Internet, I never should have said it. I never should have opened my big, fat mouth on the way home on Friday and said what I’d been thinking all day long: “Wow – this will mark two weeks that none of us have been sick!”

“Don’t say that!” said Brad, with genuine anxiety.

“Oh, please,” I said. “That’s not how these things work.”

Oh, ON THE CONTRARY, says the universe.

On Saturday morning, I headed out for my much needed hair appointment, and relished in every minute of my two-hour, chemical-laden experience. Seriously, does anyone else think hair salons smell AWESOME? Something about all those chemicals mingled with heat and expensive Aveda products really turns my crank, as you can see.

Sorry, brain cells.

My hair appointments are pretty much my only big, spendy indulgence, and I maintain that it is totally worth it. Not only is my hair in the capable hands of someone who actually knows what the fuck she’s doing…

WE DO NOT TALK ABOUT THE TIME I GAVE MYSELF BANGS

…but it’s also Big Fun in my book, because it affords me the opportunity to sit on my ass breathing in chemicals and reading trashy magazines. Throw in a box of wine and an ill-advised hookup, and I’d be back in college.

BEHOLD: My actual college dorm room. Clearly, learning was a priority.

I had a very satisfying appointment, getting over 3 inches of my hair chopped off and going with a shade that is a much prettier version of my natural color, so I don’t look like Roots McGillicuddy 5 weeks from now. I also had a very satisfying conversation with my stylist (“…my stylist!” OOOOO! Who let fucking J-Lo in here?!) about my constant struggle with buying something well-made that will last but is expensive, or going the Old Navy route and buying 4 sweaters for $12 and then getting mad when they barely last one season.

A ruined sweater, AND I have to endure your stupid fucking “Modelquins” commercials? NOT COOL, OLD NAVY.

I am famous for going the cheap, disposable clothes route, mostly because spending over $50 for one item of clothing makes my eyes roll back into my head (in the not-good way), but also because I’m always afraid to wear pricey clothes for fear that they’ll get ruined. I have a very pretty cardigan sweater from this store that OH, I LOOOOVE, but Internet, I barely wear that shit, EVEN THOUGH the only way to truly get my money’s worth is to just wear the fuck out of it, right? Of course, at this rate, I’ll wear it all of three times before I look at it and realize it’s woefully out of style.

Unlike Cosby sweaters, which are timeless.

My stylist (there I go again! Who’s fancy?) offered a suggestion: why not hit up the consignment store across the street? You know, the one I have passed TEN THOUSAND TIMES BEFORE and never patronized? That has gently-used items from high-end brands for a mere fraction of the retail price?

Anybody remember what this post was originally supposed to be about? Yeah, me neither.

So I took her advice and stopped at the consignment store, which was 1) very trendy, 2) full of people trying way too hard, and 3) home to a pair of really nice jeans that went home with me for $18.50. Original price of these jeans? $158.00. Because YOU KNOW I went straight home, Googled, and had a very thrifty orgasm over the savings.

And YOU KNOW I had a coupon for that orgasm.

Anyhoo, I had a very nice afternoon hanging out with Sadie and my new hair while Brad was busy performing in a play festival downtown. He came home in between performances and ate dinner with us, and then while I was home drinking wine and watching the HBO movie about Grey Gardens* with Sadie asleep in her crib, I got a text from Brad. He wasn’t feeling well.

Skipping lots of mundane and unsavory details, let me cut to the chase and share that Brad had some sort of food poisoning or stomach virus. And that meant that ONCE AGAIN Brad was quarantined up on the third floor, and I had to make YET ANOTHER run to Rite Aid for Gatorade and crackers, and I had to fill ONE MORE afternoon of my life running Clorox wipes over every possible shared surface. WOE AND DESPAIR, my friends.

