Don't get excited. I don't have a publisher or any prospects really. I'm writing it for grad school.
It's about being Catholic and not Catholic, about converting to a religion that pisses me off. It's partially about doing that before I got married, to honor my grandparents, who fell asleep during the wedding anyway. It's partially about not knowing how to decorate with saints and apostles.
It's also about premarital sex and some about marital sex. And feminism. And equal rights. And not knowing when to stand up or sit down or break out the kneeler. About talking back to my priest. About being friends with a bona fide recipient of a medical miracle (ha! bona.). And how that influenced my decision, and how her handling of her secular ideals helps me to handle mine. How, you ask? Liquor.
So, it's like this blog, only with more blasphemy and extra honesty.
NOW, how are y'all? Since I've been gone, Elly Lou had a baby! Congratulations, lady! When I was mother to newborns, the nurses told me that every time George Costanza got sucked off, my uterus contracted a little bit. Suck by suck, it's now down to the size of your nana's purse. No worries, Elly, you'll still have plenty of room to store your hanky and chalky mints. (For those of you who don't understand that, follow the motherfucking link and catch up.)
I have two new posts coming, but I wanted to say hi and apologize to you, dear readers, and reintroduce myself to the Internet before posting about sex toys and awkward conversations with my mother. As usual, you're fucking welcome.
What should I read first? Tell me!
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Cynicism 101 with Dr. Fingerbanging
Y'all read Doc Cynicism, right? If not, you should. Cynicism 101 has been the Shrimpanzee Site of Awesomeness for a long time. I'm about to switch that up to highlight another site. One of these days. Eventually, I'll do it. I'm also going to paint my toenails tonight. Like I said I was going to do every night for the past week.
Today, Professor Cyn posted a guest blog I wrote for him. It's about fingerbanging and parenting. In a normal way. But, you shouldn't just read him today. You should read him every six weeks. Because that's how often he posts. (You see why I like him so much.)
Some examples of the good doctor's work from our most recent emails:
"I knew something was 'just not right' with Cynicism101 for the longest time - and you made me realize that I had a severe lack of fingerbanging posts. Thank you so much for correcting my blog, and my life."
Of course, after I read that, I asked if I could quote his email, and I received the following response.
"Sure thing - quote whatever you like. And entirely unrelated, yes I'm jealous that your emails end in 'Sent from my iPad.'
Best, Dr. C
Sent from my broken piece of shit circa 2002 Dell laptop"
So, check out True Life: Sarah P Didn't Get Fingerbanged over at Cynicism 101 and stick around for other crap he posts, now that you know he'll post anything. (He's of a whore.)
Oh! And he's even more anonymous than I am, so make sure you don't tell his coke dealer about the blog. Happy trails, motherfuckers.
Today, Professor Cyn posted a guest blog I wrote for him. It's about fingerbanging and parenting. In a normal way. But, you shouldn't just read him today. You should read him every six weeks. Because that's how often he posts. (You see why I like him so much.)
Some examples of the good doctor's work from our most recent emails:
"I knew something was 'just not right' with Cynicism101 for the longest time - and you made me realize that I had a severe lack of fingerbanging posts. Thank you so much for correcting my blog, and my life."
Of course, after I read that, I asked if I could quote his email, and I received the following response.
"Sure thing - quote whatever you like. And entirely unrelated, yes I'm jealous that your emails end in 'Sent from my iPad.'
Best, Dr. C
Sent from my broken piece of shit circa 2002 Dell laptop"
So, check out True Life: Sarah P Didn't Get Fingerbanged over at Cynicism 101 and stick around for other crap he posts, now that you know he'll post anything. (He's of a whore.)
Oh! And he's even more anonymous than I am, so make sure you don't tell his coke dealer about the blog. Happy trails, motherfuckers.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
For the elegant southern lady
Some things are hard to figure out. I spent most of my brain power yesterday trying to figure out a vanity license plate I saw on the way to work.
Anyone have a good guess? It was: LITEWGT. The best I can come up with is "lightweight," but that's a stretch, right? I tried for a long time to turn it into something legal, but I can't. It would be interesting to have a vanity plate that said "litigious," though. You could be a complete dick on the roads, and no one would dare mess with you. I need to research if a bastardized spelling of it is available in my state.
So, yeah. Brain power, like I said.
In other cases, I feel my brain might too easily jump to conclusions, find entendre where perhaps none exists, and pervert otherwise innocent or classy things.
For instance, the other day, I was thumbing through one of the Responsible Lady Who Gardens, Decorates, and Practices Law in Coldwater Creek Suits magazines my parents gifted me for Christmas (as in: Maybe ditch the papasan chair, sweetheart. You're 32.)
I am kind of a magazine junkie, and this particular magazine is probably my favorite in its genre. (I know. Sorry. It's who I am.)
The changing of seasons always inspires the best issues of these magazines - seasonal recipes, decorating tips, what's happening in the garden, transitional wardrobe pieces to take you from this season to the next; from frumpy to fab; from overheated, 7 year old, dusty computer on a chipped, elementary school table you call your workspace to the dive bar where you drink a second-to-bottom-shelf beer to trick people into thinking you're of a higher economic class.
So, September is an exciting issue for the home-and-garden magazine. The editors throw some apples baked into something cinnamon-y and sugary, and I'm inspired. It's what's on the reader's mind.
This particular magazine does a lovely job with this:
Anyone have a good guess? It was: LITEWGT. The best I can come up with is "lightweight," but that's a stretch, right? I tried for a long time to turn it into something legal, but I can't. It would be interesting to have a vanity plate that said "litigious," though. You could be a complete dick on the roads, and no one would dare mess with you. I need to research if a bastardized spelling of it is available in my state.
So, yeah. Brain power, like I said.
In other cases, I feel my brain might too easily jump to conclusions, find entendre where perhaps none exists, and pervert otherwise innocent or classy things.
For instance, the other day, I was thumbing through one of the Responsible Lady Who Gardens, Decorates, and Practices Law in Coldwater Creek Suits magazines my parents gifted me for Christmas (as in: Maybe ditch the papasan chair, sweetheart. You're 32.)
I am kind of a magazine junkie, and this particular magazine is probably my favorite in its genre. (I know. Sorry. It's who I am.)
The changing of seasons always inspires the best issues of these magazines - seasonal recipes, decorating tips, what's happening in the garden, transitional wardrobe pieces to take you from this season to the next; from frumpy to fab; from overheated, 7 year old, dusty computer on a chipped, elementary school table you call your workspace to the dive bar where you drink a second-to-bottom-shelf beer to trick people into thinking you're of a higher economic class.
So, September is an exciting issue for the home-and-garden magazine. The editors throw some apples baked into something cinnamon-y and sugary, and I'm inspired. It's what's on the reader's mind.
This particular magazine does a lovely job with this:
Oh, this will be delicious! We should go apple picking this weekend.
Yes! I finally know how to dress like a proper southern lady-professional.
What a charming idea! I'm going to host the classiest tailgating party ever.
Ah, yes. Food porn.
Inspiring! Maybe my fall garden won't be a lot of sticks in the ground surrounded by crabgrass.
I hate these ads. Before I really start reading the articles, I'd better rip out all these order forms.
I'll just crease this card and rip it out.
Wait.
It's not just me, right? Because I'm starting to feel like a failure as a lady and an intellect.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Coming home
Things I do when I come home after being gone for two weeks:
Get surprised by how clean the kitchen is.
Admire the cupcake-candle scent.
Realize each room is clean, not just the presenting kitchen.
See all magazines that came in while I was away, fanned out evenly on the coffee table.
Climax.
Learn the house is without wine.
Shrug. (See climax, above.)
Start watching John Waters movie.
Ask PHubby to pause it so I could catch up with him on life.
Talk for 45 solid minutes about neurotic writer things.
Marvel that someone actually missed me, while I am talking nonstop about things like "my project" and "truth" and "thematic conflict."
Realize I have a captive audience who has been alone in a house for a full week and without spouse for two.
Take care of that situation.
Blog.
Try really hard not to reign in my typical freedom here as more people I know in real life learn about the blog. Hi, all you people I really know. Sorry about my inner monologue. At least you know I won't write about you, unless I already have, in which case, you're fucked. (Hi Mom, PHubby, BFF, Shrimpanzee-lover, and dearfriend (we need a name for you - Greendrip?)
Get surprised by how clean the kitchen is.
Admire the cupcake-candle scent.
Realize each room is clean, not just the presenting kitchen.
See all magazines that came in while I was away, fanned out evenly on the coffee table.
Climax.
Learn the house is without wine.
Shrug. (See climax, above.)
Start watching John Waters movie.
Ask PHubby to pause it so I could catch up with him on life.
Talk for 45 solid minutes about neurotic writer things.
Marvel that someone actually missed me, while I am talking nonstop about things like "my project" and "truth" and "thematic conflict."
Realize I have a captive audience who has been alone in a house for a full week and without spouse for two.
Take care of that situation.
Blog.
Try really hard not to reign in my typical freedom here as more people I know in real life learn about the blog. Hi, all you people I really know. Sorry about my inner monologue. At least you know I won't write about you, unless I already have, in which case, you're fucked. (Hi Mom, PHubby, BFF, Shrimpanzee-lover, and dearfriend (we need a name for you - Greendrip?)
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Dear PHubby
MOM: Skip this one.
On the 13th anniversary of our first date, which you always remember and I always forget (except this time - 13's a charm!), reminisce with me about the little romantic laughs we've had ...
Our Love, in Memories:
- The night you scored impossibly on the 19th hole of the mini golf course, after I agreed to let you autograph a randomly selected part of my body if you made it. You were an average mini golf player until then. I still suspect you spent the summer hustling me.
- The time I put my butt in your cheese. (It's cute you stopped putting plates of port salut cheese on the bed after that.)
- Learning we would stay and hang out with our friends longer if we did it before the party. (Seven Habits of Highly Alcoholic People.) Had double-effect of eliminating post-sex snacking in bed, thereby saving your cheese from my butt.
- Drunk dialing our family and friends on our wedding night.
- When our Obstetrician told you never to give me more than two fingers.
- When I made you out to be an anal sex freak in front of my proctologist last week. Still sorry about that, by the way. And I love you, even if you are a dirty ass-pirate.
On the 13th anniversary of our first date, which you always remember and I always forget (except this time - 13's a charm!), reminisce with me about the little romantic laughs we've had ...
Our Love, in Memories:
- The night you scored impossibly on the 19th hole of the mini golf course, after I agreed to let you autograph a randomly selected part of my body if you made it. You were an average mini golf player until then. I still suspect you spent the summer hustling me.
- The time I put my butt in your cheese. (It's cute you stopped putting plates of port salut cheese on the bed after that.)
- Learning we would stay and hang out with our friends longer if we did it before the party. (Seven Habits of Highly Alcoholic People.) Had double-effect of eliminating post-sex snacking in bed, thereby saving your cheese from my butt.
- Drunk dialing our family and friends on our wedding night.
- When our Obstetrician told you never to give me more than two fingers.
- When I made you out to be an anal sex freak in front of my proctologist last week. Still sorry about that, by the way. And I love you, even if you are a dirty ass-pirate.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your perirectal/vulvar area
Where to start.
Hi. I'm a blogger. And I have pain medication.
It's not as fun as people say, because the pain is still there. I'm just in a less pitiful mood about it.
Also, I got to drink a bunch of barium this morning before a CT scan, and the radiologist told me after the scan that I should drink extra water today to help flush it out and also that my poop would be white. I'm seriously considering taking a picture of it when it happens.
