Wednesday, December 30, 2009

C-U-Next-Tuesday (I know it's Wednesday, suck it)

I would have skipped C-U-Next-Tuesday this week, but I suddenly found a topic perfect for the true meaning of the weekly holiday.

And, again, it's Food Network-related.

I was cruising the Net for some ideas for my other, very neglected blog, when I found this article titled "Giada De Laurentiis' Recipe for a Happy Life."

Talking points (I'm in red)

Pregnancy
"Like many women, Giada had to struggle with her weight after giving birth.
Nodding in sympathy here. I can relate. I'm interested to see what a professional chef has to say about losing the baby pounds. It's hard work for people who don't cook for a living. I'll continue to read ...

 
'I gained 22 pounds (Wait. What?), which doesn't sound like much (I gained that in a trimester, you lightweight, superficial, overpriveleged bitch), but I'm only 5'3" (You're Thumbelina with teeth and tits), so it was a lot (Bet you looked like the fat fairy from Cinderella) for my height,' she says. 'Because I had a C-section (Break out the violins), I couldn't work out for a long time afterward (Violins? Hell, order cake! This is a pity party, people!), so I knew the best way for me to lose weight was through diet (cancel cake),'"according to the article on the Shape Web site.

Giada, thank you so much for your pregnancy wisdom. And Shape, thank you. Thank you for being a publication that doesn't so much support eating disorders and unhealthy self-image as it does demand them.

According to the March of Dimes, which is an organization that knows a leetle something about healthy pregnancy, women should gain 25 to 35 pounds in a normal, healthy pregnancy.

5-foot-3-inches is not so unbelievably short that 22 pregnancy pounds is a lot. In fact, it doesn't fall into the weight gain range of a "normal, healthy pregnancy."

I gained 90 pounds.

That's right.

I gained a Giada, and I had more than her entire pregnancy weight gain to lose after the twins had been born and the water retention was gone.

So, Giada, NO, 22 pounds is not a lot for your height. It's not even the minimum recommended pregnancy weight gain.

Be warned:  if I am ever pregnant again and I come across an article in which you spout off about a less-than-normal-weight-gain, I will eat you to feed my unborn child.

You are weak, but all that olive oil you eat could really do wonders for my baby's placenta.

But it's not THAT naked.

I thought I got this idea from Organic Meatbag, who should win a blog award for having the most simultaneously wholesome and ballsacky blogger name ever.

I can't find the post to which I'm referring, so maybe I got it from someone else's blog. If that blogger reads here (haha! someone reading here! I kill me!), hit me up and I'll give you cred.

According to Google Analytics, people have found this blog using the following search terms:

"naked blogspot"

OK. Understandable, if not incredibly disappointing for the searcher. (Web log surfer? Blurfer?)

"the sexiest girl naked wraping her lags around a ball"

Well, I could break this down by misspellings, unfortunate imagery, or ultimate inaccuracy, but I'll just do the cool blogger thing and label it FAIL.

"naked kinder"

 And this is where I get thrown. WTF is a kinder?

I refuse to believe someone accidentally hit "Enter" before finishing "kindergarteners."

Please, God, don't let my blog show up for people looking for child porn.

Monday, December 28, 2009

I don't post on Christmas: I've been drinking for 9 straight days and don't remember anything funny

Except for what my friend, Hilarious By Nature, said last night:

"Running is what you do when Satan is in front of you and he's come to take you away."

Friday, December 18, 2009

Pamphlet placement

Phubby came home from the doctor's office yesterday and couldn't understand why I kept pressing him about whether he needs a colonoscopy.

He started giving me weird looks. He must have thought I was extra concerned because my dad is a colon cancer survivor.

But I was just making a logical assumption ...




Just some friendly advice:  Maybe take a quick glance at those pamphlets your doctor hands you before shoving them in your back pocket and leaving the office.

Once this matter had been cleared up, he begrudgingly let me take a photo while I pointed and laughed at him. (He set limits on the area of his body the photo could cover. Vanity.)

While I was photographing his bottom, I noticed the wording on the pamphlet. "Patient information from your surgeon and sages."

Sages?

Like, old men in robes with long, white beards, sitting on mountaintops, spouting off crazy old man talk we're all supposed to think is enlightened or something?

That seems strange. I thought sages kept mostly to the subjects of philosophy and religion and telling other people what to eat.

Now, they're going all "Public service announcement: get your hiney checked." I thought that was Katie Couric's job.

I pondered this for approximately 11 hours, on and off, until I finally decided to pick up the brochure. Apparently, "sages" is really "SAGES," Society of American Gastrointestinal and Endoscopic Surgeons.

Kind of uppity opinions of themselves as "sages," wouldn't you think? I mean, sure "chew your peanuts well" and "get a colonoscopy" are good pieces of advice, but sage advice? Hardly.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Uncomfortable exchange

Uncomfortable Adventures in Holiday Shopping, part 1 in a series of at least 3 (so far)
Everyone gets into the holiday spirit. Everyone. That's why everyone who stays home 10 months out of the year is suddenly shopping and why PhDs who were out of work the last 10 months suddenly settle for thankless retail jobs to afford the travel and shopping required of the season.

Apparently, this turns me (and I'm usually passable for normal in a store ... really) into a bumbling idiot. I'm too friendly, too helpful, and too nervous.

Pretty sure I scared a couple shopping for wrapping paper. First, we chuckled in the Christmas lights aisle. We all wanted tiny white lights. They were flush out. Have you tried Lowe's? Yes, they have NOTHING left. Hahaha. The stores sure ran out of things early this year. Guess it's the economy! Harharhar. Happy Holidays. Good luck to ya! You too. *chuckle, chuckle, walk away*


Then, I saw them as we were all shopping for wrapping paper. They were looking for a 200 square-foot roll. I know because I was listening to their conversation, which was taking place two feet away from me. So, I struck up chitchat because we're buds now, right? Red is my inner monologue. Blue is outloud. 

Jeez, they really are out of everything this year. Hahaha. Why are you the only one laughing? OK. Maybe it's time to let these people shop for themselves before you overtalk yourself into being the weird, lonely girl in the discount department store.

Oh, were you looking for 200-square-foot? Here's one! Too helpful, too helpful! You are not an employee.
No, no! I don't need it. It's yours! *smile* OK. Slow down, Mother Teresa. You didn't cure their leprosy.
You're welcome! Good girl. Now, look too intensely for your own roles of wrapping paper and match them with each other and cute ribbons until they walk away. Then, pick up whatever cutesy sparkled wrapping paper and standard, cheap, ribbed ribbon you're really going to buy and GTFO.

*Later*

Way to go, Inner Voice. Betcha didn't count on them getting behind you in line! Thanks for making me look like an asshole who is getting completely different wrapping paper than I was getting when they were there. Don't blame me. I'm not the idiot who blathers on and on. You better give them a friendly smile to seem normal. Fuck you, Inner Voice. I'm going to ignore them so they think I either don't recognize them or completely forgot about our interaction.
Good call, Asshole. You look not at all like a patient in a halfway house who came here on the rural route community transit bus with all the other former huffers.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Butt out

Phubby: Oh, no. I'm not a very nice person, am I?