I was so bummed out that Brad’s illness put the kibosh on our big Sunday plans (Brad was too, of course, when he wasn’t CRIPPLED WITH NAUSEA), and I’m kind of embarrassed that I let it bother me, because all that accomplished was making Brad feel guilty. So I sent him a card today to apologize:

Brad is thankfully feeling much better today, and I’m hoping Sadie and I have successfully avoided catching this particular funk.  On the upside,  spending the day lounging around the house in my pajamas yesterday allowed me to take approximately 56,000 photos of Sadie with our new camera…

…and hey! There’s my new hair!

And what’s this?

We’re CRAWLING now?

Yes, it would appear we absolutely are. Go, little peanut! We’re all rooting for you!

Well, not all of us.

*Internet, are you familiar with Grey Gardens? Because I was not, and watching the movie made me all at once fascinated with the Beales and TERRIFIED that I will somehow end up an eccentric old spinster wearing headscarves and and living in a dilapidated mansion for the rest of my days. Don’t get me wrong – I am down with being an eccentric old lady. But I want to be “is really good at Rock Band” eccentric, not “reeks of cat urine” eccentric.

Happy Friday, Internet! I hope it is going well. And I hope you’re prepared to have your day ruined by these inane fucking forwards, because it’s about to get incredibly annoying up in here.

Bless you if you remember Annoying Man. And then come with me to a denture fitting, because that means we are both FUCKING OLD, yo.

I’m not sure what it is about angels and forwards, but just about every other forward I receive has an angel pictured or mentioned in it somewhere. It seems as though people think if they slap an angel on some shit, it somehow adds legitimacy – when really, they’re probably just royally pissing off God.

Don’t come crying to me when you lose a finger in the wood chipper because your guardian angel was too busy adorning an animated gif of “Footprints in the Sand.”

This short (but horrendous) forward came to me courtesy of Mermanda, but I continue to love her anyway.

Way to neglect to insert a period after “windfall,” making it look like all you have to do is delete this shit to get rich, which is exactly what I did. I’ll take my unHYPHENexpected windfall in tens and twenties, please.

Also, that is not an angel. It’s a damn fruit fly. Gross.

Next up, we have a little gem from 4th Reader. I went ahead and forwarded it to the American Cancer Society in lieu of a donation, because – as you’ll see – we’ve got the motherfucking cure to cancer in the house!

This image actually sparkled – OH, DID IT SPARKLE – but you’ll have to be brave little soldiers and just try to imagine it in its full be-sparkled glory.  I am trying to understand how this particular collage of items came to be. It saddens me to think that someone, somewhere woke up one morning and thought “Find me butterflies, a pocket watch, two pamphlets of vaguely demonic-looking gibberish, daisies, a book, and a thank-you card! ART IS HAPPENING TODAY!”

WHOA. Wait: the purpose of the image above was to segue into cancer talk? Cancer of the what? Leatherbound books? Rich mahogany?

Also, please do God a solid and put a little more effort into your prayer. You’re asking for the end of cancer; you might want to sound a little less like Judy Blume.

“Dear God, I pray for the cure of cancer and for my period to not show up during gym class.”

And no, I don’t know what the fuck the “In Amen” sentence fragment is about. This shit is just plain lazy, and it’s obvious God agrees, because he is still sticking to Plan Cancer.

[Super-scientific "93%"statistic courtesy of someone's Grandma on a library computer.]

And finally, as if God wasn’t pissed off enough already, we have something I was lucky enough to receive in complete earnestness from someone who probably didn’t mean to ruin my morning (but did anyway). This one is of the “Kids say the darnedest things!” ilk, which OH SWEET LORD IN KNEE SOCKS I cannot stand. I realize I’ve been made to eat my words when it comes to plenty of things I thought I’d never do/enjoy/find cute, and I’m sure I’ll blather on to you guys about the funny stuff Sadie says when she starts to talk, but I promise none of it will be this horrifically lame. These remind me of the crap I find in my mother-in-law’s Woman’s Day magazines that I always read when I’m at her house, specifically for the disgustingly satisfying picking-at-a-scab sensation that they bring. Behold:

I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, but there is no joy to be discovered here. Unless your version of joy leaves you with the distinct urge to vomit.