Would you guys want to see that?
Phubby says it will be like dropping the Partridge family off at the pool, and I still can't decide if that's (a) racist, (b) the funniest thing I've ever heard, or (c) both.
So, for years I've been ...
OK, I'm going to be real honest here. I wrote the first part of that sentence, and I know it had something to do with Cat Stevens, because I left this post to go research him for about 25 minutes, but then I came back to the post and I have no idea what I was going to write.
But I now know what inspired him to write the hit "Moonshadow." Spoiler for all you in the midst of your Cat Stevens research: He was dancing on some rocks in Spain at night.
Have you ever had to drink a vanilla barium shake? Because it's disgusting, by the way. I think the vanilla makes it worse. Like urinal cakes make bathrooms worse. My daughter was at work with me last week, and she asked what the pink thing was inside the toilet there. (It's a urinal-cake-type thing.)
I told her it was there to make the potty smell a little fresher. So, before I could stop her, she grasped the toilet seat two-handed, leaned her head over the toilet, took a deep breath, and with a face of peaceful bliss let out a big "Aahhhhh." It was like a carpet powder commercial.
And I still let her kiss me on the mouth. Motherhood is all about having no dignity whatsoever. You will endure any disgusting task, including the monitoring of whatever crud is oozing out of your child at any given moment, just to make sure your kids are safe and healthy. It's pathetic. It would be a pathological problem in any other relationship.
Although pet owners do it, too. We used to have a dog who thought the litter box was full of chewy treats with crunchy coating. Whenever we caught her and called out her name, she'd wag her tail and come out half-snarling, like she was really happy we'd left her so many treats. And we let her kiss us on the mouth regularly.
Huh. Only now am I connecting the filthy life I live with whatever is going on with my body. Blogging = self-realization. I got to see Dr. TwoFingers, but it was a boringly appropriate visit. Still, it's nice to think of old times.
Hi. I'm a blogger. And I have pain medication.
It's not as fun as people say, because the pain is still there. I'm just in a less pitiful mood about it.
Also, I got to drink a bunch of barium this morning before a CT scan, and the radiologist told me after the scan that I should drink extra water today to help flush it out and also that my poop would be white. I'm seriously considering taking a picture of it when it happens.
Would you guys want to see that?
Phubby says it will be like dropping the Partridge family off at the pool, and I still can't decide if that's (a) racist, (b) the funniest thing I've ever heard, or (c) both.
So, for years I've been ...
OK, I'm going to be real honest here. I wrote the first part of that sentence, and I know it had something to do with Cat Stevens, because I left this post to go research him for about 25 minutes, but then I came back to the post and I have no idea what I was going to write.
But I now know what inspired him to write the hit "Moonshadow." Spoiler for all you in the midst of your Cat Stevens research: He was dancing on some rocks in Spain at night.
Have you ever had to drink a vanilla barium shake? Because it's disgusting, by the way. I think the vanilla makes it worse. Like urinal cakes make bathrooms worse. My daughter was at work with me last week, and she asked what the pink thing was inside the toilet there. (It's a urinal-cake-type thing.)
I told her it was there to make the potty smell a little fresher. So, before I could stop her, she grasped the toilet seat two-handed, leaned her head over the toilet, took a deep breath, and with a face of peaceful bliss let out a big "Aahhhhh." It was like a carpet powder commercial.
And I still let her kiss me on the mouth. Motherhood is all about having no dignity whatsoever. You will endure any disgusting task, including the monitoring of whatever crud is oozing out of your child at any given moment, just to make sure your kids are safe and healthy. It's pathetic. It would be a pathological problem in any other relationship.
Although pet owners do it, too. We used to have a dog who thought the litter box was full of chewy treats with crunchy coating. Whenever we caught her and called out her name, she'd wag her tail and come out half-snarling, like she was really happy we'd left her so many treats. And we let her kiss us on the mouth regularly.
Huh. Only now am I connecting the filthy life I live with whatever is going on with my body. Blogging = self-realization. I got to see Dr. TwoFingers, but it was a boringly appropriate visit. Still, it's nice to think of old times.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Filling the infinite void: your mom's vagina
Well, school is almost back in session, so once again I will wear too many paisley pashminas and drink black coffee interestingly. I'll also edit your word choice and phrasing in my head while smiling dearly at you. I'm in writey grad school. It's how we do.
So, whatcha been up to?
Not much around here. Loafing a little; playing a little uke; reading an enormous book about the Shroud of Turin; saving my cat from certain death. You know, summer stuff.
Turns out what I thought was gelatinous, mucus-like pee coming out of my cat was actually gelatinous, mucus-like diarrhea, which cost me nearly a mortgage payment to cure. And now I'm looking for a new vet that does not have a state-of-the-art facility capable of curing an elephantiasis in an elephant (read: big exam rooms, weird equipment).
I am glad my cat's alive, but I'm sad about my bank account. I am now accepting bids on the following: Bienvenue!, a rare beginning French text book, circa 1982, discontinued; a video of drunk me deep throating a banana (boner-smashing); a half-full (the power of positive thinking!) tube of hemorrhoid cream; and the lamp my best friend said looks like anal beads, which I bought anyway because it reminds me she's sluttier than I am and that makes me feel good about being me. Actually, scratch the last one. The thrill of being electrocuted with giant anal beads is too good to let go.
I'm open to ideas, though, and I can always drug PHubby and take humiliating and possibly illegal photos of him with the kitchen equipment of your choice. Tweet me with inspiration @anthonyweinersholesofglory.
OH! And who's not watching the Casey Anthony trial and maniacally updating twitter on the #caseyanthony search for updates? Although there's nothing really funny about the case at all, this guy made a trial drinking game. I made my own. It's called If Casey Anthony Does Not Get a Mistrial on the Basis of Ineffective Counsel, I Will Drink a Keg. That Jose Baez objected to his own expert witness' testimony. Are you fame whores watching? Because that is how you get your own reality show, my friends.
Anyway, I'm back in the Internet game. No way I'm going to catch up on two months of posts, but if any of you readers who have blogs who have particularly awesome posts I missed, can you please link it? Because I hate to miss out.
So, whatcha been up to?
Not much around here. Loafing a little; playing a little uke; reading an enormous book about the Shroud of Turin; saving my cat from certain death. You know, summer stuff.
Turns out what I thought was gelatinous, mucus-like pee coming out of my cat was actually gelatinous, mucus-like diarrhea, which cost me nearly a mortgage payment to cure. And now I'm looking for a new vet that does not have a state-of-the-art facility capable of curing an elephantiasis in an elephant (read: big exam rooms, weird equipment).
I am glad my cat's alive, but I'm sad about my bank account. I am now accepting bids on the following: Bienvenue!, a rare beginning French text book, circa 1982, discontinued; a video of drunk me deep throating a banana (boner-smashing); a half-full (the power of positive thinking!) tube of hemorrhoid cream; and the lamp my best friend said looks like anal beads, which I bought anyway because it reminds me she's sluttier than I am and that makes me feel good about being me. Actually, scratch the last one. The thrill of being electrocuted with giant anal beads is too good to let go.
I'm open to ideas, though, and I can always drug PHubby and take humiliating and possibly illegal photos of him with the kitchen equipment of your choice. Tweet me with inspiration @anthonyweinersholesofglory.
OH! And who's not watching the Casey Anthony trial and maniacally updating twitter on the #caseyanthony search for updates? Although there's nothing really funny about the case at all, this guy made a trial drinking game. I made my own. It's called If Casey Anthony Does Not Get a Mistrial on the Basis of Ineffective Counsel, I Will Drink a Keg. That Jose Baez objected to his own expert witness' testimony. Are you fame whores watching? Because that is how you get your own reality show, my friends.
Anyway, I'm back in the Internet game. No way I'm going to catch up on two months of posts, but if any of you readers who have blogs who have particularly awesome posts I missed, can you please link it? Because I hate to miss out.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Fitting it all in before the Armageddon
Wii Swordplay is not only the best game since Donkey Kong, it's also the most fun thing to say with a straight face as an adult.
Being this awesome at Swordplay is how dudes must feel when they get rich while banging chicks on The Real World and then get their teeth bleached. (Why did this show turn from a '90s depressed melodrama to a casting tractor beam for the really hot girl in the retarded class who wasn't quite all-the-way retarded and but was all-the-way built like a 23-year-old underwear model?) The point is I got game. And the other point is that my abs are fantastic.
So, anyway, I've been loafing. I'm still working full time, but my semester ended a few weeks ago, and I've been dreamily tooling around with a few essays and generally being a spoiled writer with lots of time to dream instead of a neurotic writer who can't sleep because of all the writing she is thinking about and doing. And, when did spring happen?! As soon as I get out of work, I just want to play in the backyard and enjoy God's favorite season unironically.
And now I'm refreshed and ready to make you all think I've accepted Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior. As you roll your eyes and turn toward your devil-loving and false-prophet following, remind yourselves who will be the one laughing on Saturday when the world ends. God will be.
Some guy nobody except God and some cult-followers cares about says the world is going to end Saturday, May 21, so I've prepared myself by sewing on a new hymen for revirginification and making a detachable foreskin for PHubby in case God's into gentiles.
Then I wrote a list of things God might like and started checking off the items. I read my Bible literally and then I ironed my linen napkins and douched my cat's vagina with lavender water.
Those of us who get taken to heaven promise not to judge you while we're having an orgy with the big guy and each other. We would never do that. We're not perfect, we're just forgiven, as the bumper sticker of my best friend's nemesis says.
And by "we," we don't mean to include "you." In case you were wondering.
I'm saved! Bring on the Armageddon!
Coming soon: A practical guide to flora: a comprehensive list of scientific names of plants that smell like semen and other quality content. I'll try to squeeze it in before Saturday for you last-minute repenters.
Being this awesome at Swordplay is how dudes must feel when they get rich while banging chicks on The Real World and then get their teeth bleached. (Why did this show turn from a '90s depressed melodrama to a casting tractor beam for the really hot girl in the retarded class who wasn't quite all-the-way retarded and but was all-the-way built like a 23-year-old underwear model?) The point is I got game. And the other point is that my abs are fantastic.
So, anyway, I've been loafing. I'm still working full time, but my semester ended a few weeks ago, and I've been dreamily tooling around with a few essays and generally being a spoiled writer with lots of time to dream instead of a neurotic writer who can't sleep because of all the writing she is thinking about and doing. And, when did spring happen?! As soon as I get out of work, I just want to play in the backyard and enjoy God's favorite season unironically.
And now I'm refreshed and ready to make you all think I've accepted Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior. As you roll your eyes and turn toward your devil-loving and false-prophet following, remind yourselves who will be the one laughing on Saturday when the world ends. God will be.
Some guy nobody except God and some cult-followers cares about says the world is going to end Saturday, May 21, so I've prepared myself by sewing on a new hymen for revirginification and making a detachable foreskin for PHubby in case God's into gentiles.
Then I wrote a list of things God might like and started checking off the items. I read my Bible literally and then I ironed my linen napkins and douched my cat's vagina with lavender water.
Those of us who get taken to heaven promise not to judge you while we're having an orgy with the big guy and each other. We would never do that. We're not perfect, we're just forgiven, as the bumper sticker of my best friend's nemesis says.
And by "we," we don't mean to include "you." In case you were wondering.
I'm saved! Bring on the Armageddon!