Me: What? Why?

Phubby: Because what kind of person eats chili 12 hours before going to the doctor for a butt problem?

Me: I'm totally blogging that.

Phubby: Suuuuuure. Just broadcast my butt problems to the world.

He seriously overestimates the number of people who read this blog.

On a related note, he makes kick-ass turkey chili, and it was all ready when I got home from grocery-Christma-toiletry shopping. I'm going to get him something good for Christmas. Like curiously strong breath mints.

Monday, December 14, 2009

It's my birthday

Today is my birthday, and I feel this is a good time to let you know I have received 17 cents toward a Nikon.

By "received," I mean "found among goldfish crumbs, tiny pieces of old gum and a couple of hair elastics in the bottom of my old purse."

I guess people would rather donate toward implants for a flat-chested girl. I kind of wish they'd feed starving children or save the rainforest, but whatevs. I'm cool with it ...

as long as NANCY GRACE wishes me a happy birthday tonight!

OMG! OMG! It could happen! Phubby requested it because he's the awesomest! Producers said they'd totally take care of it because I'm, like, Nancy's #1 fan, or maybe they said they'd do what they could because they get a lot of requests, but ZOMG it could happen!

Reasons I love Nancy Grace:

1. Best. sneer. ever.

2. She hates murderous moms; I hate murderous moms. (Incidentally, I might spend a teensy bit too much time with the crazies on a true crime forum.)

3. She has boy/girl twins. I have boy/girl twins.

4. Her daughter and my daughter have the same first name. OMG. I know!

5. Shiny shirts. I never knew there were so many choices in shiny blouses until I started watching Nancy. It's like Nancy's wardrobe consultant is all, "I can't decide if you're a winter or an autumn. You know what? Screw it. You, dear, look FAB in sheen. Throw on a few strands of Wilma Flintstone beads, and you. will. be. on. fire." Then all the production assistants are all on the walkie-talkies, screech-whispering, "Shiny shirts. Button down. We need every color and collar style available. NOW!"

6. Her hair does not fucking move. And you know why it doesn't move? Because Nancy Grace told it not to. Some people wear Superman jammies. I heard Superman wears Chuck Norris jammies. Chuck Norris? Sporting Nancy Grace Helmet Hair jammies.

7. The crying, the relating every headline somehow to her twins (Lucy and John David).

Seriously, I'm sitting here, suffering through 40 minutes of Tiger Woods coverage. (I don't give a fuck if his wife isn't wearing her wedding ring. It's not news. It just means she isn't completely devoid of self esteem.)



Zah-WOW! Nancy just wondered aloud on her show why Tiger's mistresses don't shut their "pie holes."

OK. That's it. Just waiting to see what Nance will do. I just wish I had one of those crazyfan pictures of me in a shiny shirt making out with my TV while Nancy is on. She'd totally wish me a happy b-day for that.

UPDATE: OK! She hasn't wished me a happy birthday (yet), BUT, she wished a happy birthday to her mom! I share a birthday with the woman whose womb held tiny baby Nancy Grace in its wet warmness.

UPDATE #2: Who the FUCK is Rachel? She already got a photo with Nancy. Now she gets a shout-out!?

UPDATE #3: Consolation prize! Phubby told me he requested an autographed photo of Nance! I'm framing it and putting it with the family photos in the foyer. Watch me. The mail will be so exciting this week.

Friday, December 11, 2009

C-U-Next-Tuesday Is it me?/Shit, it's Friday.

I feel like many of my non-C-U-Next-Tuesday posts are picking up the flavor of that very special, grumpy day. I'll try to limit my crabbiness to Tuesdays only.

Today's C-U-Next-Tuesday (which is being posted on Friday because I'm kind of a flake) is more of a kvetch, a gentle-but-honest tease. (That sounds kind of hot, right?)

P-hubby's Rules for Housekeeping and General Tidiness
Part 1:  Socks

1. New socks:  Congratulations! You have thrown away socks missing toes and heels. This means your wife has purchased new socks for you and will stop bitching at you for behaving like a pauper.
      a. It's best to organize new socks immediately. This step is particularly important. Wifey brought shopping bags into the kitchen. Quick quiz:  Do socks belong in the kitchen? No.
That's right! Socks do not belong in the kitchen. You're a fast learner! Take socks out of shopping bag, walk 10 feet into the hallway and toss new socks haphazardly onto the desk.
     b. When pair of socks is needed (the next morning), rip open sticky paper sleeve, remove one pair of socks from tiny plastic hanger. Place remaining socks, with sticky paper sleeve still attached, on top of the printer/scanner/fax machine to remind yourself to take the socks upstairs later because socks do not belong on the desk.
     c. Remove tiny metal clasp from toe of new socks. Do not throw it in rubbish bin next to desk. Instead, keep all sock waste together by attaching tiny metal clasp to the open sticky plastic wrapper on the sock package.
     d. As your new sock supply is depleted, clean socks will magically appear in the sock organizer in your top drawer. Do not use these. You still have new socks downstairs on the printer/scanner/fax machine!
     e. When one pair of new socks is left in package, take them upstairs. Later, with confidence and a smidgen of swagger, tell Wifey that the socks she bought you are no longer on the desk downstairs. When she asks if they are in your drawer, continue to smile even though that winky twinkle has vanished from your eye, to be replaced with slight panic and a healthy dose of bewilderment. When she asks you if you threw away the packaging, regain your confidence and say, "I put it all on top of my dresser, so I can sort that out in the morning." Ignore that she's nodding just to placate you. She's so smug.
      f. Next morning, when you are dressing for work, ignore last pair of new socks in packaging on top of dresser. Remove magically clean socks from magically organized sock drawer. Repeat this thrice. On fourth day, suck it up, wear new socks and leave empty packaging on top of dresser, four steps from the rubbish bin.

Once new socks have been incorporated into wardrobe, the following rules should be followed:

2. Wear white socks underneath dark dress socks. At end of day, remove socks together, snap them hard to straighten them out and release any sexy stench contained within them. (The ladies will go wild.)

3. Do not, under any circumstances, pull the white socks out of the dark socks. Separating lights from darks is a job for the laundry bitch.

4. When laundry bitch does not remove inner white sock from outer dark sock, start to whine about moist white sock ball at toe-end of dry dark sock. Quickly remember that laundry bitch is easily provoked when it comes to laundry complaints and that you expect lots of praise the three times a year you help her. Smile at her, remove moist white sock, toss both socks into the drier and continue with your morning routine.

5. If you cannot find matching socks at 5:30 a.m. and Wifey has a meeting that will run until close to midnight, wake her up to ask if she has seen any of your dark socks. If you have infant twins who get up two to three times a night, repeat this process daily. Eventually, Wifey will throw away all of your socks and buy all one style of black socks, all one style of brown socks, and all one style of white socks. She will buy you a sock organizer with three divisions, one for each color. She will tell you to wake her never again to find out where your socks are. Somebody sure isn't a morning person, eh?