There were a bunch of these little vignettes, but I am only including the best, like this one. I am imagining “Clinton” up there was actually Bill Clinton himself, because I don’t know any other 5-year-old who worries about how he will be able to comfortably bang his future wife.

“Haha, OK, honey. Mommy’s going to go sit behind a locked door and call a few boarding schools now.”

Anyone feeling joy yet? No? Just rage? Yeah, me too.

That’s all for today, Internet. Now go buy some heavily discounted Halloween candy and enjoy your weekend.

Would never say “butt dust.”

(“Ass dust,” maybe.)

My apologies in advance, Internet. It’s about to get all Debbie Downer up in here.

“Hey, do you think Bob’s single? He’s handsome, smart, and charming. Of course, so was Ted Bundy.”

I don’t normally like to post about depressing shit on my blog, but I need an outlet today, and Facebook* doesn’t really seem like the right place to post something like “THE UNIVERSE NEEDS TO SHUT ITS ASS FACE” without creating a stir amongst friends and family**, so a blog post it is.

I also hate complaining, like, AT ALL, because I know my life is an incredibly charmed one, and I’m so thankful for everything I have. But sometimes, shit gets a Turkey down. I’ve been in a bit of a funk,  and I honestly don’t even know why. I think it’s just a compilation of a few things, namely:

• The human race is a bunch of assholes. I’ve been totally disillusioned with people lately, thanks to stories in the news like the teenager who was FUCKING SET ON FIRE and the other teenager who was gang-raped – OMFG, Internet. What the fuck is wrong with people? I am this close to never letting Sadie out of the house again.
• IM IN UR CUBICLE, STEELIN UR SOUL. I have a job. It is convenient, comfortable, relatively stable, and it pays the bills. I know I am incredibly lucky to have this job. However, I do not enjoy this job. It has nothing to do with my degree, but this is the area in which I have the most experience (and can make the most money doing), and therefore I’ll probably be working this type of job until I retire (if such a thing exists by then). And sometimes this makes me feel like a total sell-out at best, and a complete failure at worst.
• You’re so vain, you probably think this funk is about you. Whenever I get all BLAH like this, I inevitably start picking at my physical appearance, which means I’m a broken record of I HATE MY CLOTHES, I HATE MY HAIR, THAT PICTURE MAKES ME LOOK LIKE A TRANNY and SINCE WHEN DO I HAVE CROW’S FEET?! This is always especially enjoyable for everyone around me (sorry, Brad).
• It’s a family affair. Family bullshit. Which does not make me feel any better about myself, since most of the bullshit is centered around the theory that I am a generally terrible person. WEEE!

These things have actually been weighing me down for several days now (I actually wrote most of the above last week), and over the past day or so I’ve been trying to come up with the cure for my funk.

“The cure for my funk” should reap some interesting Google hits.

After a lot of wallowing thinking, I came to the sickeningly simple and Dr. Phil-ish conclusion that is inevitably always the answer to these kinds of things: If I want to feel better about these things, I’m going to have to start with myself.

UGH. GOD. I KNOW, I KNOW! I fucking hate how lame it all sounds.

As much as I would like to believe that I can just sit here in my terrible mood until someone shows up to solve the world’s problems and hand me a big stack of money (and a few cupcakes for good measure), I know that I’m going to have to turn things around for myself, even if it’s in painfully small (and seemingly insignificant) ways.