Coming soon: A practical guide to flora: a comprehensive list of scientific names of plants that smell like semen and other quality content. I'll try to squeeze it in before Saturday for you last-minute repenters.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Check it I give it to ya raw butt naked - Wu-Tang Clan
Goddamn, I love Wu-Tang.
Can we talk about my chubby? Not boner-chubby. My chubby, chubby bod.
The Notorious Sar Ah Pea is watching her weight. Via Weight Watchers.
You might say, Why, Sarah? Why? You seem like such a down-to-earth person! You're not caught up with appearances or that extra bubble of cellulite just below your ass that, seriously, we've all noticed, but just haven't said anything about.
Indeed, I barely ever talk about that weird flap of fat-filled skin that flops over my Cesarean scar. Except when I'm trying to turn men on or when I'm doing bar tricks. Because I'm classy.
Sar Ah Pea has two weight thresholds, above which Sarah P's body reacts poorly - not counting the puffy double-chin and thick upper arms that belong on a person with much bigger boobs.
As I pass the first threshold, my knees ache. They creak when I walk down the stairs in the morning, and as I push my luck four or five pounds past that threshold, pumps, kitten heels and platforms must be avoided. As the mom pants come out, so must the flats. Fanciness is eight pounds earlier.
It's Dockers-and-punchy-loafers time. Spring is in the air! It's an awkward wardrobe time. Always too hot or too cold. Lots of Cadbury Creme Eggs.
Sarah P. Likes: Cadbury Creme Eggs, sitting on the couch, pooping in the morning
Sarah P. Dislikes: Beets, hot lettuce, hemorrhoids
Putting too many pounds on this delicate frame produces a tender, fleshy venous area on my anus. Hemorrhoids turn calming, centering morning poops into painful, sweaty, scream-suppressing marathons.
So, I'm losing weight. I'll post my progress. Not like a health blogger. Like a chubby writer girl with four-year-old twins, a full-time job and a less-than-normal affinity for the video game Zelda. (True story: Saw a tall, out-of-shape, high-school nerd in an "I <3 Zelda" shirt a few years ago. Considered dry humping him.) Translation: Maybe I'll post something, but only if it's horrendously embarrassing. Because "Awkward" is my middle name.
Love,
Sarah Awkward P.
Fat Hemorrhoidal Blogger
Super P.S. Like the new digs? Me, too. Thank you, Sillygrrl, for being the raddest non-hemorrhoidal web designer EVZ.
Can we talk about my chubby? Not boner-chubby. My chubby, chubby bod.
The Notorious Sar Ah Pea is watching her weight. Via Weight Watchers.
You might say, Why, Sarah? Why? You seem like such a down-to-earth person! You're not caught up with appearances or that extra bubble of cellulite just below your ass that, seriously, we've all noticed, but just haven't said anything about.
Indeed, I barely ever talk about that weird flap of fat-filled skin that flops over my Cesarean scar. Except when I'm trying to turn men on or when I'm doing bar tricks. Because I'm classy.
Sar Ah Pea has two weight thresholds, above which Sarah P's body reacts poorly - not counting the puffy double-chin and thick upper arms that belong on a person with much bigger boobs.
As I pass the first threshold, my knees ache. They creak when I walk down the stairs in the morning, and as I push my luck four or five pounds past that threshold, pumps, kitten heels and platforms must be avoided. As the mom pants come out, so must the flats. Fanciness is eight pounds earlier.
It's Dockers-and-punchy-loafers time. Spring is in the air! It's an awkward wardrobe time. Always too hot or too cold. Lots of Cadbury Creme Eggs.
Sarah P. Likes: Cadbury Creme Eggs, sitting on the couch, pooping in the morning
Sarah P. Dislikes: Beets, hot lettuce, hemorrhoids
Putting too many pounds on this delicate frame produces a tender, fleshy venous area on my anus. Hemorrhoids turn calming, centering morning poops into painful, sweaty, scream-suppressing marathons.
So, I'm losing weight. I'll post my progress. Not like a health blogger. Like a chubby writer girl with four-year-old twins, a full-time job and a less-than-normal affinity for the video game Zelda. (True story: Saw a tall, out-of-shape, high-school nerd in an "I <3 Zelda" shirt a few years ago. Considered dry humping him.) Translation: Maybe I'll post something, but only if it's horrendously embarrassing. Because "Awkward" is my middle name.
Love,
Sarah Awkward P.
Fat Hemorrhoidal Blogger
Super P.S. Like the new digs? Me, too. Thank you, Sillygrrl, for being the raddest non-hemorrhoidal web designer EVZ.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Mommy needs her hurty bump pills
Sorry I've been gone so long. Oh? You didn't notice? Cool! Then, HI! I've missed you!
But I was on some really groggy medication, and I literally slept for 12 hours the other night. It was glorious, and I could have done it again starting at midday. It's not even a painkiller or anything fun. It's an antiviral medication with a sleepy side effect that I deemed "worth it" because I really hate cold sores.
I'm not sure why God allows people to get cold sores INSIDE THEIR NOSES, and I've spent a lot of time contemplating the existence of such a cruel overlord. Think of all the people in Japan without access to a pharmacy right now! Not even for a little natural disaster makeup survival kit of lip gloss, clear polish, and Maybelline Great Lash. (Maybe it's natural disaster, maybe it's Maybelline.)
(Too soon? OK, well, if you chuckled, now you kind of have to help because of your crushing guilt. The American Red Cross says medical needs are high. Text REDCROSS to 90999 to make a $10 donation to help our friends in Japan. You remember them. They gave us technology. I think we can afford $10.)
Life is so hard.
For instance, the soul-piercing embarrassment I must face when getting my cold sore medication that is also used to treat genital herpes makes me doubt a loving God. If my cold sore was visible, like on my lip like a normal person, it wouldn't be so bad. My nostril cold sores are not always visible but they're also not on my crotch, and that's a distinction I would like everyone behind the pharmacy counter to understand - an especially difficult task because of the aforementioned not-obvious facial cold sore and also because the doctor who prescribes my Valtrex is my well-known local Ob/Gyn.
Maybe pharmacists think they have some sort of secret pharmacy code that laymen can't understand, but I understand it. So, I'm pretty sure, can all these people with walkers loitering around the pharmacy counter waiting for their prescription poop pills. So, even when she yells about the generic name for something, like, everyone knows what it is. Ends with -icillin? Bacterial infection, but nobody's judging even though it could be for the clap.
But everyone associates Valtrex with genital herpes commercials. Everyone. Even I do it, and I take it for a completely different reason. So, when the pharmacist starts yelling about my prescription using its scientific name, I get a little nervous about Oxygen Tank Hank snickering from the disabled person chair next to the counter.
Invariably, I walk up to the counter and wait a lengthy three full minutes for the pharmacy tech who looks strikingly similar to Lara Jill Miller as the adorable tomboy Samantha on the NBC series Gimme a Break! Even though she meets my eyes when I walk up to the counter, she must continue muttering with the pharmacist, who acknowledges nary a soul until that person is a problem and only then with a level of angst and contempt that should only be allowed sanitation workers who had to unjam the sewer pipe outside your house that one time you thought "what's the worst that could happen?" and spent the entire seven days of your period flushing nighttime absorbency feminine hygiene pads down the toilet.
So when Samantha from Gimme a Break! finally descends from the pharmacist's work space, I'm already on the edges of patience. Then, I have to wait while Samantha, who looked completely normal from afar, works her Narnia backward-knee legs down the side steps, whinnies and trots over to the cash register. I tell her my name, she stomps twice, breathes through her gap teeth and turns around to look through the alphabetical bins for my prescription.
It's never there, so she checks the Q and R bins in case it was misfiled and then asks the pharmacist, who then squints at me, drops her reading glasses which swing from her flowered eyeglass chain, and shouts, "I called Dr. TwoFingers [well-known local Ob/Gyn] to see if he wanted to prescribe something else because your insurance company doesn't want to pay for that valacyclovir. Insurance will pay for the acyclovir but not valacyclovir, so I called Dr. TwoFingers to see if he wanted to give you the other kind."
What I want to say is "Please, please say Dr. TwoFingers and valacyclovir one more time, because I'm pretty sure the 20-year-olds buying condoms and specialty lube three aisles away didn't hear you the first two times."
Instead, I embark on a lengthy, pointless monologue about how - hahaha - it's OKzies because I just have this super painful, miniscule cold sore inside my nose which, in case any of the senior citizens were curious, are absolutely not in or around my nether regions because I am a good, Christian woman who hasn't slept with anyone except her husband (you're welcome, Mom) since she got married (sorry, Mom), and anyhoozles, I have a very healthy vaginal life all-in-all, and just so you know, the only reason an Ob/Gyn prescribed it is because one time, when I delivered twins (in wedlock, and a-thank-you) I got a cold sore while he was checking on us in the hospital, and he just went ahead and wrote me a prescription, and ever since then I just call him. Oh, I'm so easy-breezy, aren't I? Certainly not like someone with an ongoing need for this medication.
"How much is it without insurance, then?" I ask, expecting it to be $400 if insurance won't cover it.
"It's 58.50," she says, and in the rage that follows immediately after the pause of shock, I somehow manage not to rip my shirt open, scramble over the stupid raised counter and rip that plush eyeglass chain right off her neck.
Because, really? Based on the assumed $30 copay for the tier-III prescriptions, I'm guessing the difference between her not shouting out my easily misunderstood prescription to half the senior population of our community and keeping it to herself is, like, $28.50.
Stab, stab. Stab.
"I'll take it," I say, and she rolls her eyes at me.
Half-Goat Samantha's mustache whiskers twitch as she fails to stifle her giggle-snorts. I've had enough.
If I were good at this sort of thing, I'd put that centaur in her motherfucking place.
"Listen here, Hot to Trot," I would say. "I wouldn't laugh at you if you got cold sores on your back hump, and I certainly wouldn't imply that you had them on your genitals. And not only because I find revolting the mental image of you having sex. I wouldn't imply it because I have empathy, something your kind should learn from we non-magical creatures. Good day, forest spirit. And the same to your chemical overlord up there behind the raised counter. A-good day."
Instead I pay my $58.50 at the register Nell Carter's cloven-hoofed afterbirth can't seem to manage, and avoid the prying eyes of all the old people.
This is why my occasional cold sore is more degrading than actual genital herpes. And that is how I spent my summer vacation. Love, Sarah P
But I was on some really groggy medication, and I literally slept for 12 hours the other night. It was glorious, and I could have done it again starting at midday. It's not even a painkiller or anything fun. It's an antiviral medication with a sleepy side effect that I deemed "worth it" because I really hate cold sores.
I'm not sure why God allows people to get cold sores INSIDE THEIR NOSES, and I've spent a lot of time contemplating the existence of such a cruel overlord. Think of all the people in Japan without access to a pharmacy right now! Not even for a little natural disaster makeup survival kit of lip gloss, clear polish, and Maybelline Great Lash. (Maybe it's natural disaster, maybe it's Maybelline.)
(Too soon? OK, well, if you chuckled, now you kind of have to help because of your crushing guilt. The American Red Cross says medical needs are high. Text REDCROSS to 90999 to make a $10 donation to help our friends in Japan. You remember them. They gave us technology. I think we can afford $10.)
Life is so hard.
