroo pouch or hide under a kookaburra or whatever the hell you do to escape raining death in Australia.

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