So let us revisit my list:

• The human race IS a bunch of assholes, but there’s no reason I have to be one of them. Internet, I have always hated watching/reading the news. It depresses the living daylights out of me. I watch/read it anyway, because I want to know about what fucking goes on in the world, but then I take every sad story to heart and want to pitch myself over a goddamn cliff. I try to place news-reading embargoes on myself, but then I feel all socially irresponsible for doing what basically equates to sticking my fingers in my ears and chanting “LALALA I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” So I’m going to try to strike a happy medium by, oh I don’t know, maybe NOT clicking on every breaking news link about a terrible accident on a local highway so that I can read all the gory details and then FREAK THE FUCK OUT, but still reading stories about major world events and politics and such.  And I’ve also decided that the best way for me to combat the feeling that the entire world is full of no-good cocksuckers is to make a conscious effort not to be one of them. Yeah, I know – totally obvious – and it’s not like I regularly go around stomping puppies or something, but I want to be a little more active in my non-cocksuckery.

Actually, that sounds like a perfect name for the quaint bakery & cafe I want to open someday: The Cocksuckery.

Anyhoo, my plan for all of this relates back to a conversation Brad & I had a little while ago about religion (I think and talk a hell of a lot about religion these days, seeing as how it is the main source of tension between me & my family). Brad brought up the point that religion is how some people feel they can show their gratitude for all the good shit in their life, and that makes sense to me. I want to show the universe I’m thankful for all the things that are so very awesome and right in my life, and I feel like the best way to do that is to basically DO GOOD SHIT. This means more volunteering (which is tough with the baby and so forth, but I looked into some viable and flexible options this morning), more donating, and more (UGH, BEAR WITH ME) random acts of kindness in general (NOTE: this will never include buying a homeless man a Value Meal).  I am confident that putting good things out into the universe will make me feel better about all the nasty shit that happens in this world.

With any luck, bitch will get her shit together and stop fucking with her kids’ lives within the year. DON’T LET ME DOWN, PLAN!

Oh, also – I ran across an amazing quote the other day (oh, how I love quotes) that perfectly sums up my views on religion. I mean, to a fucking T. Behold:

“Live a good life. If there are gods and they are just, then they will not care how devout you have been, but will welcome you based on the virtues you have lived by. If there are gods, but unjust, then you should not want to worship them. If there are no gods, then you will be gone, but will have lived a noble life that will live on in the memories of your loved ones.” -Marcus Aurelius

Amazing quote AND a killer weave.  Holla.

• O HAI! I HAS OPSHUNS. So. About the job. For the most part, I have made my peace with the whole employment thing, but every now and then the self-doubt rears its ugly head, and I have to talk myself down with all the rationalizations that got me here in the first place. But! Also! The good thing about having a stable and not-so-challenging job is that it leaves plenty of time and headspace for other pursuits, and I need to concentrate a little more on that. So, you know. That’s what I’m gonna do.

“Other pursuit” number one.

• STFU. Oh, the old hating on my personal appearance bullshit. I came to the earth-shattering realization the other day that 1) no one anywhere EVER wants to hear someone bitch and moan about their body/face/wardrobe, and 2) every single time I’ve heard someone bitch about their body/face/wardrobe, I thought they were 100% out of their mind, because I was totally not seeing whatever imperfections were driving them absolutely insane with self-loathing. So, enough with it. It’s a fucking waste of time, and annoying to everyone within earshot. Also? I would rather give Glenn Beck a handy-jay than have Sadie hear that kind of self-hate from me, or, worse, have her mimic it. Using Sadie as my motivation sure makes this one easier, although I still demand to know when the fuck my ass decided to shuffle off to Buffalo.

Get back here! My jeans fit all funny without you.

• The whole fam damily. If my own personal history has taught me anything, it’s that this family junk will not ever really change, nor will it ever fully go away. So, if I may get all armchair psychologist on you once more, although I can’t control them, I can control how I react to them. This is so, so difficult, because my knee-jerk reaction to family discord is to walk around with a permanent upset stomach, but DAMMIT! I have a life to live and a baby to raise and pumpkin roll to devour, and I refuse to keep letting the same old shit ruin my day and dominate my every thought and conversation. Which means I’m going to take all reasonable steps to make amends, but I refuse to let it cast such a dark fucking shadow over everything.

Although I have to admit I’d still eat this shit even with a dark shadow on it. Or if you dropped it on the floor. Of the subway.