For instance, the soul-piercing embarrassment I must face when getting my cold sore medication that is also used to treat genital herpes makes me doubt a loving God. If my cold sore was visible, like on my lip like a normal person, it wouldn't be so bad. My nostril cold sores are not always visible but they're also not on my crotch, and that's a distinction I would like everyone behind the pharmacy counter to understand - an especially difficult task because of the aforementioned not-obvious facial cold sore and also because the doctor who prescribes my Valtrex is my well-known local Ob/Gyn.
Maybe pharmacists think they have some sort of secret pharmacy code that laymen can't understand, but I understand it. So, I'm pretty sure, can all these people with walkers loitering around the pharmacy counter waiting for their prescription poop pills. So, even when she yells about the generic name for something, like, everyone knows what it is. Ends with -icillin? Bacterial infection, but nobody's judging even though it could be for the clap.
But everyone associates Valtrex with genital herpes commercials. Everyone. Even I do it, and I take it for a completely different reason. So, when the pharmacist starts yelling about my prescription using its scientific name, I get a little nervous about Oxygen Tank Hank snickering from the disabled person chair next to the counter.
Invariably, I walk up to the counter and wait a lengthy three full minutes for the pharmacy tech who looks strikingly similar to Lara Jill Miller as the adorable tomboy Samantha on the NBC series Gimme a Break! Even though she meets my eyes when I walk up to the counter, she must continue muttering with the pharmacist, who acknowledges nary a soul until that person is a problem and only then with a level of angst and contempt that should only be allowed sanitation workers who had to unjam the sewer pipe outside your house that one time you thought "what's the worst that could happen?" and spent the entire seven days of your period flushing nighttime absorbency feminine hygiene pads down the toilet.
So when Samantha from Gimme a Break! finally descends from the pharmacist's work space, I'm already on the edges of patience. Then, I have to wait while Samantha, who looked completely normal from afar, works her Narnia backward-knee legs down the side steps, whinnies and trots over to the cash register. I tell her my name, she stomps twice, breathes through her gap teeth and turns around to look through the alphabetical bins for my prescription.
It's never there, so she checks the Q and R bins in case it was misfiled and then asks the pharmacist, who then squints at me, drops her reading glasses which swing from her flowered eyeglass chain, and shouts, "I called Dr. TwoFingers [well-known local Ob/Gyn] to see if he wanted to prescribe something else because your insurance company doesn't want to pay for that valacyclovir. Insurance will pay for the acyclovir but not valacyclovir, so I called Dr. TwoFingers to see if he wanted to give you the other kind."
What I want to say is "Please, please say Dr. TwoFingers and valacyclovir one more time, because I'm pretty sure the 20-year-olds buying condoms and specialty lube three aisles away didn't hear you the first two times."
Instead, I embark on a lengthy, pointless monologue about how - hahaha - it's OKzies because I just have this super painful, miniscule cold sore inside my nose which, in case any of the senior citizens were curious, are absolutely not in or around my nether regions because I am a good, Christian woman who hasn't slept with anyone except her husband (you're welcome, Mom) since she got married (sorry, Mom), and anyhoozles, I have a very healthy vaginal life all-in-all, and just so you know, the only reason an Ob/Gyn prescribed it is because one time, when I delivered twins (in wedlock, and a-thank-you) I got a cold sore while he was checking on us in the hospital, and he just went ahead and wrote me a prescription, and ever since then I just call him. Oh, I'm so easy-breezy, aren't I? Certainly not like someone with an ongoing need for this medication.
"How much is it without insurance, then?" I ask, expecting it to be $400 if insurance won't cover it.
"It's 58.50," she says, and in the rage that follows immediately after the pause of shock, I somehow manage not to rip my shirt open, scramble over the stupid raised counter and rip that plush eyeglass chain right off her neck.
Because, really? Based on the assumed $30 copay for the tier-III prescriptions, I'm guessing the difference between her not shouting out my easily misunderstood prescription to half the senior population of our community and keeping it to herself is, like, $28.50.
Stab, stab. Stab.
"I'll take it," I say, and she rolls her eyes at me.
Half-Goat Samantha's mustache whiskers twitch as she fails to stifle her giggle-snorts. I've had enough.
If I were good at this sort of thing, I'd put that centaur in her motherfucking place.
"Listen here, Hot to Trot," I would say. "I wouldn't laugh at you if you got cold sores on your back hump, and I certainly wouldn't imply that you had them on your genitals. And not only because I find revolting the mental image of you having sex. I wouldn't imply it because I have empathy, something your kind should learn from we non-magical creatures. Good day, forest spirit. And the same to your chemical overlord up there behind the raised counter. A-good day."
Instead I pay my $58.50 at the register Nell Carter's cloven-hoofed afterbirth can't seem to manage, and avoid the prying eyes of all the old people.
This is why my occasional cold sore is more degrading than actual genital herpes. And that is how I spent my summer vacation. Love, Sarah P
Monday, February 28, 2011
Ass-burningly grown-up
You know what burns my ass? Making one of those rubber-cement bouncy balls on my Trapper Keeper folder with my butt.
Did you ever do that? Not with your butt, I mean, but did you ever waste a lot of time making one of those disgusting balls that turn all gray because of your filthy child hands when you could have bought a bright, shiny red one for a quarter in the machine outside the grocery store?
Do you even remember playing with the gummy, gray rubber ball you made? No, of course you don't, because the fun was all in painting the folder with rubber cement and then rubbing it off repeatedly to form it into a big, lumpy ball.
You know what else was a stupid, childish thing to do? Not stepping on the green squares in the elementary school hallway because you might get Jimmy Germs. And then, when you did accidentally step on a square, it was also childish to touch the person next to you and say, "Jimmy Germs - no tradebacks." It would have been much smarter just to step on the squares every time, and then just wipe off all the germs on the library door at the end of the hallway.
Although, now that I think about it, you might have to check the rule books on that, because officially, that might not get rid of Jimmy Germs even though it makes sense. Does hand sanitizer kill Jimmy Germs? Could you use the librarian's?
You certainly don't want to be the kid who doesn't care if he gets Jimmy Germs. Because even though it sounds really grown-up and mature, everyone will know that you are just putting on airs because your mommy told you to be nice to the gross kid. You'll always revert, you'll always go back to caring about Jimmy Germs. There is not enough Lysol in the janitor's trash-can-on-wheels to disinfect the creepiness from those green tiles.
Unless you like it?
Do you?
Do you like those Jimmy Germs? You secretly step on them on purpose when you're in the hall by yourself after school or on your way to the bathroom, don't you?
What is it about those green squares? Is it your way of silently apologizing to Jimmy, cleansing your conscience for being so mean and so loud about being mean? Sure it is. Of course. It makes sense, you're a nice person, really, not someone who just goes around picking on other kids. Sometimes kids pick on you, too, and you know it feels bad. It's all about being a nice person who cares about other people's feelings.
But that's not really it, is it?
No, it's not. You love it. You roll around in those Jimmy Germs. You collect them, even putting your mouth over the water fountain because he does. You wish you could spray yourself with those slimy, booger balls of Jimmy Germs. You wipe them on your backpack, so you can save them for later when you're alone and you can lick the canvas. Do you save your Jimmy Germs with the boogers on the wall next to the bed where you sleep at Grandma's house?
I drew a picture of you. Want to see it?
Did you ever do that? Not with your butt, I mean, but did you ever waste a lot of time making one of those disgusting balls that turn all gray because of your filthy child hands when you could have bought a bright, shiny red one for a quarter in the machine outside the grocery store?
Do you even remember playing with the gummy, gray rubber ball you made? No, of course you don't, because the fun was all in painting the folder with rubber cement and then rubbing it off repeatedly to form it into a big, lumpy ball.
You know what else was a stupid, childish thing to do? Not stepping on the green squares in the elementary school hallway because you might get Jimmy Germs. And then, when you did accidentally step on a square, it was also childish to touch the person next to you and say, "Jimmy Germs - no tradebacks." It would have been much smarter just to step on the squares every time, and then just wipe off all the germs on the library door at the end of the hallway.
Although, now that I think about it, you might have to check the rule books on that, because officially, that might not get rid of Jimmy Germs even though it makes sense. Does hand sanitizer kill Jimmy Germs? Could you use the librarian's?
You certainly don't want to be the kid who doesn't care if he gets Jimmy Germs. Because even though it sounds really grown-up and mature, everyone will know that you are just putting on airs because your mommy told you to be nice to the gross kid. You'll always revert, you'll always go back to caring about Jimmy Germs. There is not enough Lysol in the janitor's trash-can-on-wheels to disinfect the creepiness from those green tiles.
Unless you like it?
Do you?
Do you like those Jimmy Germs? You secretly step on them on purpose when you're in the hall by yourself after school or on your way to the bathroom, don't you?
What is it about those green squares? Is it your way of silently apologizing to Jimmy, cleansing your conscience for being so mean and so loud about being mean? Sure it is. Of course. It makes sense, you're a nice person, really, not someone who just goes around picking on other kids. Sometimes kids pick on you, too, and you know it feels bad. It's all about being a nice person who cares about other people's feelings.
But that's not really it, is it?
No, it's not. You love it. You roll around in those Jimmy Germs. You collect them, even putting your mouth over the water fountain because he does. You wish you could spray yourself with those slimy, booger balls of Jimmy Germs. You wipe them on your backpack, so you can save them for later when you're alone and you can lick the canvas. Do you save your Jimmy Germs with the boogers on the wall next to the bed where you sleep at Grandma's house?
I drew a picture of you. Want to see it?
Like it? I call it "Jimmy Germ Lover."
You can find it in the Guinness Book of World Records. It simply won "Awesomest ever," narrowly winning over the picture your ex best friend drew of your dog face after you decided Jimmy was your new best friend.
Ha!
...
Wonder what ever happened to ol' Germbag Jimmy? Wonder if he still eats his boogers. Wonder if he can still take constant abuse and never shed a tear.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Raising Catholic Children: A Parenting Guide
As a convert to Roman Catholicism and the daughter of a lapsed Catholic daughter of Catholics (got that?), not all of this Catholic parenting comes easily to me. Some days, I feel I'm stumbling my way through this holy life, but just as anyone can learn to be Catholic, so too can anyone learn to be a Catholic parent.
So far, I've mastered giving up ideals like equality and hope and understanding, and replaced them with fear, guilt and hate. I'm on my way, and you can be, too!
To become a Catholic parent, it helps to fill your home with lots of creepy Catholic things. Start your parenting with something simple and sweet, a nighttime prayer and a couple rounds of "Jesus Loves Me." A picture book with a fuzzy, teddy-bear cover also helps to bond your tiny, unscrupulous, idol worshiper to God and the Church.
Once they love Jesus, it's good to make sure the children have a visible reminder of their faith:
See that guy right there? He died a bloody, rotten death while his mommy cried so that you could be forgiven for grabbing that toy from your brother. If you really believe you deserve your cookies tonight, you may have them, but I want you to really think about it.
What's that you ask? What is that necklace hanging from the crucifix? That's only the Rosary, dear heathen child, something good people pray every day. The carvings on the stones are shamrocks, a symbol of our Irish heritage, which we celebrate because our ancestors nearly starved to death when a blight killed the potato crops, and then our great-great-great grandparents had to sail on a big, big boat to the United States where you now beg for McDonald's before you've finished your organic hot chocolate from Starbucks. How would you feel if you only had potatoes to eat? Hm? What about if the potatoes didn't grow? Still hungry? You want apple dippers or french fried potatoes?