6. At end of day, after snapping socks straight, do not attempt to gently toss them 3-and-a-half feet into the laundry basket Wifey placed on your side of the room as some sort of encouragement and/or hint. Just leave them next to the bed. Who knows when you might need them in the middle of the night?
Alternatively, remove socks while sitting in reclining wing chair in living room. Wifey loves to think of you during the day, and she will love finding this surprise gesture of love while you are out of the house.

7. Continue use of all socks until they are threadbare and toes and heels are mostly visible. Wifey will throw them away and buy you new socks, in the same exact style of the socks she previously bought you.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Best gift ever: a kinder, gentler naked cupcake

In the spirit of the season: 
The best gift I ever received was from my 8th grade English teacher. She gave each student a word that reminded her of the student.

She told us about the gift ahead of time, and I'll admit I was nervous. I was the new kid. Although the kids at my new school were approximately 876,000 times nicer and more wholesome than the suburban, nouveau-riche assholes of HMS (my old school), I was still the new kid, ya know? Had a few run-ins with mean girls and, admittedly, I cried in the bathroom a few times and maybe in the quad, and I might have burst into tears right in the middle of class (to the pure joy, I'm sure, of a few classmates.)

Also, I was not exactly "up" on my homework, even though I was in the highest-level class. It's not my fault. Boys are just so ... *sigh, bosom heave*. (On the bright side, I can totally fold a note, like, 8 different cute ways.)

I was pretty sure I wasn't Mrs. H's favorite student, and I probably caused her quite a few headaches, what with being all new and paperworky and spontaneously sobby (not to mention flighty, boy-crazy and ADD).

The day before Christmas break, we all received our gifts. I don't remember the color of the paper or the order of delivery, but what I do remember is the word.

And with that word, Mrs. H proved that she understood me. She didn't judge me for my new-girl drama or lack of follow-through on homework. She saw something positive in me; I had something to offer. From then on, I worked hard in her class and wound up being a good student. I even won an award at the end of the year.

Today, some of the projects she assigned, the things she taught me, stay with me, because of one little word. The word that made sense to me and to Mrs. H. Because of that gift, I opened my mind and my heart to her teaching and am ever better for it.

(And, it kind of makes up for my 9th-grade English teacher who handed me The Bell Jar and told me she thought I'd really relate to it. Still trying to figure out that one.)

*Still posting C-U-Next-Tuesday tonight, but I was feeling guilty about all the meanness on the blog lately.*

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Inappropriate things I say to my parents

I don't even know how this one started ...

Mom calls the cell the other day, and I'm all "Hi, Mom! Chat-chat-chat, blah-blah-blah."

Mom starts talking about the Wii and how she and Dad never play it and should get someone who really knows wiring to hook it up. (FYI: people have hooked up their shit, like, 8 times. They just keep screwing it up.)

Seriously, I don't know what gives me the idea, but for some reason, I start pitching to her a theoretical Wii Sex game.

It's great, I tell her, because it's all real-life movements - just like Wii Bowling. It's all in the wrist. Nursing home residents would go nuts for it.

"SARAH!" she says. "This is not a conversation to have with your mother!"

"No, seriously. Hear me out! This is a million-dollar idea. Wii Sex."

Pause.

"Well, you couldn't call it 'Wii' because men wouldn't buy it."

"Exactly," I said, happy she was getting on board. "Especially in our target demographic - they would probably already have some penile insecurity. We could call it ... hm ... the Wii NER!"

And that's where I lose her. Or perhaps, she never really came around in the first place.

"You are seriously disturbed," she says. "You're very weird."

So, now I kind of feel like one of those poster children for the Today Sponge.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

Rules for Christmas Music, plus Marriage Tips

Admitted Christmas music fanatic here. Sorry. Sometimes I sneak the CDs into the player on an uncharacteristically cool July day. I know.
It's just Bing Crosby and Tony Bennett totally do it to for me.

There are some rules:

1. The Carpenters - Karen had a super sweet voice, and I'm crazy sorry she died. I can't imagine having a disease where I would deprive myself of something in amazing abundance. It is truly, truly tragic. And that's from the heart. But, let's stop blowing the Carpenters' music, shall we?
It's syrupy sweet and sounds completely insincere. You know what sounds better? Donkey balls slapping the back of Jennifer Love Hewitt's dimply thighs. When I hear "Christmas cards have all been sent ..." I change the station.

2. If anyone ever called you an oversinger, do not, I repeat, do not throw down a "Jingle Bells" track on your Christmas album. It's a pretty straight-forward tune. Let's not fuck it up with your self-masturbatory (looking at you, Streisand) scatting. Kthxbai.

3. Neil Young: Santa Claus don't need you around, anyhow.
______________________________

Tonight, Phubby was making me a cup of coffee. I'd been working in the cold rain and snow much of the day, and he was nice enough to brew me a hot drink.

Phub (preparing my coffee):  I think I may have overcreamed you.

Me (in the pantry, with no frame of reference):  Uhhhhh ... wow.

Phub:  Whatever. I'm pretty sure I just heard your labia applaud their approval.

And, there you have a healthy marriage of two very possibly probably mentally ill individuals.

Update: Is "labia" too offensive for daytime Internet?

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

C-U-Next-Tuesday FOOD FIGHT

In this edition of C-U-Next-Tuesday, we will address Food Network stars ...


Emeril Lagasse
I'm checking out "Emeril Live" today (kids are with the grands), and he's throwing down some serious yum.

The episode is titled "Stuff It." Wine and mascarpone are being thrown around like a nerd's lunch bag on the bus.

I'm hungry, and I'm getting a little turned on by the idea of crab-stuffed portobellos. I mean, wow, they look delicious.

So then Emeril, who is my boy and is loved, finishes the dish and wipes his hands. He says very carefully and slowly that he must wash his hands, of course, because he just ... touched ... a ... mushroom.

- pause -

*confused giggle from audience member*

- pause -

*Emeril slaps his hand and gives the naughty face*

I'm not even going to explain this.

Sandra Lee
Sandy, your food sucks, and your tablescapes are ridic. Stop making money. Now.

If I ever again have to look at your makeup-caked face and your jacked-up boobs in a salmon-color shirt, next to a salmon-color KitchenAid mixer, drinking a salmon-color cocktail, putting sherbet on a piece of pre-cooked salmon and calling it "dinner," I'm going to come to the Food Network studio and spray paint your stupid fucking tablescape purple.

Tables are for food, dishes, utensils and maybe a sweet centerpiece or a few candles.

They are not intended for drunk, overgrown sorority girls to use for their twisted preschool toy fantasies. Most of us stopped daydreaming of having tea parties with seahorses atop tables made of rainbows when we were 5.

Of course, most of us don't drink our nutrients with straight vodka in a menopausal last-ditch effort to recapture the dreams of our broken childhoods.

You are the Glenn Beck of the Food Network. Seek help.


Paula Deen
The ingredients in this recipe explain why I love you.

