Where does he get it?

My five-year-old son's artwork:

(I'm the furry one with the side-ass. His twin sister is the victim.)

I found this on the coffee table one morning, before my first cup of coffee.

(that's his name I blocked out up there.)

He should probably just be my illustrator.

Things that are not sneakers

This morning, I asked my five-year-old daughter to put on sneakers. She was home sick, and I had a lot of driving to do early for work. I told her to keep her snuggly, warm pajamas on, but to add underwear, socks and sneakers.

For future reference, a list of things that are not sneakers:

• Sparkly blue Mary Janes
• Pink snow boots
• Two pink child-size purses - one sparkly, one not
• A backpack containing ginger ale and goldfish.
• Two teddy bears, a "lovey" (a stuffed bunny head attached to a mini blanket), and a miniature lavender hippopotamus Pillow Pet
• One paperback copy of Matilda by Roald Dahl
• A journal with Curious George on the cover

For future reference, a list of things I did not say:

"PUT YOUR GODDAMN SNEAKERS ON YOUR MOTHERFUCKING FEET."
"Have you been taking any hallucinogenic drugs?"
"Seriously?"
"I swear to all that you hold dear that if you do not find SNEAKERS, put them on your feet, and get in the fucking car, I will throw away every other pair of shoes you own."

I consider this a victory, because last week, I did actually throw my five-year-old son's shoe in the trash can before school. He had to fish it out of there before getting on the bus, and I cried all the way to work.

I graduated and stuff

Hi Internet!

I missed you more than you missed me. What? What's that? You don't remember me? Yeah, I wouldn't remember me either.

I'm a little gloomy and grumpy and spending the evening in my sweatpants on my couch, watching election results roll in and drinking wine until I fall asleep. How YOU doin'?

And we're getting a Nor'Easter tomorrow. Thbpbp. Just hand me a bucket of ice cream and pants with better elastic. I quit.

Anyway, I graduated from my master's program. I'm now a master. Master writer. Perverts.

A tiny little excerpt of an excerpt from my manuscript was published on this really lovely online literary magazine for nonfiction, BraidedBrook.com. Really, most of the stuff they publish is gorgeous and poignant and lyrical. And mine was, well, mine.

If you care to read, I would love your good and bad feedback.

Call me Poop Dollar

Being a relatively creepy person who regularly makes strangers uncomfortable, I am also very understanding when people act inappropriately. A caveat: I am a judgmental asshole about what types of impropriety are acceptable. For example, I recently picked up a poop dollar.

Are you familiar with the game?

In poop dollar, a person wipes a one-dollar bill in poop and leaves it somewhere where others might pick it up. Then, the person who created the poop dollar yells "poop dollar" from a hiding spot.

Well, dear readers, I was the passerby. I was on vacation, walking down to the beach, when I saw a dollar on the ground in the sand. I thought a kid must have dropped it on his way to meet the ice cream truck. I picked it up. Then, I heard some teenage boys yelling "poop dollar" from their condo deck nearby. I pretended not to hear them, threw the poop dollar beyond the fence of the restricted dunes, walked down to the water, and washed my hands in the ocean where millions of people pee every day.

A few minutes later, I walked back up to the street, ignoring the "poop dollar" cries, took note of the condo's address and called the police to report teenagers smoking marijuana on the deck of that condo.

In another circumstance, I probably wouldn't have done that. But, it was senior week, and they'd been loud and partying on their deck late into the wee hours each day. Never would I have wanted to bust them for partying during their senior week, until they played poop dollar on me. I hope they had to pour out all their beer.

How was your vacation?

Pluses and Minuses of Pink Eye

MOM: Just stop reading this blog altogether. It will be better for both of us.

Good things about having pink eye
1. No one wants to share your popcorn.
2. Staying in sweatpants all day.
3. When you're home alone all day, you can masturbate, like, nonstop, until you get all sweaty and frustrated because you've been masturbating too much. Actually, this might be a negative.
3. Bed all to yourself.
4. No dish washing.
5. No one comes close enough to know you sharted, like, three hours ago and haven't changed your clothes. Again, this is possibly a negative.


Bad things about having pink eye
1. No one wants to be in the same room as you.
2. Your loneliness leads you to watch a lot of TV.
3. You start crying about things you see on TV. Like missing children, war, and the kid on the cookie dough commercial who had a really tough day at school.
4. Also, why can't Kelly Ripa find a host? She's so perky.
5. Obsessively editing your manuscript, convincing yourself that you are a terrible writer and should stop trying altogether. This involves lots of pacing and talking to yourself.

Hi Internet!!

I am oh-so-busy and don't have time for more than feminist rage and finishing grad school right now, but I do waste a lot of time on my real-life Facebook page. It is has been and will be all of my social life until May. I eat lots of candy. Ass is gigantic.

So, although I'm livin' the dream in my bleach-stained yoga pants and grown-out dye job, I'm taking two minutes out of my fabulous life to link to the blog of a friend-of-a-friend. Please go to her blog, because if five of you comment in the next week, I'm certain I can get her to stop asking people to "clickety-click" on her damn links already. I mean, really. Clickety-click? It's SO new blogger. Like when we mature, reverent bloggers used to cross stuff out and replace it with something that was slightly less offensive than what we first wrote in order to demonstrate that underneath it all we are cutesy assholes were just finding our Internet voices and making our way in this crazy medium.

