I. Love. My. Dahhhhhgs: Proof that I can hold two opposing ideas in my mind simultaneously.

Do I like the smell of pee? Do I enjoy picking up pieces of poo or scraping channels of packed poo out of my tennis shoe treads with a toothpick? Does it feel good when a “power chewer” clamps his jaws on the middle of my hand when I’m simply trying to break up a vicious 3 AM fight between two male puppies who both believe they are the Alpha? Does a bear shit in the master bathroom and wipe its ass with Charmin?

Negatory.

When I’m away from home, do I pine for six precious little puppy eyes? Do I adore doggie kisses even when they leave a schmear of shit-smell on my skin? Are MY dogs the cutest fur-babies in the entire known universe? Does a bear shit in the woods?

Abso-fucking-lutely.

Flat Heads Belong Only on Screwdrivers

You know what sucks worse than that little minion “running” North Korea? Having a flat head. Apparently, when I was a baby, my mother never turned my ass over, so practically my whole pre-ambulatory life, I lay on my back in my crib or in this crank-up baby swing that had a seat made of turquoise canvas.

According to a news report I recently read, I’m not the only one whose caretakers just left them endlessly lying there while their heads flattened out. The article, entitled, “Nearly half of babies have flat spots, study finds,” does not make me feel any fucking better to know that I’m not alone. Fifty percent of the population don’t have flat heads, and those are the successful people.  You don’t see any runway models who spin around and make the crowd gasp because the backs of their heads align perfectly with their necks. Like mine.

And although Donald Trump has gasp-worthy hair and it SEEMS like part of his brains might be missing, when he turns to the side, he doesn’t look like somebody lopped off the back hemisphere of his skull. Like me.

The Donald

I can’t wear a hat because, in profile, I look like a deck-post. I can’t rock a high ponytail like Jennifer-freaking-Aniston. And when I lie on one of those neck-support pillows that’s supposed to fit snugly in the hollow between the bottom of your skull and your shoulders, I look like someone’s preparing me for CPR.

Even though the study in the article I’ve mentioned was conducted on two-month-old Canadian babies—and who the hell knows what kind of babies they have in a place where there is no “ow” sound—there is at least one American company that manufactures orthotic helmets to reshape a baby’s head before it hardens permanently into the shape of the capital letter D. Like mine.

Unfortunately, the helmets cost thousands of bucks and make your family look like child abusers or hockey freaks. Equally bad, IMHO.

The cheaper option is just to turn the damn baby. I mean, what are you doing that you can’t rotate the baby every hour or so? Even the laziest sumbitches can get up off the couch at the end of every episode of This is Us or Fleabag or Game of Thrones and turn. The. Baby.

The Canadian study showed that when their flat heads were not caught in time, the babies’ facial features were also affected. Great! You lazy asses are creating children who are all chainsaw accident in the back and Quasimodo in the front. I hope you are proud. Your children will suffer a lifetime of mediocrity, a hand-to-mouth existence, the failure of all of their hopes and dreams, and no cute hats in their futures.

I now know exactly why I have had limited success and why I have a face that incited my grandmother to say things like, “You’re pretty to me.” Flat head. Thanks. When my grandmother was teaching her own daughter—my mother—all those parenting skills, she might have spent a little less time on left-handed compliments and more time on turning the flat-headed baby.

Happy Muthas’ Day

A darling friend of mine noted that I didn’t paste any warm and fuzzalicious words in honor of my mommy dearest this week on our social network. I love(d) my mother, but I used to have the hardest time finding a Mothers’ Day card because nothing quite said “Fuck you, bitch” the way I wanted it to.

Here’s the scoop: Sometimes moms are not Clair Huxtable or Carol Brady or June Cleaver. Sometimes moms have babies out of allegiance to some antiquated decree proclaiming a woman “not a real woman” if she doesn’t get married, get spermed, get swollen, get contractions, and then get her insides expelled out of her nether regions while LOVING the whole process AND the tiny tadpole who caused that nuclear pain.

My mom pledged that allegiance. She really would have rather birthed some stardom. Instead she despised most of her existence, most everything about me from my pre-adolescence to my own motherhood, and most of the attention NOT being on her. I jumped through all the flaming hoops I could to get her attention, pissed her off as often as possible, disappointed her in scandalous ways. We made up after she turned into a lonely and delusional grandmother who still passed for my sister. And then she fucking died.

I miss her laugh (of which I ADORED being the cause), her closets of enchanting evening wear and scrumptious shoes. And her cooking. Her better-than-Paula-Deen-in-her-dreams cooking. Her Oh, my GOD cooking; everything she created was pure gold, Southern-git-yer-diabeeteez-here, lick-the-plate, unbutton-your-waistband-until-the-misery-of-overstuffing-passed, gourmet grand. I’m sometimes morose with the realization that I’ll never experience her culinary creations again. I think about how it would be if she came back for just one dinner. Maybe on a Mothers’ Day. But then she’d bring her drama with her. And she’d have to go away again. And I still wouldn’t have just the right card.

Not By the Hair of My Chinny-Chin-Chins

My poor daughters. If they are anything like me, they will realize one day while in the middle of watching some cleverly penned half-hour of workplace comedy that they have multiple facial hairs that did not get proper permission before sprouting from their secret lairs. I discovered my chin-buddies because of the following conversation:

My grandmother, Kitty, to my mother, Charlotte: “Chaaaaahlotte, pull this hay-uh fuh me. I cain’t see up under thay-uh.” She juts out her chin for better viewing.

My mother: “Pull mine first.”

Holy shitballs. If both of them have one…My twenty-year-old self hightailed it to the nearest mirror and strained to see what lurked beneath my jiggly jaw line. And there it was! The fucker had been there so long it was spiraling. Spiraling, people. I almost puked. I snatched that sumbitch out of my fatty flesh faster than a naked toddler wandering in traffic ends up at DFACS.

I have a right to know, and I want to know NOW. Why, why, why if hair has to go away as we age, why can’t all the hair in my legs fall out? Or the mustache hair? Why can’t that go? Shit. I can donate the hair on my face to Locks of Love, but I look like a seventy-year-old man at the crown. There are only so many ways a girl can pull off a comb-over.

You know what adds insult to injury? I have to lift and separate my chins to find those little follicle-fucking bastards these days. God forbid anyone catches me laughing in a picture. I tend to pull back my head so that there’s no neck within 500 yards. The only discernible features are teeth and eye slits floating in a puddle of flesh, barely visible. They are eclipsed by the shadow of my monster chin hair.