In my opinion, you have the best breasts of any Food Network star. They're plump and ample and I imagine them to smell like maple syrup and bacon.

They make me want to hug you after I've had a tough day on the playground. And then you'll feed me bacon-wrapped cookies, and I'll color for a little while.

OK, maybe I do have some twisted preschool fantasies. I'm still far more stable than Sandra Lee.

Giada De Laurentis

Please don't bite me.


 











GUSTAVO CABALLERO / GETTY IMAGES

Monday, November 23, 2009

I said "asshole" in therapy, but I'm all better now

I'm publishing this draft of a post I started a month ago, because tonight I had my last counseling session. Seems like a good way to honor PDub (best counselor EV).

Freaked out? If so, take your stigma-feeding judginess elsewhere. If you had a heart condition, you'd take medicine. I have a brain condition. Suck it.

For those of you sticking around, le post:
OK. So, background: I have been diagnosed with clinical depression. Sometimes it's hard to tell because it occasionally manifests itself as me acting like a complete jackass, and that's kind of how I act when I'm not depressed.

This is the second time I've been treated for depression. The first time I had postpartum depression and got medicated and then everything was sunshine sparkles or whatever.

I thought this time, since I didn't know what caused it and because new-doctor-who's-all-young-and-makes-me-feel-unaccomplished-by-comparison wanted me to have a consultation before she prescribed me anything, I decided to see a therapist.

This you should know: therapist is awesome, and I totally respect him.

Now the meds are kicking in, and I kind of don't have a lot to talk about. I mean, I don't feel like global warming is going to kill us all tomorrow, and I'm not having random crying jags because some asshole in Arizona left his Chihuahua on top of his car and the dog fell off and broke three legs but still spent three months limping his way back to his negligent owner out of love and the owner is overcome by guilt and petlove and spends thousands of dollars on vet care even though the Chihuahua is basically now just a sausage with one leg and freakishly large ears.

(I'm super insane, but I got a lot of empathy, yo.)

So, tonight, I told the therapist about some things I think when I'm feeling depressed. They have to do with obsessing over the things I said or did wrong when I was 11 or 15 or 22.

He was understanding and insightful and said maybe that guilt over these things I did years ago is one of those signs I need to learn is a symptom of depression for me, so I can seek help earlier if it comes up again.

Then I said, "Yeah, I guess you're kind of supposed to be an asshole when you're a teenager."

So now I have a new thing I said wrong to obsess over next time I'm depressed.
PDub is a good guy, and he gives good therapy. I'm feeling good about me.

I've learned in six sessions (with the help of a little SSRI - holla!) that depression has little if anything to do with my tendency to walk backward into people at cocktail parties (I'm just not charming, sorry) or my ridiculous habit of saying inappropriate things to my parents, as characterized by this conversation:

Dad: You have a headache, honey?

Me (washing back pills): Nope. This is my antidepressant and a birth control pill, because, really, if you're taking one, you should be taking the other.

Dad: ... 

So, my weirdness has nothing to do with depression. Depression just makes me feel bad about weirdness.

Now, I feel great, so I'm going to weird it up, SUCKAS!

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Celebrity Crushes

So, I obviously meant that the weekend starts Sunday.

It's OK. I got all my "real" work out of the way, so I can use the holiday week to "work" on blogging.

Coming up with a short list of my fave celebs is HARD, so I've decided to break it up a bit.

I. just. can't. narrow. it. down.

Nearly all of my celebrity crushes are second- or third-tier celebrities, but THEY DESERVE more love.

Have you ever watched "Best Week Ever" on VH1? It's basically the place where D-listers go to die, kind of like "Hollywood Squares" of the new millennium.

That's the kind of cynical, money-grubbing, fame-hungry attitude I love, but I also love the accidental celeb, the meek and humble.

Remember Chief Moose? DO YOU?! I do. And you should, too. He had a fan site, briefly. The FAQ sheet answered, in lengthy detail, such burning questions as "Is the Moose loose?" (The answer was something like, "No, the Moose is not a slut ...")

I have met some real celebrities, but I'm not typically starstruck.

The last time I remember being starstruck is when I was 9, on vacation at the beach, dining at a fine restaurant, where I was so excited to see the local weatherman sitting just a few tables away, I begged my parents to let me go talk to him, got jittery, spilled soda all over my lap, and missed the opportunity to say "hi." I was only a little bit crushed ...

*muffled sobs into pillow*

So, I think if I ever met one of the low-end celebrities on my crush list, I might have a similar reaction. The problem, I believe, is that I tend to meet A-listers or, in one case, did not realize I was meeting a celebrity at all.

It's like in those 80s movies when the girl is surrounded by handsome-if-misogynistic jocks when all she really wants is a "nice guy" (read: nosepicker).

A-listers just aren't satisfying.

So, I will start my list with the flavor of the month. (I'm starting small.)

No one will remember this guy in 20 years, except on shows like "Best Week Ever." Actually, he could probably work his way into a regular gig on that show.

So, without further ado, I present to you ...


Levi Johnston
Who he is: the teen father of Sarah Palin's illegitimate grandson.
Why he's famous: capitalized on being the teen father of Sarah Palin's illegitimate grandson.
How he capitalized: mouthed off about the Palin family, especially the former VP candidate; posed for Playgirl (without going full Monty)
Why I like him: using his notoriety/money to get joint custody of his son; smirk that tells the world he knows exactly how long he'll be famous (15 minutes) and how much money he can make in that time; boned the VP candidate's daughter and didn't bother to use a condom. DUDE.
Celeb Crush Rating: Rootin' for ya, man.
What the rating means: You're a little douchey, and what you're doing is definitely icky, but you're doing some of this for your son, which is cool (kind of). You're not afraid of people in power, and you speak your mind. You're not a celeb crush, and you're probably not going to be, but hot DAMN you know how to make a buck. I hope life turns out OK for you, even though you piss off a lot of powerful people.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

POSTS PLANNED

A wild, wild long weekend (maybe week) full of the same low quality of posts all two of you have come to love tolerate as a brief distraction from your dead-end, soul-crushing day jobs.

Publishpalooza. Isn't it douchey when people add "apalooza" to the end of things to make it sound super fun? Because Lollapalooza was fun. In 1994.

Now, when someone tells me he/she is attending Lollapalooza, I'm like, "Oh, really? Did you like Woodstock II?" Buy me a $40 Hanes T-shirt while you're there, sweetheart. (Psst. They sell those at Wal-Mart on the $5 rack, and they even throw down for a smiley face sign.)

So, yeah. This week will be that awesome.

Naked Cupcakeapalooza.

Subjects discussed will include:
1. A countdown of the most inappropriate things I have said/done to my parents. Some Hallmark moments might include thongs, a clothespin, medication, a nipple, or my hairstyle.
They probably should have had other children, so they'd know I'm not their fault.