Oh, and I won her Wednesday caption contest, which awards me exactly nothing and which I entered after taking her to task for the clickety-click thing. Whatever you do, PLEASE ONLY CLICK her link. DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES CLICKETY-CLICK ANYTHING. (I warned you.)

EDIT:  ON RE-READ THIS SOUNDS LIKE I DON'T LIKE HER BLOG!! That is NOT THE CASE. She's really witty and thoughtful, and I was just assuming that you people would know that I only link to blogs I like.  And by "you people," I mean the people I knew who used to read here and who may or may not have since had their Internet shut off and are now offering handies for rides to their dealers' houses.  I just was assuming that you people would understand my ethics.  When I tell you to read someone, and it sounds like I hate them, you know it means I like them ... for the simple fact that I even linked in the first place! Shit.  This is going wrong.  What I mean is that I don't and won't link to blogs to make fun of them or be mean.  I link to writers I respect.  Period.

I'll be back around in Mayish, looking for new funny people to read and old funny people to read - chicks, mostly.  No offense to the men I already adore, but ... feminist rage.  And sometimes, maybe, I'll still illustrate blow jobs and make vagina jokes, if I'm not too responsible and educated for all of that now. (Have you TRIED clinical-strength Dove deodorant? It allows you to skip showering for like six days, if used in conjunction with Always feminine wipes-to-go. Beauty tips from me to you.)

Cunnilingus for Peace.

TASSELS!

Hi, Anonymous! Thanks for all the rad comments yesterday. I see you're quite productive during the work day. As requested, a post.

Nearly a month later, we at Naked Cupcakes (just me, really) are still enjoying the death of Kim Jong Il.

Many people were talking about the death of Kim Jong-il on Twitter, but a lot of people thought Lil Kim died.

Kim Jong-il = sociopathic dictator who let his people starve.
Lil Kim = Only female hip hop artist other than Missy Elliot to have three platinum records, also rapper of "How Many Licks," featuring Sisqo.


The best tweet about the confusion was #4 on Buzzfeed's list of 25 people who made the mistake.

4.

For a limited time only, Naked Cupcakes is offering Kim Jong-il Titty Stickers just for that special someone who has an amazing life. For the woman who has everything! Or for, like, your Dad, because you never know what to get him, and why is it so hard to buy for men anyway? There are only so many Christmases you can shove new drill bits and a JFK book under his nose, under the guise that you put a lot of thought into this Christmas. I'm just waiting for my parents to get a BluRay, so I have another chance to give my Dad another updated copy of PBS's man-gift of last milenium, "The Civil War."

But this year, for Valentine's Day, I'm making titty stickers for everyone - PHubby, Dad, Mom, my BFF, the pitbull nursing puppies next door, and the trash guys I forgot to tip for Christmas. It's perfect for everyone on my list.

Art.

But then I was thinking it might not be demure enough for everyone on my list. Some of my friends are classy, or at least classics, and the Kim Jong Il-inspired Titty Stickers might be better for them -  more of a representation of Kim Jong Il, without banging you over the head with it.

But you still get some nip with this one. Nicely framed.

Some of you might want something more exciting, something a little sexy for Valentine's Day. Although it suited KJI, the ever-trendy, sumptuous, collarless greige button-down isn't provocative enough for some V-days. So, ladies, if you're searching for sexy, for wild, for "wow," do a little prep work and surprise your lover with ...

The North Korean.

(with labels for those who can't appreciate fine art and understand what those lines are)

Ask for it next time you're at the salon getting your nips waxed.

Why I blog.

Around this time of year, bloggers get nostalgic, thinking of their ten most poignant moments of last year, writing about the joy, the immense clarity and amazing community they get from blogging. What they get from blogging is so much more than they give.

I probably would do that too, if I were poignant. Or if my readers weren't also emotionally stunted adults obsessed with all things genitalia and laser pointers. (Genitalia and laser pointers: the original chocolate and peanut butter, friends.)

Blogging does fill a crucial need in my life, and not blogging is no longer an option. New Year's Eve was an opportunity to see old friends. A good friend was having a party, and PHubby and I would see people we haven't seen in years. Fun, right!?

Until I opened conversation by asking if it was too early to tell everyone about the time I tried to make PHubby look like an ass sex fiend in front of the surgeon who was about to give me a colonoscopy (cute anecdote), and then went right into the Dr. TwoFingers story. That's when my cheeks burned and I backed myself into the corner next to the bar and drank a full cup of beer before engaging more than one person at a time in conversation.

The next morning, driving home, PHubby and I were talking about how great it was to see everyone and how we should see these people more often. I told him how I'd embarrassed myself and how, if I had been blogging, I would have gotten all impropriety out pre-party, so as not to spark a night of conversation with details about my birth canal and asshole.

PHubby said he came up with a great new sex move no one had ever heard of -- and when he had the idea, he couldn't express it well enough in person. It needed a blog post. "Oh, yeah? Let's hear it," I said, and rolled my eyes, bracing myself for another generic football-testicle-man-humor joke every man thinks is original and that has never once made someone laugh.

"OK," he said. "You know the Dirty Sanchez?"

"Of course," I replied, because I have self respect.

"How about the Amish Sanchez?"

"Ummm, no."

"Right. So. It's like a Dirty Sanchez, but instead of drawing a mustache, you run your dirty dick along the length of the jaw line."

And with that one sentence, he both reaffirmed my love for him and drove me into the arms of Naked Cupcakes.

New Year's Resolution: return to the blog.