Lucky Scary Mommy is taking a spin at Pacific Playland today.
I should start by saying, ever so sarcastically, that I love a mommyblog. I especially have big love for a mommy blog that includes all of my personal pet peeves.
Cash for posts? Check.
Boring, substandard content? Check.
Pictures of children I don't know and in whom I'm uninterested, in lieu of content? Check.
Pretending to be hyperbadassfoulmouthedcoolmom? Check (and god, I am thoroughly sick of this one...)
This is formaldehyde-scented death wrapped up in a shiny red & white package. The posts are stiff, the content feels posed, and there isn't a single uncontrived sentence on this blog. Oh, goodie. I've encountered the undead Kate Gosselin of the blogosphere.
Up front, a quick list of the things I hate:
I hate the three-column template with 1 main post and additional posts shown as snippets underneath that require additional clicks. I particularly hate that this template makes it difficult to get back to the main page.
I hate the ads that "scary" mom is using to subsidize her blogstyle.
I hate the content.
I don't hate the kids, but I hate that their mom is using them to create a name for herself and build an evil undead mommy blogging empire (muahahhahahaahahah!). Scary Mommy is begging for a nail-studded baseball bat and a sharp pair of hedge trimmers.
Scary Mommy is never real. For the record, real bleeds. Real sweats, real cries, real poops. This is what real looks like:
...no words I put down can fully capture the aching emptiness I feel at giving birth to babies and coming home from the hospital without them. What we endure to bring our babies into the world is easily forgotten when we cuddle the thing so hard won. When we smell its soft head, trace our fingers down a chubby, pink body, whisper silliness and love into its ears. But I don't have that now. I sit alone in rooms and wonder about the new lives I just ushered too early into the world. I carry guilt heavy in my chest. Why wasn't I strong enough to carry them to term? What defect brought on labor at 33 weeks?
Real moms agonize. They blame themselves, they address their fears of not being good enough, they bitch, they moan, they show their asses. They say, "This shit ain't easy, and it ain't for suckas, yo?"
Scary Mommy is not real in any sense of the word that is meaningful, at least to imperfect mothers like me. She's glib, heartless, and flippant. She died a while ago, but no one has noticed since she plods along in exactly the same happy dead way.
My objective system of blog rating goes like this. If the blog so fascinates me that I'd drive 60 miles out of my way on a business trip to meet the blogger, it's a damn good blog. If I'd drive 10 miles, it's decent. If I'd consider running the blogger down in the grocery store parking lot, it's going to get a flaming finger. If I need to put the double tap into effect, it needs to fuck off and die already, because it's already 78% dead. It's pretty scientific, when you think about it.
So...I would never sit down for cheap margaritas in some chain restaurant in the wilds of New Jersey with Scary Mommy. I do not read her blog and think, "I'd like to meet this fascinating woman." Instead, I think: "She has no soul. She is a zombie who might eat my brains for an appetizer instead of the Mexican eggrolls. Where the hell is my sawed off shotgun?"
There are good mommy blogs out there written by women with heart, courage, humor, passion, and zeal.
Scary Mommy isn't one of 'em.
What rating do I give this fake/dead blog? I felt the need to create something new:
And for making me waste my time...