2. The Kindle: you are useless to me.

3. My top celebrity crushes. I'm so excited about revealing my fave, I can barely contain myself. I can't decide whether I should make this the first or last post this week.
Understand this: there will be no Johnny Depp, no Brad Pitt (because, ew, dirty and douchey), no George Clooney, and no OMG-Megan-Fox-is-so-hot/Lady-Gaga-is-SO-COOL-I'd-totally-go-girl-for-her bullshit. My list is co-ed, but it is not about pretty people. It is about inner awesomeness and general kickassity.

Put on your gladrags and let's swing.

(Really? Blogger doesn't know what gladrags are? Crappy spellcheck.)

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

C-U-Next-Tuesday

SPONTANEOUS ERECTION WARNING: Post contains suggestive photo of me with wine bottle.

My camera is great for a digital, but I'm at the point in my career where I should really just bite the bullet and invest in a Nikon.

I just don't feel like shelling out 600 bucks. (For this reason, I also have not replaced our disgusting old sofa.) Now, there might a solution to my problem.

I heard some chicks use the Internet to get guys to pay for their breast implants. They post pictures of themselves and have, like, flirty little sweetie-pie conversations with men who then pay for their surgeries.  

Charity, people. That's the Christmas spirit, right there.

The ladies probably then have to send photos of their new bewbies to the guys, but that's cool. The dudes with the credit cards should get something for their money. When you send Sally Struthers money for hungry kids, the kids are supposed to send you their drawings of their newly filled tummies and third-world dental procedures. It's only fair to see the good you do in this world.

Here's the thing: If I post some of the crappy photos my digital takes, maybe someone will take pity on me and buy me a nice camera.

They're not sexy photos, but the men didn't buy those chicks' boobs for sex. It was good will toward man.

(photo deleted because people actually read this blog sometimes now, and i'm anonymous)

A new camera for me is a fucking steal compared to breast implants. A decent camera would put you out about $600, which is at most one-tenth of what a couple of C-cups cost.

In return, I would gladly send SFW photos of my completely clothed breasts, which have nursed twins but are still perky enough to hold up a sweater. I'll even throw in the rights to my absolutely-not-politically-correct, incredibly offensive, but possibly million-dollar fetish Web site ideas.

I don't really have a lot of time to chitchat on the Internetz, so I probably won't send many flirty e-mails. If you give me your address, though, I'll snail-mail you the leftover Halloween candy, a blurred-out photo of my family holiday pic, and a batch of Christmas granola.

Who's buying?

Monday, November 9, 2009

My not-so-wet dream and regular features

I'm getting ready to go to bed, but what's the point? I'm still a little miffed about my dream last night.

I dreamed I had to wait 45 minutes for a snickerdoodle-flavor coffee in a paper cup and some lunch. (The detail I give coffee in my dreams is telling.)

The wait was excruciating. I was standing at a counter, and people had basically cleaned up and turned off lights. Totally inappropriate and unprofessional. Everyone else in my party had been served and were sitting at the tables eating lunch. I waited and waited and waited.

What kind of fucked up dream is that? Who wants to spend sleeping hours waiting at a counter, tense and pissed off because she can't get caffeine?

Answer: Nobody.

Give me my fucking coffee already. I have better dreams scheduled, assholes. GAW.

Anyway, I'm hoping for a better dream tonight. Obvi.

I have plans to make a regular feature out of "c-u-Next-Tuesday." Yay. My first stupid blog gimmick. Expect irreverence.

Or don't.

Who cares?

I'm basically the best blogger ever.

Scheduling Holidays with the P Fam

So ... the holidays get a bit *yikes* around these parts. I'll 'splain:

Nov. 23 - My folks' anniversary
Nov. 20-something - Thanksgiving
Dec. 6 - Twins' birthday
Dec. 11 - Mom-in-law's birthday
Dec. 14 - My birthday (I want presents. Mark your calendar.)
Dec. 25 - Christmas
Dec. 26 - Dad-in-law's birthday
Jan. 1 - New Year's
Jan. 2 - Mom's birthday

I'm trying to get LJ and the Hankster ready for their 3rd birthday. I'd like for them to be excited.

I know what kind of cupcakes they want (pink frosting, yellow cake for Lucy; red cake and blue frosting for Harry), what they want for gifts (a book about pink for Lucy; strawberries for Harrison), and that they like balloons.

Time is such a strange concept for a little tike. We've been reviewing the order of events.

"First, Thanksgiving. Then, Lucy and Harry's birthday. Then, Grandma's birthday. Then, Mommy's birthday. Then, Christmas ..."

LJ and I went to church together yesterday - just us girls. For a 2-year-old, she's pretty indignant that she doesn't get any Body or Blood. She sticks out her hands just the right way every time. She gets back at the priest by talking through his entire homily. Take that, dude-in-dress.

So, after church, we took our girl-time car ride to talk a little bit about the birthday. This is when I learned what kind of cupcakes she wants and that she should get a pink "rip-it" (wrapped gift, in adultspeak) and Harrison should get a blue one.

Then, I let her listen to "Jingle Bells" from "Christmas with the Rat Pack" 6 times. As we made our last turn toward home, she started crying.

"What's wrong, baby?" I asked her.

"No go home," she sobbed. "Nooo gooo ho-ooome."

Me: "Honey, don't you want to go see Daddy and Harrison?"

Lucy: "Noooo. I want to go to Thanksgiddi-ing."

Me: *sigh*


This is what I get for trying to schedule the holidays with a 2-year-old.

Seasons change
I suppose this will just be one of many mother-daughter conversations where we misunderstand each other.

I once witnessed the following conversation between my mother and grandmother when my mom was taking Mom-Mom out to do some shopping.



Mom (backing car out of driveway): OK, Mom. What do you have on your list today?

Mom-Mom:  Well, I need some throw rugs for the kitchen. I'd like to look at some blouses. Your father needs some socks. Oh - and I could use some spring clothespins.

Mom (slightly confused and annoyed):  Why do you need spring clothespins?

Mom-Mom (a little surprised by the question, perhaps):  Well, to hang my laundry.

Mom (really annoyed and super testy):  Well, what's wrong with your winter ones, Mom?


Mom-Mom and Me: *snicker*

Mom-Mom (wiping tears from her laughing eyes): Not spring clothespins. Spring clothespins.


Mom (realizing some clothespins have springs): What? ... Oh!

Don't you just love Cute Anecdote Monday? I'll be back to being a sarcastic c-u-Next-Tuesday tomorrow.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Stuff you should know so you don't look like a dumbass on the Internetz or in life

I spend some time on the Internet, and during this time, I read a lot. A lot of people have a lot of opinions.
Some of those opinions are quite insightful. Some of them are just plain idiotic.



Some people look fucking brilliant because they have amazing grammar skills and vocabulary that makes the average reader run for http://www.merriam-webster.com/. Do not be fooled. Many of these people lack rational thought or basic human tolerance, kind of like Hitler.

Others can't spell, don't understand and/or know the proper phrasing of idioms, and fail to grasp basic sentence structure. Still, they sometimes have something worthwhile to add to a debate or discussion.

The rest of the people on the Internet are either stupid and illiterate OR are just plain average.

