Category / Family

by Baroness Buttercup

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Riddle me this, Batman … Why is it that when people can no longer see the tiny print in the newspaper or make out the dishes on offer on a menu, they’ll take a trip to the optometrist to get their eyes checked. Or, at least, pop down to the local drug store and pick up a pair of readers. However, when their ears start to show the same signs of wear and tear, they stubbornly refuse to acknowledge that they might need a little outside assistance in the hearing department. Or, is this something unique to my parents?

About five, maybe six, maybe more, years ago I moved into my parent’s house to help them out, as they’re getting older and, apparently, I’m not. In exchange, I pay no rent and am free to write to my heart’s content. I know. It’s a pretty sweet deal. Continue reading →

by Baroness Buttercup

The Happiest Place on Earth?

anger-18658_1920I know I’m arriving to the party late on this one. It’s a Facebook post that’s supposedly real and I’m going to go with that assumption. Although, the internet and social media being what they are, you can take it with a grain of salt or two if you choose. The post in question is dated September 22 (no year). So with today being August 1, 2019, (and excluding the possibility of time travel) that makes it at least a year old. It could be even older. I have no idea. Perhaps it’s been floating around for years and you’ll all be shaking your heads and going, “Seriously Baroness? This is the first time you’ve seen this?”

Anyway, it’s a rant from a woman whose trip to Disneyworld was ruined, absolutely RUINED (she made liberal use of all caps, so I thought I should follow along), by the presence of Millenials and childless couples — or, more specifically, childless women. But, I’ll let you read it for yourselves. Continue reading →

by Baroness Buttercup

Vintage Blogging, 1970s Style

If you’re going to get an annual update from a family, it usually comes in the form of a Christmas newsletter. Well, in 1974 my liberated mother decided to get her Erma Bombeck on and send out the update in the form of four-page article called “Dear Diary, or How I Spent My 35th Birthday.” If you’ve ever wondered how a blog-post would have read in 1974 (although, that’s something fairly specific to wonder, so likely, no one has), here’s your answer. Apparently, my mom had the makings of a blogger, long before the concept existed. She was, and still is, a woman truly ahead of her time.

And now, without further ado, I give you February 1974 and my mother’s 35th birthday …

My Actual Family, 1974-ish

“Happy birthday,” he said, as I gagged on the overpowering smell of his hairspray.

Where does it say that a wife should have to endure the noxious fumes of a man’s vanity? Where does it say that the husband has first crack at the hairdryer in the morning? I say, beware, girls, of the nice guy who fits in perfectly with your dreams of the ideal man and father for your children! I am convinced that these so-called “nice guys” are the ruination of the truly liberated woman. I’m so liberated that I find myself in a kind of oppressed liberation. With him sitting on the sidelines, full of self-satisfaction, watching my every move and thinking to himself, “You got yourself into this mess, Anita, and you can get yourself out of it.”

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by Baroness Buttercup

My Mother, My Killer

Whether it’s tNitaUpLakehe way it really happened or simply the way it’s been remembered, I can’t say for sure. But family history has it that my mother was so enamored and protective of me that she didn’t let anyone — including my father and grandparents — hold me for the first six weeks of my life. So it’s not surprising that at an age when other babies were being potty-trained and learning to walk, I was perfecting my ability to manipulate my mom in order to get anything my devious little heart desired. Continue reading →

by Baroness Buttercup

Senior Girl Scout Bust Strip

Little Oliver Cleone

Little Oliver develops his fear of boneless animals …

I’ve noticed that from time to time bloggers will invite other writers, or non-writers, to present their take on an incident or event. It seems like a clever idea, the readers get a view from angle by which they perhaps hadn’t yet examined the subject at hand, the writer gets to connect with a new and different audience and, probably most important of all, the blog owner gets a mini-vacay. Continue reading →

by Baroness Buttercup

Harvesting The Sticks

Is there anything worse than being unable to turn on the TV without having to endure some story or sound bite featuring Kim Davis or Donald Trump? Of course there is! There are literally thousands of things that are worse than idiots yammering away on the magic picture box. But, as my fellow entitled American friends can attest, any awareness of situations taking place beyond our immediate vicinity or circumstance is typically minimized or ignored altogether when we’re consumed with the myriad of catastrophic minor annoyances we face on a regular basis. Continue reading →

by Baroness Buttercup

A Schadenfreudean Slip

I need a new word, or maybe the word already exists and I just need someone to educate me. We’re all familiar with schadenfreude – the enjoyment derived from observing the misfortune of another. But what do you call the guilt or creepiness one feels in reaction to wallowing around in schadenfreude? This feeling doesn’t tag along every time schadenfreude goes out to play, sometimes it just feels good to see someone else feel bad, especially when the misfortune they experience reveals them as a hypocrite, a liar or not as perfect as they claim to be.
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by Baroness Buttercup

Adulthood: The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

When you’re a kid you can’t wait to be an adult so you can do whatever you want, whenever you want, no matter what anyone else says. Through a child’s eyes, adulthood looks like a magical world of freedoms, the likes of which they can only dream … drinking milk straight from the carton, bringing a jacket when it is cold and not because it might get cold and the end of being dragged to places and events when you’d rather be just about anywhere else.
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