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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.*

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.

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?