I Hate My Life

To be fair, it probably wouldn’t matter what kind of life I had; I would probably hate it. Whether a Sherpa in Tibet, or a princess in Abu Dhabi, I suspect my brain would still tell me everything is well and truly fucked before I even opened my eyes in the morning. As a Malibu mom I still spend roughly 95% of my time awake telling myself that nothing is wrong by trying to be mindful, or staying in my body, or eating ice cream. Which is a shame because one of the few things that is good about my life at forty, is that I’m technically not fat. So let’s hope that holds.

I can’t really blame my kids for ruining my life, because I had a bad attitude even before I had children. I was born with a sense of entitlement, believing that people were who they appeared to be, when people smiled at you it meant something, and I would always be loved. Sadly, these beliefs proved idiotic, and at some point I must have internalized this sad state of affairs to create the behemoth of insecurity that nestles behind the ball-busting facade. I’m so insecure, I can’t even tell when someone really loves me, as I’ve been shown conclusively over the last couple of years, that even when people seem to love you, they can still yell at you daily, or fuck off out of your life for no apparent reason, or for a stupid reason; no matter how much you have been there for them, or liked them, or loved that little swirly thing they did with their tongues.

I don’t care if you hate me, because you will never hate me as much as I hate me. So I win! I will never be good enough in my own eyes except situationally- the added bonus of my weird personality disorder is that I can briefly feel good depending on the response of others. Then it immediately fades when they’re not there. Is that the technical definition of psychosis? Or just being an actor?

Even when I was married, I have always used love or romance to distract me from all this. There is so little that really makes life worth living, is it wrong to reach for an errant penis to try and make it better? Well, as a matter of fact, yes there is. The penis is hollow, not literally (as far as I know, I have never cross-sectioned one) but the feeling one is left with is. Like trying to fill an endless leaky bag with sand, I can’t reach for men anymore and it is fucking killing me. I’m so bored with life right now I could die, wish for it daily in fact, but G-d will not oblige, vindictive white bastard that He is.

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It’s Not Just A Blog, It’s A Lifestyle

In honor of the new trend for “curated” tasteful lives filled with slavishly acquired possessions designed to give the impression that one is not trying, I am starting my own lifestyle brand. This trend was started by Goopeth Paltrow and is now being fatuously continued by the lineage of Blake “Preserve My Lifestyle Or Give Me Death” Lively, and even though I am neither blonde nor famous, heck, why not me?

I know many land on Malibu Mom expecting to find recipes for summer mocktails with fey names like “Zuma Dusk,” or tips on which beach is best to see whales in July, instead getting the shadowy underbelly of Lifestyles of the Rich and Clueless, led by a frequently depressed mom who acts out sexually to avoid the drudgery of parenting, and is not even from Malibu, having settled here as a Russian Australian Jew five years ago and snapped up the URL before it could be poached by someone more equestrian. The sunsets in my mocktails are most definitely chemical.

Nevertheless I am the High Priestess (Rabbi) of a certain kind of attitude, where honesty is favored over phoniness, and this might be aspirational, especially for those of us (all of us) who find ourselves in a culture frequently forced to be full of shit because if we are not, we will lose friends and influence people to fire us. In my experience, America the Brave is just as often about STFU and toe the company line, because there are far too many über competitive, Ivy-educated little yuppy cunts ready to take your place should you misstep and actually express an unpopular opinion. For all that First Amendment crap I’ve been force fed since I landed in this great country, I still find myself lacking the diplomacy that is required to blend into life amongst America’s parents, whose denial is impervious to my barbed attempts at reason, which may be seen as “negativity.”

Okay California, I don’t want to bring you down, dude.

