“Like my baby on Facebook!”

I have a lot of problems with social media, but I’m also a total hypocrite, so I’ll be quiet.

Who am I kidding – of course I won’t be quiet.

I follow a lady on Facebook with children. Both the boy and girl are under age 15, so neither are involved with Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, or anything of that nature…to their knowledge.

You see, she’s the type of mother you don’t see often who is a little old fashioned but knows how to be a smart parent; for her kids there’s no watching TV all day, attendance at school and extracurricular activities are a must, it’s OK to want to look good but vanity is wrong – that sort of thing.

I reiterate; she’s a smart woman and I respect her a lot.

But how do I know these things about a woman I only had a handful of conversations with in person? And perhaps the more important question is, how do I know these things about her children?

Because she broadcasts it all over her Facebook.

Her son accidentally discovered porn and was subsequently banned from the computer. Her daughter wants to go to camp this summer but it conflicts with a sporting event that’s equally as important (what to do?!). I know this stuff about two children I’ve never met and probably never will.

People don’t seem to realize that they’re creating online profiles of their children as they do this, and their children have absolutely no say in it. I have friends with entire Facebook photo albums of their babies, and nobody seems to stop and think, “What will my baby think of this when they’re in high school?”

Maybe Facebook and Twitter won’t be important by then, but these online profiles will continue to exist no matter what the medium is. How would you like it if the photos of you in all your naked, crying, glory at age two were plastered all over the internet by someone you loved and trusted?

I’m guessing that most people wouldn’t appreciate it.

And believe it or not, those pooping, crying, flailing lumps of human you made a few months ago are going to grow up and not appreciate it either. Unless you’re Beyonce and you have a team of PR people already working on branding your child so that they can grow up to be successful, back away from the status update.

But as I said before, I’m going to get called a hypocrite because I’ve put things on the Internet that are admittedly inappropriate.




But I will follow that up with this: I did it. I, of sound mind and free will, did it. I will accept the consequences because I did it and am old enough to know better.

On the other hand, these kids with entire Facebook profiles had no say in anything. If their parents are idiots, they’re the ones who are going to pay the price later.

I’m totally fine with posting the occasional picture of your kid, but to create an entire online persona just isn’t fair to the adult they’ll grow up to be.

Give them a chance to get to middle school and mess up their online identity themselves.


A Feminist Fairytale – #4

There once lived a fair-haired boy in a village near a forest

                                                                                     -because all villages are near forests.

The boy was adventurous and did not listen to his mother, and so one day, against her wishes, he ventured too far away from home and found a cottage.


 The cottage had bowls of porridge on the table, so the fair-haired boy sat down to eat.

     “This bowl is too big,” he said before finishing the whole thing.

     “This bowl is too small,” he said before finishing that one too.

     “This bowl is just right,” he said and finished off the whole lot of them.


Next, the fair-haired boy came upon several living room chairs.

     “This chair is too big,” he said before breaking the arm off with a baseball bat.

     “This chair is too small,” he said while stomping it to pieces and laughing maniacally.

     “This chair is just right,”he said before tossing it across the room.


Finally, the fair-haired boy came upon a large, orphanage-style bedroom with three beds in it.

     “This bed is too big,” he said while bouncing up and down on it.

     “This bed is too small,” he said while jumping on that one as well.

     “This one is…”



You see, the father of the fair-haired boy had noticed his sons absence and came upon the cabin just as the family of bears

                                         –   who had been out on a picnic, I promise you   –

                                                                                                                           returned home.

     BOOM     BOOM

went the fathers gun again as he killed all three bears with shots to the head.

“Daddy!”screamed the fair-haired boy as the two embraced.

“You should be more careful, you know,”the concerned father said.

“I will Daddy, I promise!”the fair-haired boy said.

And as both father and son began trashing the small cottage in the woods, the mother wondered absentmindedly if either her husband or son would be home for dinner.

                                                                                 Because she was making porridge.

-The End-

A Feminist Fairytale – #3

One day in a land far, far away, Adam went to visit his grandmother.

He packed a picnic basket with –

     1. Two ham sandwiches with swiss cheese and mayonnaise

     2. One large carton of sliced pears  (grandma’s favorite)

     3. Four Samuel Adams Boston Lagers

     4. One medium tub of macaroni salad

     5. One small package of assorted plastic cutlery

On his way out the door, Adam grabbed his red coat and threw it over his broad shoulders

                                                                                   –   and they were broad, I promise you that.

Adam went on his merry way to his grandmother’s house   –   

                                                                 and nothing out of the ordinary happened whatsoever.


-The End-


A Feminist Fairytale – #2

In a mystical land many, many years ago, there was a poor farmer with not a penny to his name.

He did, however, have a strong son named Thomas.

These things always end badly, I promise you they do.

Anyway, one day, a tiny man came to the poor farmer and offered him all the riches in the world

                                                   –   with one catch.

His son Thomas was to work day after day spinning straw into gold.

The poor farmer, seeing no other choice, accepted the offer.

Thomas knew hunger.

               Thomas knew want.

                              Thomas knew what it was to be poor.

So he worked, day in and day out, spinning straw into gold.

 Until one day, a tiny man came to Thomas and said he could spin straw into gold for him

                                                  –   with one catch.

Thomas would have to give up his first born child to the tiny man unless he could guess his name.

Sure enough, Thomas accepted the offer but could not guess the stranger’s name –   but went about living his life with his rich family anyway.

Not long after that, Thomas met and married Matilda, who bore him a beautiful baby girl.

But soon after that, the forgotten little man showed up to claim his prize-

                                                                                        unless Thomas could guess his name.

Sadly, Thomas could not guess the man’s name

                         so when the man reached for their newborn baby girl

                                        Thomas shot him in the head

                                         with his new pistol

                                         he had just purchased with a small amount

                                         of his families wealth.

-The End-

A Feminist Fairytale – #1

Once upon a time there was a man Leroy. He wasn’t very happy, I promise you that.

He was a slave to his two brothers, you see.

                           A slave.

He did the cooking, the cleaning, and the laundry, just to name a few things.

Until one day he saw a beautiful lady walking down the street.

The beautiful lady was going to a ball, and Leroy wanted to go too.

So he threw down the dirty socks, the Windex, and the awful pink rubber gloves –

                                                                                                                                 and he went.

-The End-


-a prose poem-

Touching them is magic – at least for an 8-year-old. They hold some sort of power only the adults have, and this allows you to touch, to feel, to play, to dream about as many as you want; for free! 

The bright colors are the best. They make great bookmarks, paperweights…name tags…ok, mostly bookmarks. The dark ones and ivory ones serve a purpose as well. They allow talking, conversing, helping decide which shade of ‘Lilac Gray’ to paint the foyer. 

This must be what being an adult is all about. This must be magic.

You cannot wait to wield their full power one day. You cannot wait until the day when your mother finally lets you paint your room your favorite color – ‘Chartreuse Cilantro.’

But for now, they are merely magical bookmarks with names. They read off like an enchanting spell of sorts;

‘Orange Abyss’

‘Muted Cardamom’

‘Blushing Ivory’

‘Creamed Kahlúa’

‘Touch of Lime’

Their names roll off the tongue in your mind like satin and dance across your fingers as you clutch as many as you can hold; for free!