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

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



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

courtesy of The White House

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

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

What? You let them into your home?

AND you let them use your bathroom?! o_O

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

Asshole.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

Briefly.

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

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

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


I think I might worry too much.

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

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

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

Potty humor?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*sparkles*

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

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

Update-o-rama

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

I'm not a good blogger. Frankly*.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Am I going to Hell?

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

Mandatory Sex Party

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

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

Copy and paste this orange and blue "ribbon" on your Web site to support the cause.

(I'm not a fucking graphic designer, OK? This is the best I can do.)

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

Title change?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life is a mystery.

Tips for Teenagers

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

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

Clarification

Board of Ed = Board of Education

Boards of Ed = More than one Board of Education

Board of Eds = Board in charge of people named Ed

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

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

But the arms? Nailed it.

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

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

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

Fuck you, day

Sorry, day, but you sucked.

I'll bet tomorrow will totally kick your ass.

Einstein is sexy

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

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

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

Nope.

I explained. Again.

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

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

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

Oh.

Everyone Ignores the Irish

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

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

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

This is how serious my job was today**:

1. The first photo I took was of a "trackless train."
2. I missed the pie-eating contest at the autumn festival because of obligations to the Celtic gathering. This saddened me.
3. I got into a mental fight with a woman I don't know. I'm pretty sure she won, probably on the basis that I'm apparently racist against Scottish Americans.*** This is how it went down:
   

After being awesomer than any 2-year-old should ever be expected to be, the twins got antsy toward the end of the day. It was hard enough to convince Harrison to walk up the steps onto the porch to go inside. I asked which of the two doors to use to go inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naked cupcakes and karma

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naked Cupcake Day

frosting optional...

Host:	Lucy and Harrison
Type:	Causes - Rally
Network:	Global

Start Time:	Monday, March 30, 2009 at 4:30pm
End Time:	Tuesday, March 31, 2009 at 11:30pm
Location:	Your home, or mine - come on over!

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

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

Eat them naked, and giggle."