Next, you'll want to reinforce those feelings of guilt and low self worth with a few reminders of people who are much better than your children. For example:
St. Francis of Assisi is the Patron Saint of Animals and the Environment. He died of an eye disease and stigmata, which is a condition in which really good people - really, only the best people - get bleeding, pus-filled wounds just like Jesus had when He was nailed by his wrists and ankles to a large wooden cross. He died while singing a Psalm.
I'm sorry you have the sniffles, honey, but don't you think you should recycle your orange juice carton? After all, St. Francis always loved the environment, even as he was dying a bloody, painful death while singing praise to Our Lord and Savior. You make your own decision, sweetie.
St. Jude is the Patron Saint of Hopeless Cases, which means even when God is sick of your shit, St. Jude will try to help. Lord knows why they gave him those cases instead of something better. The man was present at the Pentecost, the birthday of the Catholic Church, when the Holy Spirit gave all the apostles little flames on their heads because back then they didn't have sweat shops in China for tiny orphans to make those Lightning McQueen birthday party hats you like so much.. You know, some children have Holy birthday party themes. I'm sure someone could make you a Judas Iscariot pinata. You know, if you were interested. 'Sup to you.
I'm sure Jesus wants whatever makes you happy.
After the saints, introduce something sweet and cherubic: Angels! Everyone loves them, and they are available year round in the form of pins, wall hangings, bumper stickers and sweatshirts your Grandma buys God-knows-where.
Angels are special winged creatures of God who bring to our lives the music of Heaven and protect us in our times of need. Think of them as God's winged warriors.
Once upon a time, one angel fucked with God, sweetie, and things didn't go so well for that angel.
According to the Book of Charlie Daniels, that angel became the Devil, who went down to Georgia, where Johnny showed the devil how it was done. We are never to enter into conversation with the devil, but fiddle competitions are allowable.
All of the above will give you a good start as a Catholic parent, but there are some handy tools on the market to help keep your household Godly, guilt-ridden, and righteous. Maybe Baptists think it's idol-worship, but we Catholics say, "Phooey." Whatever keeps your children miserable is good enough for us!
My favorite is the Elf on the Shelf. He's a little Santa's elf who sits in your house year-round and watches your children and lets Santa know if your children have been naughty or nice.
Some holidays, especially those involving candy, can be difficult for children. It's important to motivate them not to become gluttons or thieves. Giving in to temptation is exactly like nailing Christ to a cross.
Place the elf in a place where children could get in trouble. For example, the candy-filled dining room.
So far, I've mastered giving up ideals like equality and hope and understanding, and replaced them with fear, guilt and hate. I'm on my way, and you can be, too!
To become a Catholic parent, it helps to fill your home with lots of creepy Catholic things. Start your parenting with something simple and sweet, a nighttime prayer and a couple rounds of "Jesus Loves Me." A picture book with a fuzzy, teddy-bear cover also helps to bond your tiny, unscrupulous, idol worshiper to God and the Church.
Once they love Jesus, it's good to make sure the children have a visible reminder of their faith:
See that guy right there? He died a bloody, rotten death while his mommy cried so that you could be forgiven for grabbing that toy from your brother. If you really believe you deserve your cookies tonight, you may have them, but I want you to really think about it.
What's that you ask? What is that necklace hanging from the crucifix? That's only the Rosary, dear heathen child, something good people pray every day. The carvings on the stones are shamrocks, a symbol of our Irish heritage, which we celebrate because our ancestors nearly starved to death when a blight killed the potato crops, and then our great-great-great grandparents had to sail on a big, big boat to the United States where you now beg for McDonald's before you've finished your organic hot chocolate from Starbucks. How would you feel if you only had potatoes to eat? Hm? What about if the potatoes didn't grow? Still hungry? You want apple dippers or french fried potatoes?
Next, you'll want to reinforce those feelings of guilt and low self worth with a few reminders of people who are much better than your children. For example:
St. Francis of the Swiffer Wet Jet for Wood
Patron Saint of Hiding the Dead Spiders in the Corner the Vacuum Can't Reach
St. Francis of Assisi is the Patron Saint of Animals and the Environment. He died of an eye disease and stigmata, which is a condition in which really good people - really, only the best people - get bleeding, pus-filled wounds just like Jesus had when He was nailed by his wrists and ankles to a large wooden cross. He died while singing a Psalm.
I'm sorry you have the sniffles, honey, but don't you think you should recycle your orange juice carton? After all, St. Francis always loved the environment, even as he was dying a bloody, painful death while singing praise to Our Lord and Savior. You make your own decision, sweetie.
Another good example is St. Jude.
I'm sure Jesus wants whatever makes you happy.
After the saints, introduce something sweet and cherubic: Angels! Everyone loves them, and they are available year round in the form of pins, wall hangings, bumper stickers and sweatshirts your Grandma buys God-knows-where.
Angels are special winged creatures of God who bring to our lives the music of Heaven and protect us in our times of need. Think of them as God's winged warriors.
Once upon a time, one angel fucked with God, sweetie, and things didn't go so well for that angel.
According to the Book of Charlie Daniels, that angel became the Devil, who went down to Georgia, where Johnny showed the devil how it was done. We are never to enter into conversation with the devil, but fiddle competitions are allowable.
All of the above will give you a good start as a Catholic parent, but there are some handy tools on the market to help keep your household Godly, guilt-ridden, and righteous. Maybe Baptists think it's idol-worship, but we Catholics say, "Phooey." Whatever keeps your children miserable is good enough for us!
My favorite is the Elf on the Shelf. He's a little Santa's elf who sits in your house year-round and watches your children and lets Santa know if your children have been naughty or nice.
Some holidays, especially those involving candy, can be difficult for children. It's important to motivate them not to become gluttons or thieves. Giving in to temptation is exactly like nailing Christ to a cross.
Place the elf in a place where children could get in trouble. For example, the candy-filled dining room.
The devil left you unattended candy.
No one can see you.
One little cherry-vanilla Nib wouldn't hurt anyone, would it? Would it be exactly like jabbing the hanging Jesus in the side with a sharp stick? Maybe, maybe not.
In a situation like this, a kid sure could use something to help make the right decision.
Something that appeals to a child's natural evil - the greed, the gluttony that overrules the desire for candy.
Christmas presents.
Not a saint or an angel or a son of God, but pretty fucking scary nonetheless.
By now, you're well on your way to being an effective Catholic parent. Any day now, you'll start working off those minutes in purgatory. God speed.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Romance
After Rapejoke Sunday (new regular feature? could be funzies!), we could use a palette cleanser.
Let's talk about romance. I thought I got PHubby the best Valentine ever (I can't tell you about it because I'm writing about it before I give it to him), but he made me three e-cards that are all even better than the one card that cost money.
Also, he never told me you can make free e-cards of your very own on someecards. Apparently, he did it for the first time for Mother's Day and told me about it. Somehow I wasn't listening, and I'm pretty sure that's because he's always trying to tell me stuff when I'm purposely tuning him out.
Lately, he's been texting more than he used to. His favorite text shtick is "I love you more than ..."
So far, he loves me more than fat kids love insulin, more than midgets love Baby Gap, and more than Todd Palin loves happy endings.
And now this ...
Click here for other PHubby-created cards. (Why didn't he tell me about this back when I was fiddling with the site that doesn't have free stuff?)
So, anyway, I recently told my mother about the blog. Again, sorry, mom. PHubby didn't want me to post his cards because he was worried about you reading them and thinking ill of him.
For readers, here's a little story about my mother's best friend:
When I was pregnant, my friends and family members threw one big baby shower, which was really convenient and it was in a nice little restaurant close to my parents' house. Everything was pretty and sweet. I mean, really, the salad had strawberries in it. How quaint, right?
One of my friends had two cakes made (one for each baby in my uterus) that looked like little knit baby sweaters, which was extra super cute because BFF's mom knitted baby sweaters for the twins. Just a sweet, classy day.
At the end of the shower, PHubby showed up to help us load the gifts and his gigantic wife into the car. Some guests had already left, but many were still mingling, enjoying drinks or oohing and aahing over the baby gifts.
PHubby quietly walked in the door to the room and was spotted by Mom's friend, who in front of PHubby's mother immediately said, "Hey! I know you! You're the one who left it in too long."
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. Go forth and multiply or, if you're alone, keep a lid on the weeping so the rest of us can enjoy our chocolates and sex. No matter what the singles say, or what the bitter ex-singles who still hate Valentine's Day say, Valentine's Day is super special except when you have your period.
Let's talk about romance. I thought I got PHubby the best Valentine ever (I can't tell you about it because I'm writing about it before I give it to him), but he made me three e-cards that are all even better than the one card that cost money.
Also, he never told me you can make free e-cards of your very own on someecards. Apparently, he did it for the first time for Mother's Day and told me about it. Somehow I wasn't listening, and I'm pretty sure that's because he's always trying to tell me stuff when I'm purposely tuning him out.
Lately, he's been texting more than he used to. His favorite text shtick is "I love you more than ..."
So far, he loves me more than fat kids love insulin, more than midgets love Baby Gap, and more than Todd Palin loves happy endings.
And now this ...
Click here for other PHubby-created cards. (Why didn't he tell me about this back when I was fiddling with the site that doesn't have free stuff?)
So, anyway, I recently told my mother about the blog. Again, sorry, mom. PHubby didn't want me to post his cards because he was worried about you reading them and thinking ill of him.
For readers, here's a little story about my mother's best friend:
When I was pregnant, my friends and family members threw one big baby shower, which was really convenient and it was in a nice little restaurant close to my parents' house. Everything was pretty and sweet. I mean, really, the salad had strawberries in it. How quaint, right?
One of my friends had two cakes made (one for each baby in my uterus) that looked like little knit baby sweaters, which was extra super cute because BFF's mom knitted baby sweaters for the twins. Just a sweet, classy day.
At the end of the shower, PHubby showed up to help us load the gifts and his gigantic wife into the car. Some guests had already left, but many were still mingling, enjoying drinks or oohing and aahing over the baby gifts.
PHubby quietly walked in the door to the room and was spotted by Mom's friend, who in front of PHubby's mother immediately said, "Hey! I know you! You're the one who left it in too long."
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. Go forth and multiply or, if you're alone, keep a lid on the weeping so the rest of us can enjoy our chocolates and sex. No matter what the singles say, or what the bitter ex-singles who still hate Valentine's Day say, Valentine's Day is super special except when you have your period.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
His gentle strangulation lulled her into a deep sleep
This is the story of a man and his cat. (To be technical, she was my cat, but then he and I formed a special, perfect union in the eyes of God and shared an address, and then he peed all over my cat and now she's his. I can't have anything he covets - he always pees on it.)
(The parenthetical portion of the above paragraph is all bullshit.)
This is the story of a man and his cat.
A cat who used to be mine, a cat I knew. As a tiny kitten, she came into my home, which was a shabby second-floor-and-attic with thin taupe carpeting and a linoleum bedroom floor. I was sad, alone, and a senior in college, living by myself when PHubby and I broke up.
*sob*
My mother, concerned of course that I would probably die an old maid still crying over that irrationally thin rugby kid I brought home a couple summers in college, suggested I get a cat. My dad wanted to be angry about the new pet, I could tell, but my mother took the fall.
I was aware of that dynamic, but I pretended to ignore it by acting happier than I actually was about being a single 21-year-old living alone with a cat. Because at least I had a cat.
Isabella was a tiny little alley cat, mostly black with a white bib and white paws. Her ears were impossibly huge. A classmate of mine tried to save her but the mewing all night was driving her crazy. I was just the sort of sad, pathetic break-up mess that needed something new to obsess over and a warm body to snuggle at bedtime.