This post is for the illiterate-but-functional who want to avoid being laughed off the World Wide Web by those who paid attention in 4th grade.

Pull up a chair next to this crackling fire, dear Interneters, and let's discuss things you should already know. I'll try to update this as I see other tragic mistakes.

1. The ellipsis. Space, three periods, space. Not eleven periods. Three. Get it? OK. Let's try ... this way. Great. There are some other technical rules about end-of-sentence punctuation and the ellipsis, but the "dot, dot, dot" method will get you through most situations.

2.  Supposedly. Say it out loud. There's a D in there, not a V. If you use "supposively," you are not only wrong but supposedly failing 9th grade. If you pronounce the word with a "V," you can plan on being assistant customer service manager until retirement. You will never get a promotion.


3. Definitely. Two "E"s, two "I"s. No "A"s. That middle word in there? It's "finite." Pronounce it like that in your head. De-FINITE-ly.

Don't be sad if you've made these mistakes. I'm a journalist and could tell you all sorts of fun mistakes I or my friends have made. In fact, I might one day write a post about them. Until then, please, for the love of blog, work on the ellipsis. It's the easiest to remember.

Very sincerely, with kisses and stuff,

Your very condescending, very naked cupcake blogger,
Sarah

P.S. I'm looking forward to figuring out the mistakes I made in this post. Then I'll be all, "See what you get for being preachy, dumbass? Now no one will ever want to read your blog." Then, I'll be like, "So? No one reads it now."

Monday, October 26, 2009

With the thoughts you'd be thinkin', you could be another Lincoln

If you only had a brain
By now, I'm sure you've heard of Judge Keith Bardwell, the Louisiana justice who refused to marry an interracial couple.



He says he worries about the children of interracial couples, and that seems fair. I mean, how far can a person of mixed race really get in the United States?
 

courtesy of The White House

According to the Associated Press, Bardwell said, "I'm not a racist. I just don't believe in mixing the races that way. I have piles and piles of Black friends. They come to my home, I marry them, they use my bathroom. I treat them just like everyone else."

You have piles and piles of Black friends. Like in a wood pile ? Do you keep them in a shed or under a tarp?

What? You let them into your home?

AND you let them use your bathroom?! o_O

Well, sir, that's, uh, well, I just don't know what to say about your overwhelming sense of fairness and equality, except maybe that it's, well, it's mighty white of ya.

Asshole.

Because I said "asshole" to my therapist, and now I'm worried he won't like me anymore; and that's totally normal, right?

Stress and anxiety are weird, and, in my case, often irrational.

For instance, I stressed out for half the day wondering whether Wal-Mart was going to give the red curtains we ordered to my husband because I ordered them in my name. The Web site has very strict-sounding rules about "Site-to-Store" orders.

I ordered "Site-to-Store" because the store is on Phusband's route home from work and it saved, like $5 shipping.

The curtains are for our son's big boy room. Exciting, I know.

Then, I started thinking about what assholes the Wal-Mart store employees would be if they didn't give my husband the curtains. After all, I ordered the curtains with his debit card, which has his name on it. Plus, we're married and have the same last name.

What sticklers. Who are they to play God, deciding who gets to pick up the curtains? I thought this was a family friendly store.

It's not like he's trying to steal curtains, Wal-Mart! Gaaawwwd.

After reviewing the "it's here; come pick it up" e-mail for the 14th time, stressing about whether Phubby could acquire the cute red curtains I really, really want to hang in our son's room tonight, I decided I would just go pick them up if he couldn't get them.

I felt pretty guilty about wasting his time, especially since I didn't even mention that he could get rejected by Wal-Mart or possibly be accused of stealing site-to-store orders and harassed by store security.

What if they called the town police? I wrote enough police briefs for the newspaper to know that Wal-Mart does not screw around with shoplifters. They will prosecute your ass for a stolen jelly bean.


I'm sure the case would be thrown out of court, but how I'd hate to explain to my editors why my husband showed up in the police news releases for alleged Attempted Theft Under $500 (that would be the charge, but if I were writing the brief, I'd change "under" to "less than").


Then there would be a court date and embarrassment and days off work, all because I asked him to pick up curtains on his way home.

The 15th time I read the "it's here; come get it" e-mail, I noticed I had the option to edit/add pick-up person(s). I added his name. I felt better.

Briefly.

Then, I started to worry that there would be a 24-hour wait for the store to get the information about the existence of another pick-up person.

Finally, Phusband called me for the order number. I gave it to him. He hasn't called again, so I assume he acquired the curtains.

Of course he did. Because who would fucking steal four lined, red canvas, 84" curtains, likely only suitable for a child's room, ordered site-to store? They don't even sell well enough to keep in stock.


I think I might worry too much.

Next post will either be about how I said "asshole" to my therapist (but didn't call him an asshole) and now am afraid to see him again OR about how I embarrass myself with the inappropriate things I say to my parents.

Update: Phubby is home, with curtains. (For a minute, I was worried there were only three curtains, but all four are there. Phubby is hanging them now. I'm going to go help.

Edit: I'm changing the publication time of this post so it's buried under the last post. That's how pointless this post is. When you compare it to the worthlessness of everything else I've written here, it's obvious I am a poor manager of time.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Potty humor?

I'm not sure how far I should go with potty talk. It actually grosses me out most of the time.

I'm  little sick on the bottom end, plus I have some raging heartburn. I'm not pregnant, just really lucky.

But, I'm wondering if I should share this:

Last night, my stomach started feeling iffy while I was grocery shopping. After I finished shopping, I loaded the car with the groceries and started driving home.

In the privacy of the car, I felt comfortable letting out a little backdraft.

Then, I was overcome by a smell, and I thought, "Oh, dear God, what did I eat to create such a deliciously wholesome chicken-y smell that is actually really disgusting?"

A couple minutes later, when the smell got stronger, I remembered I bought a warm rotisserie chicken for dinner. It wasn't me!

*sparkles*

The whole thing made a lot more sense, and I still ate the chicken.

This doesn't seem funny at all now. I'll think of something else to post. Not farting, though.

Friday, October 16, 2009

Update-o-rama

It's Friday. I feel like good bloggers come up with catchy phrases for the days of the week. Wordless Wednesday, Thirsty Thursday, Freebie Friday, Snatchy Sunday. Stuff like that.

I'm not a good blogger. Frankly*.

So here's some stuff I've been thinking:

If you notice that someone in Maryland has been reading your blog about 14 times more than usual, it's me. Not that you read my blog, but in case you are because you're worried I'm an axe murderer - rest assured, I'm not. (That was a terrible sentence.)

It's just that all the more successful bloggers are at Blog World Expo, and I have nothing to fucking reeeeead (other than your totally awesome and completely underrated blogs that I like to think I discovered, even though I have absolutely no power in this world and can't help you get anywhere on your talent, humor or good looks. Sorry.) Oh, and books and newspapers and magazines.

The point: I'm only stalking you now because my other fave bloggers are not blogging. That makes you my default faves. Fuck them. They're not providing for me. Enjoy the extra hits.