OK, so there it is. I’m sure I will come back and read this post tomorrow and be all “OH FUCK YOU, MARY SUNSHINE,” but whatever. I’m trying.

Oh, CRAM IT, sister.

(But, you know, in a positive way.)

*Do those of you who are on Facebook ever get SO FUCKING SICK AND TIRED of the people whose updates are always shit like “Ate oatmeal for breakfast. Life is good!” or “Can’t wait to spend another glorious day on Earth!” without even a HINT of sarcasm? Because those kind of updates make me wish there was an FUCK THIS option to click, so I could shit a tiny bit on their sunshine. Although I suppose this would not fall under “random act of kindness.”

**I am seriously considering deleting my Facebook account because I get all hand-wringy posting anything that isn’t a photo of the baby or some neutral shit, because of all the family members on there who either do not share or violently oppose my sense of humor/point of view. I am not a fan of such a broad audience, is what I am saying, and the last fucking thing I need to do is provoke lame fucking comment wars with family. Although I will openly admit it is kind of fun passive-aggressively ruffling their feathers when I post political content.

One giant leap for womankind.

Internet, can I please tell you how fucking adorable Sadie was in her outfit?

The correct answer to that question is “Yes.” All other responses will get you pushed out the airlock.

On Friday afternoon, Sadie’s daycare had its annual “Fall Festival,” during which all the little kids are pumped full of sugary treats and sent home with their parents. I’m thinking this is a not-so-veiled attempt at payback for all the various and sundry diseases the daycare workers contract from our little bundles of joy, but it was fun nonetheless. We had been warned on Thursday that Sadie would be participating in “pudding painting,” and WOW, DID SHE EVER. By the time we arrived, she was covered head to toe in partially dried pudding, the cuffs of her shirt stiff with hardened sugar. “She loved it,” her caregiver was happy to report, “although I think she ate more than she painted.” It was then I realized that OMG, that was my baby’s first taste of true sugary goodness (fruit, of course, DOES NOT COUNT), and I was all at once a little sad I missed out on witnessing her first sugar high, and a little peeved that they let her gorge on some disgusting processed crap that probably contained preservatives and additives and red dye #6 in my PRECIOUS ANGEL’S PURE LITTLE DIGESTIVE SYSTEM…

…and then I slapped myself across the face for sounding all food-purist-uppity, ESPECIALLY considering all the Laffy Taffy I had in my purse.

Anyhoo, despite a quick sugar crash power nap in the car on the way home, Sadie managed to stay awake and alert (and happy!) for the Halloween party, where there were two other astronauts in attendance.

One of whom generously donated his brother’s helmet for this photo op. This was also right before we left, at the scandalously late hour of 9:30. Please witness my daughter’s expression of OMG SO TIRED PUT ME TO BED KTHXBYE.

On Saturday night, Sadie donned her jumpsuit once more to help us hand out candy on the front porch. Highlights included:

• A girl who could not have been a day over 14 looking at Sadie and saying, “I wish mine were still that little.” (I briefly considered handing out condoms after this.)
• A little boy who asked me, “Did you have that baby?” and then, when I responded with yes, he raised his eyebrows and said in a tone I can only describe as bemused contempt, “Huh.”
• A little girl who ate all the loose Smarties and Sweet Tarts right out of the bottom of my candy bowl.
• The kids who didn’t even bother to say “Trick or Treat,” and just wordlessly held out their bags instead – I mean, THESE DARN KIDS TODAY with their entitlement and iPods and Jonas Brothers and such.

In other news: GET OFF MY LAWN!

Unfortunately, my stomach was kind of wonky all day Saturday and Sunday and it kind of put me off my feed, which led to the exciting random thought of “Hey! What if I’m pregnant?”

Hands down the scariest moment of the entire holiday. But no, I am pretty confident there is no fruit in my roll-up.