PHubby watched her while I bought some new pet supplies. Even though he was my ex. Because I asked him to watch my kitten - a really awkward question because I knew how it seemed.
Unfortunately, I was in a jam because I had not prepared at all for the new cat - starting with the cat carrier. The error soon revealed itself because Isabella, as a 2-month-old kitten, repeatedly and violently flung herself at the windshield of my navy blue '86 Mustang convertible.
After driving her the five blocks to my apartment and taking her upstairs, I was pleased she survived the drive and seemed to like the joint. Soon, she would need to use a litter box, and I didn't have one. I did, however, have a 2-pound furry psycho who was willing to fling herself repeatedly against a windshield, a bucket of bleach in the kitchen, and a lot of dangerous small spaces.
Luckily, I also had an ex-boyfriend (PHubby) with a cat of his own (with litterbox) who lived in walking distance.
I swallowed my pride and called PHubby, who kindly watched the cat for 20 minutes while I went out and bought supplies.
Now, long story short, a few weeks later, PHubby wooed me back with blueberry pie and coffee at the Amish truck stop and a screening of Orgazmo in my apartment.
I know what you're thinking: God, that's romantic. But that's only because you don't know the most romantic thing PHubby's ever done, which was to yell "Yahtzee" during climax. We can all agree that was not only extremely sexy, but also thoughtful and kind of epic. (Happy V-Day, baby. This one's for you.) (Also, sorry Mom.)
That was the day Isabella first showed herself to be a traitor, because she was all over him while I was trying to play hard to get.
Isabella is a lap cat. She likes to sleep at the foot of the bed, and she particularly enjoys face pets. Pick her up, and she turns into a fierce shredding machine. She sincerely believes if she is picked up, she will be skinned alive and her still-wriggling body will be seared on a barbecue grill. And, let's face it, if she claws me like that one more fucking time, she might be right.
A few years ago, PHubby decided he'd have none of that. He would pick her up and she would like it.
For a few seconds at a time, he would hold her firmly in his arms and pet her. Then, he'd put her down and she'd run away. He slowly increased the length of time he would hold her.
Now, she'll stay in his arms as long as he determines.
She prefers him. She loves me, but if she's looking for a can of wet food or a nice long petting session, she goes to him. (To be fair, he has impeccable tension and rhythm with head pets.)
She was my kitten. My sweet little Halloween cat who liked to be scared and was forever arching her back. She snuggled me all the time, and chirped at the birds she saw at the window. Now, she loves him more. Her affections lay elsewhere.
He says people should hire him to condition cats. He says he won her over with "a series of rape snuggles."
I say she has Stockholm Syndrome, and maybe that's insensitive of me because I heard Jaycee Dugard totally had it, and really regrets it. She was kidnapped from her bus stop at age 11 by Phillip Garrido and then was rescued 18 years and two kids later.
But, to be fair, if you have positive feelings for an old dude who kidnapped you from your suburban family at age 11 and repeatedly raped you and made you live under a tarp in the backyard, it's probably because you were asking for it with your sexy Osh Kosh overalls.
Anyway, everything worked out for Belle in "Beauty and the Beast," so it's probably fine.
(The parenthetical portion of the above paragraph is all bullshit.)
This is the story of a man and his cat.
A cat who used to be mine, a cat I knew. As a tiny kitten, she came into my home, which was a shabby second-floor-and-attic with thin taupe carpeting and a linoleum bedroom floor. I was sad, alone, and a senior in college, living by myself when PHubby and I broke up.
*sob*
My mother, concerned of course that I would probably die an old maid still crying over that irrationally thin rugby kid I brought home a couple summers in college, suggested I get a cat. My dad wanted to be angry about the new pet, I could tell, but my mother took the fall.
I was aware of that dynamic, but I pretended to ignore it by acting happier than I actually was about being a single 21-year-old living alone with a cat. Because at least I had a cat.
Isabella was a tiny little alley cat, mostly black with a white bib and white paws. Her ears were impossibly huge. A classmate of mine tried to save her but the mewing all night was driving her crazy. I was just the sort of sad, pathetic break-up mess that needed something new to obsess over and a warm body to snuggle at bedtime.
PHubby watched her while I bought some new pet supplies. Even though he was my ex. Because I asked him to watch my kitten - a really awkward question because I knew how it seemed.
Unfortunately, I was in a jam because I had not prepared at all for the new cat - starting with the cat carrier. The error soon revealed itself because Isabella, as a 2-month-old kitten, repeatedly and violently flung herself at the windshield of my navy blue '86 Mustang convertible.
After driving her the five blocks to my apartment and taking her upstairs, I was pleased she survived the drive and seemed to like the joint. Soon, she would need to use a litter box, and I didn't have one. I did, however, have a 2-pound furry psycho who was willing to fling herself repeatedly against a windshield, a bucket of bleach in the kitchen, and a lot of dangerous small spaces.
Luckily, I also had an ex-boyfriend (PHubby) with a cat of his own (with litterbox) who lived in walking distance.
I swallowed my pride and called PHubby, who kindly watched the cat for 20 minutes while I went out and bought supplies.
Now, long story short, a few weeks later, PHubby wooed me back with blueberry pie and coffee at the Amish truck stop and a screening of Orgazmo in my apartment.
I know what you're thinking: God, that's romantic. But that's only because you don't know the most romantic thing PHubby's ever done, which was to yell "Yahtzee" during climax. We can all agree that was not only extremely sexy, but also thoughtful and kind of epic. (Happy V-Day, baby. This one's for you.) (Also, sorry Mom.)
That was the day Isabella first showed herself to be a traitor, because she was all over him while I was trying to play hard to get.
Isabella is a lap cat. She likes to sleep at the foot of the bed, and she particularly enjoys face pets. Pick her up, and she turns into a fierce shredding machine. She sincerely believes if she is picked up, she will be skinned alive and her still-wriggling body will be seared on a barbecue grill. And, let's face it, if she claws me like that one more fucking time, she might be right.
A few years ago, PHubby decided he'd have none of that. He would pick her up and she would like it.
For a few seconds at a time, he would hold her firmly in his arms and pet her. Then, he'd put her down and she'd run away. He slowly increased the length of time he would hold her.
Now, she'll stay in his arms as long as he determines.
She prefers him. She loves me, but if she's looking for a can of wet food or a nice long petting session, she goes to him. (To be fair, he has impeccable tension and rhythm with head pets.)
She was my kitten. My sweet little Halloween cat who liked to be scared and was forever arching her back. She snuggled me all the time, and chirped at the birds she saw at the window. Now, she loves him more. Her affections lay elsewhere.
He says people should hire him to condition cats. He says he won her over with "a series of rape snuggles."
I say she has Stockholm Syndrome, and maybe that's insensitive of me because I heard Jaycee Dugard totally had it, and really regrets it. She was kidnapped from her bus stop at age 11 by Phillip Garrido and then was rescued 18 years and two kids later.
But, to be fair, if you have positive feelings for an old dude who kidnapped you from your suburban family at age 11 and repeatedly raped you and made you live under a tarp in the backyard, it's probably because you were asking for it with your sexy Osh Kosh overalls.
Anyway, everything worked out for Belle in "Beauty and the Beast," so it's probably fine.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Yay! I won the most passive-aggressive award ever!
Thank you! I mean, you suck. Wait.
I won an award. Thank you!
An award for a blogger voters wish would post more.
This is exactly like the time the gym teacher wrote on my report card I wasn't working up to my full potential because I didn't see the point of changing socks for gym class and kept getting points docked from my grade for my expressive footwear. So petty. I aced the sit-and-reach.
Anyway, thanks to those who voted for the blog. That was really, really cool of you, and I was really excited to have made the list. (I finally get the whole "honor to be nominated" thing because the other bloggers on the lists are really great and I felt like I was hanging out at the cool kids' table, and it was a lot like that because when it was over, I went home and added a new decoration to my booger wall and made out with a David Bowie poster for a little while. Great day, top to bottom.)
Also, thanks Studio30Plus for being actually fun and worthwhile. I'm not a blog-group joiner, but they've been offering a quality place for bloggers over 30 to go to bitch about the uppity little chippies in their 20s who think they can blog and then get movie deals and free sex toys and stuff because bloggers over 30 are way more mature and so above all that, really. So, thanks Jules, Jerrod, Kelly and Jen O. for your hard work.
I also want to acknowledge Didactic Pirate who is rad and gave me one of those blogger-to-blogger awards last week, which I don't post as a rule due to an overwhelming paranoia that someone could accidentally be left off the list and feel snubbed, and things would start getting weird between us, and then it will become this whole cycle of insecurity and misunderstandings. But, because it's coming so close to the Studio Thirty Plus award thing, I don't want him to think I'm just snooty about it.
Gawd, neuroticism is my cross to bear. Neuroticism and a fatal crush on David Bowie.
Really? You want more of this? Masochistic of you, but I'll try.
(And by try, I mean actually try, not obey your fascist dress code.)
I won an award. Thank you!
An award for a blogger voters wish would post more.
This is exactly like the time the gym teacher wrote on my report card I wasn't working up to my full potential because I didn't see the point of changing socks for gym class and kept getting points docked from my grade for my expressive footwear. So petty. I aced the sit-and-reach.
Anyway, thanks to those who voted for the blog. That was really, really cool of you, and I was really excited to have made the list. (I finally get the whole "honor to be nominated" thing because the other bloggers on the lists are really great and I felt like I was hanging out at the cool kids' table, and it was a lot like that because when it was over, I went home and added a new decoration to my booger wall and made out with a David Bowie poster for a little while. Great day, top to bottom.)
Sweet. Jesus.
Also, thanks Studio30Plus for being actually fun and worthwhile. I'm not a blog-group joiner, but they've been offering a quality place for bloggers over 30 to go to bitch about the uppity little chippies in their 20s who think they can blog and then get movie deals and free sex toys and stuff because bloggers over 30 are way more mature and so above all that, really. So, thanks Jules, Jerrod, Kelly and Jen O. for your hard work.
I also want to acknowledge Didactic Pirate who is rad and gave me one of those blogger-to-blogger awards last week, which I don't post as a rule due to an overwhelming paranoia that someone could accidentally be left off the list and feel snubbed, and things would start getting weird between us, and then it will become this whole cycle of insecurity and misunderstandings. But, because it's coming so close to the Studio Thirty Plus award thing, I don't want him to think I'm just snooty about it.
Gawd, neuroticism is my cross to bear. Neuroticism and a fatal crush on David Bowie.
Really? You want more of this? Masochistic of you, but I'll try.
(And by try, I mean actually try, not obey your fascist dress code.)
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Book Reviews About Books I Didn't Read: Tiger Moms
Here's an idea. I like to form opinions about books I haven't read. Here, I will share them with you, so you can pick your reading list based on my opinions which are based on general ideas, whether the cover is cute, and what media outlets are saying about the book. It's like the Cliff's Notes for Cliff's Notes. With awesome opinions.
Battle Hymn of the Tiger Moms by Amy Chua
Tiger Moms is a book written by a Chinese American lady who is kind of racist against Chinese American ladies because it's a parody of how to be a really mean mom, which is what all Chinese American mothers are because they beat their children's knuckles until they practice piano for five years straight until the children decide to be perfect or die.
I disagree with that form of parenting. It's better to raise children like White American moms do. Henceforth, we will call them White Tiger Moms because that feels appropriately wrong.