I went to the home improvement store last night and looked at power tools for a long time.

Approximate size of my testicles before window shopping for electric saws: 8
Approximate size of my testicles upon leaving the store: OO
I scaled them down quite a bit to save bandwidth.


Do you even have any clue the kinds of attachments I could get for my power drill? I could get buffing pads. I could make my ass shine like a giant beige Christmas bulb.

I've been thinking a lot about mandatory sex parties and rapier wit. I think "rapier," like "frankly," should mean something it doesn't. Instead of referring to a knife or sharpness, it should be used to decide how rapey, say, an inmate is. As in, "Big Frank sure likes rape, but Shanky Steve is waaay rapier."

But I think it should only be used to describe inmates who rape each other, and only the really bad inmates who deserve to be in jail because they murdered someone or ate kittens or something. It shouldn't be used to describe just anyone, because there's nothing jovial about rape.

I'm also opposed to its use on criminals who don't matter, say on a low-level pot dealer. He doesn't deserve it. The rape or the title.

*"Frankly" should be used to describe someone who's all wrinkled, but in that cool way, where there are lots of wrinkles and the skin's all paper-thin and the person is super old but really hilarious and inappropriate. As in, That old lady is so frankly.

Am I going to Hell?

Edit: Maybe a better example would be, That old bitch on the snowboard must be 86, but she has some bitchin' maneuvers. She's frankly.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Mandatory Sex Party

*The following post is absolute bullshit. It is in support of a campaign started by this disturbed but fucking hilarious individual to make the term "mandatory sex party" Internet legit. 2 Internet Legit 2 Quit. Take that, Hammer.
**I don't even know.

Mandatory Sex Party, the British boy band hailed by critics as "Nearly, but not exactly, like every other shitty manufactured singing group of the 1990s," was created by music legend Ty Suits to market to money-hungry labels who were still kicking themselves in their own crotches for not signing Britney Spears when they had the chance.
Mandatory Sex Party was quickly snatched up by OneHit Productions, getting the group in a studio immediately to begin recording their one and thankfully, only, album Spanks A Lot, from Yours Truly.
The title track was nominated for a Grammy, and the the group won a VMA for the music video featuring the soulful ballad, Rug Shagging.
In the video, lead singer Ty Douchebahgs is invited to a birthday party for a pal, only to find out when he arrives that it actually is a mandatory sex party.
He is promptly given a number and then molested by two classmates and, inexplicably, a professional footballer of some note.
The camera focuses away from the scene, and the viewer is left to watch the movement of a shag rug while Douchebahgs' three bandmates wail and cry about the tragedy unfolding seemingly before their eyes.
Some criticized the video, saying it encouraged kids not to step in when another teen is dragged into a mandatory sex party, but the quartet defended the video by claiming it served as a public service announcement.
Jim "The Dirty" Johnson, the "older brother" band member, was quoted on the matter in the September 1999 issue of TeenSquirt magazine.
"I mean, we didn't choose 'Mandatory Sex Party' just because it was a cool band name. We're trying to raise awareness about the very real consequences of these parties. I know from personal experience that there's no such thing as legal mandatory sex."
The band's spokesman Larry Jakaugh later qualified Johnson's remark, saying, "Jim Johnson recently was quoted in TeenSquirt magazine on the subject of mandatory sex parties. Although the band has chosen to speak out against such parties, Johnson has never thrown or participated in those types of gatherings. We will answer no further questions on the subject."
Accepting the VMA, Douchebahgs read from a statement that, although obviously written, made many wonder whether it was actually prepared or even reviewed by anyone other than Douchebahgs.
"We would just like to thank God for Mandatory Sex Party's success," Douchebahgs said, holding the award up toward the heavens. When the applause died down, he continued, "I know I speak for the members of the band, our label, OneHit Productions, and our manager, Ty Suits, when I say this video has changed the world. Those who have been affected by mandatory sex parties can count on this band to see them through."
Later that night, Douchebahgs was photographed in compromising positions with a 16-year-old fan. They were at a "VMA celebration party," but several teens later said it was, in fact, a mandatory sex party. Douchebahgs denied the claim, adding that he thought the fan was much older. He never faced charges.
OneHit Productions soon dropped the band from the label. Mandatory Sex Party later worked to produce a second album, Up Yours with Gratitude, but rumors of a split and Johnson's drug and legal troubles got in the way. The album, thank Christ, was never completed.


Copy and paste this orange and blue "ribbon" on your Web site to support the cause.
(I'm not a fucking graphic designer, OK? This is the best I can do.)

Edit: I have no idea why two people in this article are named Ty. Lack of creativity, prescription medication? Who knows?

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Title change?

I like to keep with the times, but I really like my blog title, passé as it may be.

Forlikeever, cupcakes were more ragin' than a Hypercolor shirt in '89.

Now it's all about the zombies. Zombies are flipping everywhere. Pretty soon, there are going to be movies about sexy zombies who have sexy sex and then kill each other and books about sexy teenage zombies with hearts of gold who refuse to eat their girlfriends' brains, even though they really wanna because they're fucking zombies and teenagers - neither circumstance really lending itself to impulse control.

Naked Zombies just doesn't have the same flair as Naked Cupcakes, and actually, if you picture the former, it's pretty gross - lots of dangling, rotten flesh.

Speaking of gross, I hate those hard-water stains on my stainless steel sink, and I've spent the last year trying to get rid of them. I just discovered that Lime Away is a fucking miracle product. My sink is goddamn gorgeous, and I'm not afraid to say it.

I thought moms were supposed to tell us about these things before we got to the real world. You know, "Wear clean underwear in case of emergency," "Sex is a special act between two grown-ups who love each other very much," "Lime Away will get the calcium deposits off your sink."

Maybe not all moms should be expected to do this, but mine is an honest-to-God chemist. She taught me how to replate my freaking silver, for blog's sake.

Sometimes, it just feels like no matter how many picnic conversations we have about freshness, my mother will never impart all her wisdom onto me.

Life is a mystery.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Tips for Teenagers

Asshole who shotgunned me on U.S. Route 50 and then cut me off had blue truck with matching blue truck nuts. I wondered what bitch gave him the blue balls that made him the way he is.

It could become a good excuse to pressure a teenage girl into sex. For instance, "If you don't have sex with me, I might grow up to be a dick in traffic."

Friday, October 9, 2009

Clarification

Board of Ed = Board of Education

Boards of Ed = More than one Board of Education

Board of Eds = Board in charge of people named Ed

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Artist's interpretation of Jill falling in mud that is for some reason flesh-colored
















This is probably exactly how it happened. Only, she wasn't standing nearly straight, and her fashion sense is better than to wear one bootcut pant leg and one skinny pant leg.

But the arms? Nailed it.

Things that are better than really expensive car repair bills we can't really afford and still have Christmas

1. Jon Gosselin's parenting style
2. Mild diarrhea
3. Traffic jams
4. Funyuns
5. Medications that could cause mild irritation to nasal cavities or roof of the mouth
6. Erections lasting three or more hours*
7. Skunks
8. Texting drivers, except when they inadvertently kill people.