So here they are- the only five products you will need for a delicious, happy and spiritually evolved Malibu summer and all ranging in price from free to fifty-eight bucks. I am sincere in recommending these products, even the woo woo ones, as I am nothing if not woo woo, though perhaps next time I will recommend truffled truffles in truffle sauce, just in case you need something a little fancier. Even though I do not have a staff of marketers, designers and copywriters, I have somehow managed to group these products/ideas based on the five senses: Continue reading

7 Things People Should Never Say

1. “Did you find everything okay?”
You get to the cashier at the supermarket and they invariably ask this. Um, if I didn’t find it I would have asked someone and if I didn’t it is likely I don’t have a voice box, so I can’t even tell you now what I was too stupid to find on my own.

2. “How’s that food tasting?”
Invariably you have spinach hanging out of your mouth or are in tears from a highly personal conversation or both when your chipper server interrupts with this urgent enquiry. Please chill you’re already getting a tip. If the food doesn’t taste good we will let you know, and likely would have let you know before eating half of it.

3. “All the good ones are taken.”
There are over 54 million single people in the United States, surely we can find one that’s right for our particular needs that’s not already married or sticking it out in a crappy relationship?

4. “Don’t take it personally.”
This is a cult propagated by Don Miguel Ruiz and his Four Agreements. I agree that ideally we wouldn’t take anything personally, people’s behavior says more about their own issues than blah blah blah- but people use it to explain friends who turn their backs on you, dudes who deceive/ignore/use you, and your kids talking to you like you’re something they stepped in. I’m sorry but I’m no longer medicated and am in possession of actual human emotions, so if you treat me like shit, I will, in fact, take it personally.

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I Left My Husband But I Didn’t Go Anywhere

After however many years, whether in a marriage or in a live-in relationship, at some point, statistically, most of us will separate. Traditionally when you separate from someone, it is customary to leave the domicile, or at least the area. You tried, it didn’t work, and now you pack your stuff into a Louis Vuitton suitcase, or a Vons shopping bag, or a handkerchief tied to a stick, and venture forth into your unknown, bright future.

Or not.

Some of us, under the influence of an overblown sense of guilt or some other forces not understood to humanity, do not leave at all. Instead we move into a guest room, or a basement, or a guesthouse and continue to “co-parent,” for the sake of the children. “Co-parent” which according an earlier post I define as, “The illusion that you can control another person’s actions when you are not there because you used to sleep with them.”

When you co-parent in the same house as your ex, many times you are there. You are still subject to all the annoying habits you used to find so damn lovable, and these serve as a constant reminder that YOU FAILED. You are a statistic, you couldn’t make it work and now you must stay and rub your nose in your inability to co-operate. You live, at least partly, amongst their “crap,” both physical and metaphysical, and but now there are no mitigating factors, like that you may actually get laid later.

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Please Buy My Book

Many of you have read my blog for years and told me what a difference my writing has made to you. Right now my memoir “I’ll Be The Death Of Me” is only 12 bucks and change, it took me many years to write and it will tell you everything you’ve always wanted to know about me, and much much more. I just re-edited it in its entirety and it’s better, funnier and more poignant than ever.

10 Most Depressing Things About Having Kids

1. When they’ve hurt themselves and you can’t do anything other than sit there ineffectually holding ice while they look at you with accusing eyes (as if you made them fall down.)
2. They reflect all the bad qualities you’ve tried to smooth out in adulthood like that you’re an oversensitive klutz who doesn’t know when to quit a joke, and now here they are blowing your cover.
3. When they say “I hate you” to each other- it’s not like you’re not thinking it, but why do they get to say it out loud?
4. If you’re single, your dating pool is cut by 2/3 because who wants to have a relationship with a woman with kids? On the plus side, you don’t have to shave your legs.
5. You can’t turn them into your little slaves, because apparently there are laws that prevent this.

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Magical Properties Possessed By My Vagina:

1. Orgasms- single, multiple and consecutive- look ma no hands.
2. Bird calls.
3. Homing device for dysfunctional men.
4. Nuclear reactor.
5. Keeps legs from floating away (not too familiar with science- it’s something like that right?)
6. Can cause incurable insanity in self and others.
7. Makes an excellent pet.
8. Predictor of rains, tides and Tsunamis.
9. Sheds glitter.
10. Candy dispenser. Continue reading