Lots of people have been taking this book seriously because it's certainly not just the best marketing campaign ever. But no one is really talking about the race issues, which are just below the surface. This book is a straight-up throw-down challenge, and White Tiger Moms are nothing if not fighters. Ever heard that country song about wearing K-Mart underwear and saying "hey y'all?" It's pretty kick-ass, and that's how white women do things. I'm pretty sure.
That's what white women do on television shows anyway, because that's how I know about how to be a white lady. I watched lots of TV as a child when I should have been screaming out of stress at my mother to please let me stop practicing my abacus long enough to wipe the blood off my hands, because my mother was very lazy and didn't want me to be successful. That's why she snuggled me and read me stories. That bitch.
So, I think the best way to raise children is the White Tiger Mom way. Everyone knows being a lazy, pothead parent produces the best children.
It is only out of sheer neglect and abundance of resources children of White Tiger Moms get laid much earlier than their Tiger-Mom-raised counterparts. Furthermore, children of White Tiger Moms cost less over time.
A top mathematician who is absolutely real and not a figment of the author's imagination described the phenomenon:
You see, an investment in high-quality, vitamin-enriched baby formula diluted with nutritionally perfect breast milk instead of water, with an Omega-3 brain-booster shot of ground sardines and flaxseed, which is what all Chinese American Mothers do and we know that, because that's what one Chinese American lady who went to Yale wrote in a book one time, is much better for gray matter than cheese curls saturated with Mountain Dew, the traditional diet of the White Tiger Mom children.
The Tiger Mother's baby's brain grows bigger, allowing more information in, increasing the chances the child will be accepted into an ivy league school, where the administration is likely to take advantage of the parents' desire for the children to attend and not offer any financial aid.
Meanwhile, the White Tiger Mom's kid gets adult-onset diabetes at age 4 and cannot play sports ever again. The White Tiger child then gets an amphetemine called Adderall prescribed for hyperactivity and coasts through the teen years drinking beer on the weekends, not turning in all his homework, on B-minuses.
But, because the child is "learning disabled," the state university is happy to take it to meet diversity standards and will even pat it on the back for trying so hard by giving the White Tiger child a scholarship for being not-retarded but still slow enough for the special class.
This is when the White Tiger Mom's plan really takes hold.
Underachieving White Tiger Mom's kid goes off to discounted state school and meets Inferiority Complex Tiger Mother's child who didn't make it in to the ivy league school and has very low self-worth. The low self-worth makes the Tiger kid fall in love with the White Tiger kid, and it's a match.
White Tiger child achieved the same things as the Tiger child with a third of the work and a third of the money.
And White Tiger mothers? We get to use the leftover time and funds on obvious highlights and skinny jeans. Target run, bitches! Go, Team Aniston.
Ball's in your court, Tiger bitch.
Battle Hymn of the Tiger Moms by Amy Chua
Tiger Moms is a book written by a Chinese American lady who is kind of racist against Chinese American ladies because it's a parody of how to be a really mean mom, which is what all Chinese American mothers are because they beat their children's knuckles until they practice piano for five years straight until the children decide to be perfect or die.
I disagree with that form of parenting. It's better to raise children like White American moms do. Henceforth, we will call them White Tiger Moms because that feels appropriately wrong.
Lots of people have been taking this book seriously because it's certainly not just the best marketing campaign ever. But no one is really talking about the race issues, which are just below the surface. This book is a straight-up throw-down challenge, and White Tiger Moms are nothing if not fighters. Ever heard that country song about wearing K-Mart underwear and saying "hey y'all?" It's pretty kick-ass, and that's how white women do things. I'm pretty sure.
That's what white women do on television shows anyway, because that's how I know about how to be a white lady. I watched lots of TV as a child when I should have been screaming out of stress at my mother to please let me stop practicing my abacus long enough to wipe the blood off my hands, because my mother was very lazy and didn't want me to be successful. That's why she snuggled me and read me stories. That bitch.
So, I think the best way to raise children is the White Tiger Mom way. Everyone knows being a lazy, pothead parent produces the best children.
It is only out of sheer neglect and abundance of resources children of White Tiger Moms get laid much earlier than their Tiger-Mom-raised counterparts. Furthermore, children of White Tiger Moms cost less over time.
A top mathematician who is absolutely real and not a figment of the author's imagination described the phenomenon:
You see, an investment in high-quality, vitamin-enriched baby formula diluted with nutritionally perfect breast milk instead of water, with an Omega-3 brain-booster shot of ground sardines and flaxseed, which is what all Chinese American Mothers do and we know that, because that's what one Chinese American lady who went to Yale wrote in a book one time, is much better for gray matter than cheese curls saturated with Mountain Dew, the traditional diet of the White Tiger Mom children.
The Tiger Mother's baby's brain grows bigger, allowing more information in, increasing the chances the child will be accepted into an ivy league school, where the administration is likely to take advantage of the parents' desire for the children to attend and not offer any financial aid.
Meanwhile, the White Tiger Mom's kid gets adult-onset diabetes at age 4 and cannot play sports ever again. The White Tiger child then gets an amphetemine called Adderall prescribed for hyperactivity and coasts through the teen years drinking beer on the weekends, not turning in all his homework, on B-minuses.
But, because the child is "learning disabled," the state university is happy to take it to meet diversity standards and will even pat it on the back for trying so hard by giving the White Tiger child a scholarship for being not-retarded but still slow enough for the special class.
This is when the White Tiger Mom's plan really takes hold.
Underachieving White Tiger Mom's kid goes off to discounted state school and meets Inferiority Complex Tiger Mother's child who didn't make it in to the ivy league school and has very low self-worth. The low self-worth makes the Tiger kid fall in love with the White Tiger kid, and it's a match.
White Tiger child achieved the same things as the Tiger child with a third of the work and a third of the money.
And White Tiger mothers? We get to use the leftover time and funds on obvious highlights and skinny jeans. Target run, bitches! Go, Team Aniston.
Ball's in your court, Tiger bitch.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Put on your pants. Your mom's pulling in the driveway.
Before we get to our regularly scheduled post, let's take care of a few orders of business:
Please everyone act extra classy and maybe put on your smoking jacket because we may have some guests. I told my classmates and teacher about the blog because what better way to exhibit my professionalism and ability to write serious thinks about smart stuff than to use Naked Cupcakes as an example?
This means people who write Important Nonfiction will be dropping by, gazing through their monocles at what goes on here, so please nobody flash your tits.
And, although this went out in the last memo, it seems we need another reminder to please pick up your prophylactics when you are through making balloon animals. Please. I really need the credibility, guys.
Now. On to business.
This is our first 2010 Christmas tree:
For 20 minutes in the Baltimore airport the other day, I wandered around a fairly crowded terminal with a barf bag from the plane, searching for a trash can. I finally found a trash receptacle, but it turns out there's only so long you can pretend a coated white paper bag filled with regurgitated Buffalo wings and flight peanuts is a lunch bag before someone is going to warn you that your chili is leaking.
Remember how I'm afraid of ninja psychics? Of course you do, because everyone is afraid of ninja psychics. More than psychic ninjas. Nothing is more stealthy than a ninja anyway, so it wouldn't make a difference if he were psychic. But ninja psychics are scary because you never know if they're around, reading your every thought.
A never ending cycle begins in your brain, during which you alternately try to think of really normal things and try to create an impenetrable mental shield. Even if ninja psychics didn't exist, just the fear of them alone is enough to cause mental health issues. The stress is outrageous.
Recently, I read bed bug infestations can result in mental health issues, such as stress, anxiety, depression and paranoia.
According to the Centers for Disease Control, "Bed bugs (Cimex lectularius) are small, flat, parasitic insects that feed solely on the blood of people and animals while they sleep. Bed bugs are reddish-brown in color, wingless, range from 1mm to 7mm (roughly the size of Lincoln's head on a penny) and can live several months without a blood meal."
Pause here to consider "blood meal."
Furthermore, bed bugs are not a sign your home is unclean. Bed bugs have been found in five-star hotels and the finest parlors. No matter how hard you scrub, how much bleach you use, you can never ever prevent them if they choose you, like the time some Christian-based cult members (God love them) decided my best friend's parents were "chosen ones" and no matter what her parents did, the people stalked them. Her parents removed their phone number from publication and for as long as they lived in that house, they had one of those puffy-letter label-maker labels on their screen door that read, "We do not wish to discuss your religious beliefs with you."
Bed bugs are like that, except they don't care about your unlisted phone number or your passive-aggressive door labels.
Signs of bed bug infestation include: presence of bed bugs in the folds of mattresses and sheets, exoskeletons the insects shed after molting, a sweet musty odor, and "rusty-colored blood spots due to their blood-filled fecal material that they excrete on the mattress or nearby furniture."
You would allow nothing in this world - the exceptions being your baby and your junior year roommate who had the really good weed connection - to continue living in your home after excreting blood-filled fecal matter on your mattress or nearby furniture.
Bed bugs typically live within 8 feet of sleeping areas, and bed bugs can travel as far as 100 feet in a night.
"They hide during the day in places such as seams of mattresses, box springs, bed frames, headboards, dresser tables, inside cracks or crevices, behind wallpaper, or any other clutter or objects around a bed," according to the CDC.
Ever-present bed bugs can always smell your blood, even through building material, and they will travel at frightful speeds to have a blood meal. Imagine how hungry one who hadn't fed for six months would be.
Once it finds its blood meal, the bed bug inserts into its meal an anesthetic and an anticoagulant, so the human or animal will not know it's being bitten. No signs of the bite could be visible for as long as 14 days, but when the bites do show up, they can itch so much as to keep the victim awake all night.
Once the victim is awake all night, the victim can witness all the bed bugs in its vicinity feasting on it.
Who got the job of figuring out if such an infestation would cause anxiety and paranoia? Because I want in on that gig. Sleep tight, pets.
Please everyone act extra classy and maybe put on your smoking jacket because we may have some guests. I told my classmates and teacher about the blog because what better way to exhibit my professionalism and ability to write serious thinks about smart stuff than to use Naked Cupcakes as an example?
This means people who write Important Nonfiction will be dropping by, gazing through their monocles at what goes on here, so please nobody flash your tits.
And, although this went out in the last memo, it seems we need another reminder to please pick up your prophylactics when you are through making balloon animals. Please. I really need the credibility, guys.
Now. On to business.
This is our first 2010 Christmas tree:
I named it "Asshole" and replaced it, just like I did with my first child.
For 20 minutes in the Baltimore airport the other day, I wandered around a fairly crowded terminal with a barf bag from the plane, searching for a trash can. I finally found a trash receptacle, but it turns out there's only so long you can pretend a coated white paper bag filled with regurgitated Buffalo wings and flight peanuts is a lunch bag before someone is going to warn you that your chili is leaking.
Remember how I'm afraid of ninja psychics? Of course you do, because everyone is afraid of ninja psychics. More than psychic ninjas. Nothing is more stealthy than a ninja anyway, so it wouldn't make a difference if he were psychic. But ninja psychics are scary because you never know if they're around, reading your every thought.
A never ending cycle begins in your brain, during which you alternately try to think of really normal things and try to create an impenetrable mental shield. Even if ninja psychics didn't exist, just the fear of them alone is enough to cause mental health issues. The stress is outrageous.
Recently, I read bed bug infestations can result in mental health issues, such as stress, anxiety, depression and paranoia.
