Germ Warfare

Internet, I am sick.  I have not been this sick in more than two years thanks to obsessive-compulsive handwashing, awesome prenatal vitamins and having no previous reason to see the inside of a daycare, and I am not handling it well.

Hey look! It’s me getting out of bed this morning.

Cheers & Jeers: I Am Actually Relieved It’s Monday Edition

You know how sometimes you’ll dread something for weeks and weeks, constantly visualizing the worst-case scenarios that will SURELY come about, and bemoaning each day that brings you closer to The Suck…and then it ends up being not nearly as bad as you’d feared? Yeah. That was not this weekend.

PAY IT FORWARD: Sisterhood of the Butterfly

Welcome to the very first edition of “PAY IT FORWARD,” where we feature, deconstruct, and piss all over the stupid shit people forward to our inboxes. This week’s email features everyones favorite insect, the beautiful butterfly. Speaking of butterflies, remember that song “Butterfly Kisses?” Yeah, I might just hate that more than “The Christmas Shoes.”

If you like that song, please consider that it is sung by this man. Fucker looks like a serial killer. Probably has a jar of eyelashes rolling around in the trunk of his car. Think about THAT the next time you’re subjected to this song at a wedding reception.

Cheers & Jeers: “I Hate Monday and I Hate Its Ass-Face” Edition

Alternate title: I Am Pretending To Be Dead Until It Is Friday

Good Advice

I am not sure what I hate more about email forwards: the fact that they’re annoying and totally fucking useless, or the fact that – by sending them to me – the sender is assuming I will agree with and/or enjoy the contents of the forward.

Actually, the clip art is probably what I hate the most. I’ll give you a warm hug…AROUND YOUR NECK. See? Forwards make me want to hurt kittens. That ain’t right.

People Who Need Smacked

No deep thoughts in today’s post, Internet. Just a list of some people who need smacked. Feel free to add your own!

First on the list: Whoever’s fault it is that I have to leave this face each morning.

Check Yo’self Before You Wreck Yo’self

Over the weekend, I found the “Pregnancy Journal” that a friend gave to me when she heard I went and got myself properly knocked up. During junior high and high school I used to keep journals religiously, so I thought the Pregnancy Journal would be a fun way to keep record of my transformation into a real, live, burrito-inhaling pregnant lady. And I actually did write in it for, oh, the first ten weeks or so. Looking at the journal when I ran across it this weekend, I wondered why I neglected it past that point. And then I remembered: I tend to only keep journals when I am kind of miserable, like those first nausea- and exhaustion-filled weeks of pregnancy, and MY ENTIRE FUCKING EXISTENCE throughout junior high and high school.

Good Lord.

Quejarse

Back in my misty, water-colored high school years in the early-mid 1990s, I took a lot of Spanish. Like, a LOT. The equivalent of six years’ worth, to be exact. My high school was extremely math-and-science heavy, which did not line up too well with my arts-and-language-y brain, so I tended to gravitate more towards the subjects in which I didn’t – how you say? – suck a big donkey dick.

I had all the sub-par math skills of Barbie, with none of the boobs. Great.

Grace in the Fucking Annoying

So, kdiddy has been doing this “Grace in Small Things” exercise over at her blog lately where she writes about some small, positive things that happen throughout her day, and man, I just think that’s really cool. I’m all about finding and appreciating happiness in the small details in life, and I thought about doing the same thing over in my corner of the interblog superwebway – but then I thought NO! Let us take it one step further! You know what would really be a challenge? Finding grace in the little, supremely ass-chapping moments of my day! Like when some douchesack runs a stop sign with absolutely no regard to the health and safety of the occupants of my car (which contains a fetus) OR his (which I can clearly see contains SMALL CHILDREN, like WAY TO GO, DAD with your reckless fucking driving, asshole! Why not feed the little ones some lead paint chips dipped in scotch while you’re at it?!).

Serenity now!

Dear Coworker…

Love, Jive Turkey

[Alternate post titles include: "Get Some Fucking Coughdrops Already," and "How About Shutting Your Fucking Door So I Don't Have to Listen to Your Best Impression of a Victorian-Era Tuberculosis Ward?"]