On Sunday, though, we went to lunch with FoST and husband, where Sadie got her first taste of chicken and mashed potatoes, followed up later with some spoonfuls of my milkshake (hey, I said I was off my feed, not insane).  Verdict on all new foods: NOM NOM NOM, and also: WHY HAVE YOU BEEN KEEPING THESE GLORIOUS FOODSTUFFS FROM ME, WOMAN?!

You expect me to go back to pureed carrots after that? Bish plz.

We also took a quick trip to the mall to score Sadie some fall & winter clothes, and someone I know had an insane amount of fun…

That someone was me. But I think Sadie had a good time too.

Well, Internet, it seems that Halloween is upon us. And, as usual, I have some things to say about it.

Let me start by telling you what A TERRIBLE FUCKING IDEA it is to buy your trick-or-treat candy six days in advance. I have gotten most of my nutrients this week from miniature Twix bars.

We are going to a Halloween party tonight, and Sadie will be the only one from our family in costume, partly because she’s the only one anyone will be looking at anyway, but mostly because there was no way we were going to be able to have our shit together to come up with THREE Halloween costumes this year. She is going as an astronaut, much to the HIGHLY VISIBLE dismay of my mother and 99% of the women in my office. Seriously, if you guys have any doubts about whether or not gender stereotypes still exist, try to dress your infant daughter in any costume that is not princess-, flower-, or small woodland creature-based. Whatever. They can all go suck it, because this costume is 1) FUCKING CUTE, 2) WARM, and 3) EASY TO GET ON AND OFF.

And did I mention fucking cute? Because DAMN.

The party starts at 7pm, which is the hour currently known as The Baby’s Bedtime, a.k.a. TO BED WITH ME OR I WILL SCREEEEAAAAAM!!, and I’m relying on the distracting presence of shiny decorations and other babies to keep her happy for at least an hour or so. I wouldn’t even go to the damn party, but alas, I am only human and cannot resist the siren song of showing off my little Buzz Aldrin. Of course, I am fully prepared to hear “He’s so cute!” about twelve million fucking times, but that is why God invented wine.

One Buzz, hold the Aldrin.

Tomorrow night, we’re going to hand out candy to the adorable trick-or-treaters and occasional crack whores in the neighborhood, and then we plan to watch scary movies until I become so terrified I insist on sleeping in the car (which is to say we’ll get about 20 minutes into the first movie. I am easily frightened, if you recall). Brad is a fan of the scary movie, though, and promises he will indulge all my post-movie-viewing behavior (sleeping with the lights on, dousing all of our belongings in holy water), if I will just sack up and watch with him already.  So FINE, I’m watching, but I will require generous amounts of beer & candy to weather the storm.

I had forgotten how good Runts were. Seriously. Pair them with a Twix, and you have a square fucking meal right there, my friends.

On a more random note, can we please stop with the stupid fucking pretentious apostrophe in “Hallowe’en?” I’m sure it is all historically-correct or whatever, but COME ON.  Every time I see it spelled that way, I want to pronounce it with an abrupt pause where the apostrophe falls, a la Pauly Shore.

Going as the WEA! -sellllllll for HalloWEE! -eeeeeeeen.

(Also, I don’t remember him looking so FLAMINGLY GEIGH, do you? A belly shirt, a perm, and tiny denim cut-offs? Ah, the 80s were indeed a simpler time.)

Rounding out the holiday this year are the two Halloween-themed forwards I received from my forward-happy family member. The one I got this morning is so fucking stupid I’m not even going to include any of the images, but the subject line was “Halloween Pun,” and Internet, I have no idea what it has to do with Halloween. It’s a stupid joke about two brooms, and the girl broom gets pregnant and the boy broom is all, “But we haven’t even swept together!”

Sigh.

ANYWAY, more than one person in the email trail that preceded the forward commented on how refreshing it was to receive a “clean” joke for once, and OH MY GOD, it’s not that I want every joke to be about blow jobs and Cleveland Steamers and cock rings, but I HATE IT when people use the word “clean” to describe any kind of entertainment. Not only is the adjective “clean” pretty much a guarantee of “ass-numbingly lame,” but it just sounds so fucking condescending and humorless. Or something. I don’t know. Where’s my Twix?