According to the Centers for Disease Control, "Bed bugs (Cimex lectularius) are small, flat, parasitic insects that feed solely on the blood of people and animals while they sleep. Bed bugs are reddish-brown in color, wingless, range from 1mm to 7mm (roughly the size of Lincoln's head on a penny) and can live several months without a blood meal."
Pause here to consider "blood meal."
Furthermore, bed bugs are not a sign your home is unclean. Bed bugs have been found in five-star hotels and the finest parlors. No matter how hard you scrub, how much bleach you use, you can never ever prevent them if they choose you, like the time some Christian-based cult members (God love them) decided my best friend's parents were "chosen ones" and no matter what her parents did, the people stalked them. Her parents removed their phone number from publication and for as long as they lived in that house, they had one of those puffy-letter label-maker labels on their screen door that read, "We do not wish to discuss your religious beliefs with you."
Bed bugs are like that, except they don't care about your unlisted phone number or your passive-aggressive door labels.
Signs of bed bug infestation include: presence of bed bugs in the folds of mattresses and sheets, exoskeletons the insects shed after molting, a sweet musty odor, and "rusty-colored blood spots due to their blood-filled fecal material that they excrete on the mattress or nearby furniture."
You would allow nothing in this world - the exceptions being your baby and your junior year roommate who had the really good weed connection - to continue living in your home after excreting blood-filled fecal matter on your mattress or nearby furniture.
Bed bugs typically live within 8 feet of sleeping areas, and bed bugs can travel as far as 100 feet in a night.
"They hide during the day in places such as seams of mattresses, box springs, bed frames, headboards, dresser tables, inside cracks or crevices, behind wallpaper, or any other clutter or objects around a bed," according to the CDC.
Ever-present bed bugs can always smell your blood, even through building material, and they will travel at frightful speeds to have a blood meal. Imagine how hungry one who hadn't fed for six months would be.
Once it finds its blood meal, the bed bug inserts into its meal an anesthetic and an anticoagulant, so the human or animal will not know it's being bitten. No signs of the bite could be visible for as long as 14 days, but when the bites do show up, they can itch so much as to keep the victim awake all night.
Once the victim is awake all night, the victim can witness all the bed bugs in its vicinity feasting on it.
Who got the job of figuring out if such an infestation would cause anxiety and paranoia? Because I want in on that gig. Sleep tight, pets.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Buff up that cold sore, and lay one on me.
The title of this post is something my husband actually said to me yesterday, proving the romance is not dead.
In that spirit, I've made up a couple Valentines for all you lovey-doves out there. You know who you are. ;)
Enjoy ... you cutie-pies, you.
Front of Card:
Inside:
Front:
Inside:
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
30 Days of Not Doing 30-Days-Of Posts (Subtitled: It's about ta get rawl meta rawl quick.)
Editor's note: OK. So I started this post approximately two months ago, when bloggers presumably were actually doing this 30-days-of thing. And now there's been a whole nother blogger thing I didn't do.
(Oh? Oh? That "whole nother" pet peeve was so 2010? It's not even a conversation starter anymore, much less a joke? Well, screw you. I'm old. I know this because I realized watching a rerun of The Office that I missed a joke about DVRs the first time I saw the episode because I don't have and have never had a DVR. How fucking '02 am I? I thought only some people had DVR. Maybe it was a fad, I thought. When did everyone get one?)
Ahem. So, now there was another blogger fad - best post of 2010 - that I didn't do. Let's be honest, nothing posted on this blog is going to win "best" of anything. I'm well aware this whole blog is sliding under the professor's door, one minute before deadline, full of typographical errors and sporting a cheese curl stain, and I've come to accept this.
I'd rather have a "C" blog than an unhappy blog. State school, here we come!
Anyway, so now I missed two blogger fads, and I'm feeling really uncool. I'm like the greasy hair girl with glasses in the back corner of class, and all the cool kids are like, "TADA! I performed a Christmas miracle!" or "My Top Ten Classiest and Most Thoughtful Posts of Yore." And then, they either saved a homeless person from a meat grinder on Christmas Eve or wrote my face off with their poignancy and tone.
So far this year, I posted a saved post, which was basically a fart joke. I haven't made any New Year's resolutions, and the other day, I went to an urgent care place because I realized I had some sort of upper respiratory infection, so the doc gave me some medicine. I asked if I could drive on it, and she said, "OH YEAH. No problem!" And then, I went back to work, took the medicine, and woke up two hours later in a puddle of my own drool. Professional.
Sounds about right. Here's to 2011! And here's the post about the fad that I originally started writing and never finished, except now I'm finishing it ...
God bless bloggers. So many of them have written thoughtful, funny, touching or painful posts for that 30 Days of Truth thingiewatchit.
Totes love reading it. Like when that 25 Things meme went around Facebook in '08.
The idea of doing it makes me want to iron my face on the Linen setting with steam. Know why?
Because it's FUCKING HOMEWORK AND I AM UP TO MY ASS IN ALLIGATORS AND IF ONE MORE PERSON ASKS ME FOR SOMETHING, I SWEAR I AM GOING TO TAKE A NERF MACHINE GUN INTO A CONVENIENCE STORE AND BLOW shit UP.
Ahem.
So. Whatchu been up to?
I've been needling people and pissing off public officials for a living. Turns out? I'm pretty good at it. Which I'd be really psyched about if I lived in a big city and not in a place where I have to actually wear pants to the grocery store because I know too many fucking people because of my job.
*sigh*
Life is hard.
So, in the last 30 days, I haven't done anything close to poignant, and really, if you knew the other shit I had to do at work recently, you'd be all, "Glad it's you and not me. I could not handle that." And I'd be all, "Thanks, I can't really handle it either, and I could really use some talk therapy, so now I'm going to tell you every detail of the disturbing crap I've had to witness."
And then you'd be all, "So ... um, I wish I didn't know that. Please stop. Let's talk about something else."
Which is why you're kind of a bad friend, because you didn't let me vomit all the disturbing details into your brain so I could get them out of mine. How dare you?
I'm sorry. You're not a bad friend. Even PHubby won't listen to it. I don't blame him. I really don't. But I also don't service him in the car anymore.
This is where I'm ending this old post. I think I never finished it because I really had nowhere to go. It's just a lot of navel-gazing, which is what blogging is, but this one is navel-gazing at a pity party.
(Oh? Oh? That "whole nother" pet peeve was so 2010? It's not even a conversation starter anymore, much less a joke? Well, screw you. I'm old. I know this because I realized watching a rerun of The Office that I missed a joke about DVRs the first time I saw the episode because I don't have and have never had a DVR. How fucking '02 am I? I thought only some people had DVR. Maybe it was a fad, I thought. When did everyone get one?)
Ahem. So, now there was another blogger fad - best post of 2010 - that I didn't do. Let's be honest, nothing posted on this blog is going to win "best" of anything. I'm well aware this whole blog is sliding under the professor's door, one minute before deadline, full of typographical errors and sporting a cheese curl stain, and I've come to accept this.
I'd rather have a "C" blog than an unhappy blog. State school, here we come!
Anyway, so now I missed two blogger fads, and I'm feeling really uncool. I'm like the greasy hair girl with glasses in the back corner of class, and all the cool kids are like, "TADA! I performed a Christmas miracle!" or "My Top Ten Classiest and Most Thoughtful Posts of Yore." And then, they either saved a homeless person from a meat grinder on Christmas Eve or wrote my face off with their poignancy and tone.
So far this year, I posted a saved post, which was basically a fart joke. I haven't made any New Year's resolutions, and the other day, I went to an urgent care place because I realized I had some sort of upper respiratory infection, so the doc gave me some medicine. I asked if I could drive on it, and she said, "OH YEAH. No problem!" And then, I went back to work, took the medicine, and woke up two hours later in a puddle of my own drool. Professional.
Sounds about right. Here's to 2011! And here's the post about the fad that I originally started writing and never finished, except now I'm finishing it ...
God bless bloggers. So many of them have written thoughtful, funny, touching or painful posts for that 30 Days of Truth thingiewatchit.
Totes love reading it. Like when that 25 Things meme went around Facebook in '08.
The idea of doing it makes me want to iron my face on the Linen setting with steam. Know why?
Because it's FUCKING HOMEWORK AND I AM UP TO MY ASS IN ALLIGATORS AND IF ONE MORE PERSON ASKS ME FOR SOMETHING, I SWEAR I AM GOING TO TAKE A NERF MACHINE GUN INTO A CONVENIENCE STORE AND BLOW shit UP.
Ahem.
So. Whatchu been up to?
I've been needling people and pissing off public officials for a living. Turns out? I'm pretty good at it. Which I'd be really psyched about if I lived in a big city and not in a place where I have to actually wear pants to the grocery store because I know too many fucking people because of my job.
*sigh*
Life is hard.
So, in the last 30 days, I haven't done anything close to poignant, and really, if you knew the other shit I had to do at work recently, you'd be all, "Glad it's you and not me. I could not handle that." And I'd be all, "Thanks, I can't really handle it either, and I could really use some talk therapy, so now I'm going to tell you every detail of the disturbing crap I've had to witness."
And then you'd be all, "So ... um, I wish I didn't know that. Please stop. Let's talk about something else."
Which is why you're kind of a bad friend, because you didn't let me vomit all the disturbing details into your brain so I could get them out of mine. How dare you?
I'm sorry. You're not a bad friend. Even PHubby won't listen to it. I don't blame him. I really don't. But I also don't service him in the car anymore.
This is where I'm ending this old post. I think I never finished it because I really had nowhere to go. It's just a lot of navel-gazing, which is what blogging is, but this one is navel-gazing at a pity party.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Suck Me Off Sunday
Editor's note: I'm extremely impressed that yous guys picked the only unpublished post that was complete. If I recall correctly, which I always do, I was impaired by at least one substance when I wrote this, and PHubby convinced me to wait until morning when I was feeling "a little more sane" and decide whether to post. I took his advice, and this one never got posted. Also, I totally thought you all would have chosen the time I cried about my butt, especially because I haven't written the whole post for the sole reason that, frankly, I'm still too sensitive about the whole thing to find it funny. Which I realize makes it kind of funnier as a situation in general. Especially as a situation involving my butt and crying. But those nurses were really, really mean, and I have no way to ever get back that Sarah P who had never experienced humiliation at the hands of people I relied on to make the pain go away. It just ranks among the experiences that changed me as a person. There was a before and an after. The following post, which I am not editing from draft form, is, most certainly, from after.
Let's start one of those weekly blog traditions and then totally abandon it like "we" always do, shall we? Glad we're all together on this.
Sometimes, I'm, like, really amazed that anyone ever reads this blog.
For instance, ... hold on ... wait ...
....
just a sec ...
...
it's like, I know what I'm going to say, but I keep forgetting what it is.
...
I've got it.
...
I'm good, really ...
...
I'm just standing here in the corner ...
...
FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT.
...
...
*looking left*
*looking right*
*squinty suspicious eyes*
*hands on hips*
*judginess*
It was you.
Let's start one of those weekly blog traditions and then totally abandon it like "we" always do, shall we? Glad we're all together on this.
Sometimes, I'm, like, really amazed that anyone ever reads this blog.
For instance, ... hold on ... wait ...
....
just a sec ...
...
it's like, I know what I'm going to say, but I keep forgetting what it is.
...
I've got it.
...
I'm good, really ...
...
I'm just standing here in the corner ...
...
FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT.
...
...
*looking left*
*looking right*
*squinty suspicious eyes*
*hands on hips*
*judginess*
It was you.
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