*NOTE - In my opinion, this is actually quite significantly better and doesn't really belong on this list, but the thought gives me cheer, and I'm leaving it.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Fuck you, day

Sorry, day, but you sucked.

I'll bet tomorrow will totally kick your ass.

Monday, October 5, 2009

Einstein is sexy

Twice, I've had a conversation with Pat about Marilyn Monroe. The first time was five years ago.

On Marilyn Monroe's marriages...
Pat:  How many times was she married?
Sarah:  I dunno. A lot?
Pat:  Well, she was married to Joe DiMaggio (pause) Arthur Miller (pause) and Einstein.
Sarah:  What?!
Pat: What?
Sarah:  Marilyn Monroe wasn't married to Einstein.
Pat:  Really? (pause) Well, they had sex or something.
Sarah :  (laughing) No. They didn't.

The second time, which was just a few months ago, he just accused Einstein of having sex with Marilyn Monroe. I stared at him, thinking he was joking. Surely, he remembered how I tormented him after the first conversation.

Nope.

I explained. Again.

Pat: Who am I thinking of?
Sarah: JFK?

I post this now because we all need a laugh in this tragic, post-David-Letterman-affair world. A man in power, who smokes cigars, having inappropriate relationships with staffers?

Well, I never would have guessed. Sure hope he never said anything bad about President Clinton's affairs.

Oh.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Everyone Ignores the Irish

Phusband had to work today, so I got to take the kids to work with me. What is this, 1950?

OK, so he had to attend a board meeting with people who call assistants "pip" and wear smoking jackets, and I had to cover an autumn-theme town fair and a gathering of Celts, one of whom gave me a mini dissertation on the proper terminology concerning bagpipes. I kid you not.*

Still, this is the 90s, and he should take my career seriously.

This is how serious my job was today**:
  1. The first photo I took was of a "trackless train."
  2. I missed the pie-eating contest at the autumn festival because of obligations to the Celtic gathering. This saddened me.
  3. I got into a mental fight with a woman I don't know. I'm pretty sure she won, probably on the basis that I'm apparently racist against Scottish Americans.*** This is how it went down:
After being awesomer than any 2-year-old should ever be expected to be, the twins got antsy toward the end of the day. It was hard enough to convince Harrison to walk up the steps onto the porch to go inside. I asked which of the two doors to use to go inside.

As she walked inside, a lady poked her head out from behind the door and said with a condescending smile, "Actually, we're asking people to use the front door" and shooed me that way. Shooed me. I haven't been shooed since I was four.

So, I said, "Listen, lady. I'm just here to give your organization some free pub, which I'm pretty sure is the only kind of publicity you get. Open the fucking door, so my kid can see a violin and I can take a picture and get out of your AA meeting."

Or, I said, "Sorry. I thought this was the door for the help. Didn't realize I'm worthy of guest door status. Now, point me in the direction of the Micks, so I can get my upskirt shots."

Or even, "Lady, I'm armed with two toddlers who, with one word from me, could turn this uppity soirée into a plaid massacre. Hold that door open and pour me a Scotch, toots."

Of course, what I really said was, "OK, thank you," and then I turned around, two toddlers and camera in hand and walked them along one of the town's busiest streets, where, faced with a piper on the front porch, Lucy and Harrison understandably tried to run away, into said street.

I try not to say unkind things about other people in front of my children.

Finally, I wrestled the wee ones in the front door, and they were thrilled to see the Celtic band perform. The men in the band were very nice, so I got my photos and left. The kids were angels, but old door witch was still eyeing them, as if they might break something hideous.

As I left, I screamed, "By the way, it's a Scottish party, not Celtic. My Irish grandmother is rolling over in her grave! Erin Go Bragh!"

Or, I mumbled something about appreciating their time and then guided my terrified children past the piper.

*It's bagpipe, not bagpipes, and the "musician" who decided to pick up the "instrument" and depress people with "music" is called a "piper," not a "bagpiper," which is disingenuous in dinner party conversation.

**My job is not always this frilly, and I was lucky my editor (don't kill me for being silly, if you read this, editor) let me bring the kids today. Otherwise, I would have paid a sophomore more than my take-home pay to make out with her boyfriend and eat my snacks while my children fed themselves candy corn and put themselves down for naps.

***I figured that out after my first read of this post.

Editing post to add: I am a Mick, which is a derogatory term used to describe a Catholic Irish-American, and I'm pretty sure I was the only Mick at the party. They were seriously selling "Got Haggis?" bumper stickers. I couldn't make it up.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Naked cupcakes and karma

Today, I am staring at naked cupcakes. (It's PHubby's birthday.)


I don't really believe in karma, or what I, with my limited knowledge of Eastern religion and my overindulgence in pop culture, perceive to be karma.

And that's what brought me to Naked Cupcake Day. Kind of.

I saw this video on Facebook, originating with vimeo.com. It features an adorable little girl, eating a stolen cupcake her mom told her she couldn't have. I laughed. I reposted. That was March 24.

March 30, I got a lot of work done early in the morning, while my own adorable two-year-old children played quietly.

I heard giggles. I walked into the kitchen to find them stripped of clothing and diapers and eating warm, unfrosted cupcakes they stole from the top of the oven.

Obviously, I recorded the incident, but I'm not posting it because of creepy Internet people.

So, a friend, Allison, created a Facebook event. In her words:

Naked Cupcake Day

frosting optional...
Host:
Lucy and Harrison
Type:
Network:
Global
Start Time:
Monday, March 30, 2009 at 4:30pm
End Time:
Tuesday, March 31, 2009 at 11:30pm
Location:
Your home, or mine - come on over!

"Today is a day dedicated to nakedness and cupcakes. Originated by the young Lucy and Harrison in 2009, Naked Cupcake Day reminds us that there's nothing wrong with taking off your diaper and grabbing a warm cupcake out of the muffin tin before they're 'done'.

So, today I urge you to leave your pants at home, run down to the corner store and cook up some warm sweet smelling tiny cakes.

Eat them naked, and giggle."

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Post title #1

Stuff wrong with CBS's new "Monday to the Max"* comedy, Accidentally on Purpose.

1. San Francisco, Jenna Elfman, Jenna Elfman's uncontrollable-but-oafishly-adorable blond coif are all there, but there is no evidence of stoner parents.

2. Single journalist with charming, spacious apartment in San Francisco? Yeah, OK. Just like Rachel, of Friends fame, became a bigwig in fashion after several seasons of fucking up coffee orders.

3. Greg could have afforded that apartment, Dharma, but you had to go slut it up with a barely legal. And Greg was fiiiiiiine.

4. The little sister. WTF? "Haha. I'm the token dumb one. Oh my. Did I do something silly again?"
 Get off my television.

5. The "bropartment."

No, seriously.
If I have to explain why this is wrong, read another blog, preferable one with lots of LOLs.

*In a future blogisode, we can talk about why CBS would better spend its money hiring me to come up with these super fun catch phrases. "Monday to the Max?" Sh'mon.