I’ll leave you with the second forward that she sent. This one arrived with the subject line “It’s that time of year again…” and I have to admit, this one really made me think. It was straightforward, heartfelt, and – dare I say it? – really sort of touching. It contained only a photo, but does it ever speak a thousand words.

Perhaps two thousand.

Sorry, you guys.

And SHAME if you thought I was being serious and ACTUALLY HAD WARM FEELINGS for any of these ricockulous forwards that come my way.

And THANKS, family member who sent me this, for assuming I’d really like to receive this image in an email sent to MY WORK ACCOUNT.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

WARNING: This post is not in any way delicious, so before your mouth starts watering for hash browns and sausage biscuits and other foodstuffs that qualify as pre-exisiting conditions, let me stop you right there. Nope, no hotcakes or breakfast burritos here. In fact, the only thing this forward really has to do with McDonald’s is that it made me grimace.

I’m hatin’ it.

This ridiculously melodramatic piece of shit comes to us courtesy of reader Alyce, and it seriously made me want to push Mayor McCheese into a grain thresher. With that, let us begin (my comments in italics).

Subject: Fwd: FW: Breakfast at McDonald’s – TISSUE ALERT!!!

It has been my experience that when people tell me something is a “tear-jerker” (or they issue a motherfucking “TISSUE ALERT”), it is all but guaranteed that I will just be annoyed, not emotionally moved. I am STILL angry about my sister forcing me to watch The Notebook – a.k.a. The Most Depressing Fucking Movie Ever: Brad, If I Ever Get That Way, Please Promise Me You’ll Push Me Down The Goddamn Stairs – because that shit was not TOUCHING, it was FUCKING UNFAIR and made me ANGRY AT LIFE. But anyway. Moving on.

OK. So, this ENTIRE FORWARD is written in, like, 36 pt. orange font on a black background, with HUUUUGE spaces in between each sentence, for what I imagine is supposed to be “dramatic effect,” but what actually results in fucking carpal tunnel syndrome from having to SCROLLSCROLLSCROLL through this GINORMOUS FUCKING FORWARD. Ugh.

Also: I have read this entire thing multiple times and still have no idea why a return is requested.

Quick fact check: This is not a good story, I am 100% sure it is totally fabricated, and there is not one single, solitary “fact” at the end (but when I share what IS at the end, you will be very concerned – as was I – that someone thought these things were “facts”).

SCROLLSCROLLSCROLL

SCROLLITY-SCROLLSCROLL

Translation: I was totally boning my professor.

Thanks, Sociology, for making my Theatre classes look like fucking brain surgery.

This is the kind of assignment that always ends in at least one student getting mugged or being the victim of indecent exposure.

Ha. HA HA HAAAAA! Oh, Internet, this was reader Alyce’s favorite part of the forward, and I think it’s mine too. LITERALLY. I think SOMEONE really earned that college degree.

I included the fucking ACRES of blank space between each sentence here so you could fully appreciate it. I am also enjoying the slightly defensive way she qualifies the whole breakfast-at-McDonald’s thing. It’s just our way of sharing special playtime with our son, ALRIGHT? SO WHAT if I like a McGriddle every now and then?! They’re delicious!

(Literally.)

This woman’s sentence structure is making me want to share special playtime with a bottle of Jack Daniels. Oh, and I guess this is where we’re supposed to feel suspense. Or something.

I’m pretty sure we can dial back the drama a bit, unless the McDonald’s in question is in Gaza or something. I mean, what could be so fucking bad? Someone honked up their OJ? Pooped on the floor? Wasn’t wearing pants?

O NOES! TEH HOMELESS!

So he wasn’t smiling, he was ’smiling.’ Got it. But was he smiling

LITERALLY?

Here we go.

I’m pretty sure he was searching for you to order so he could get some fucking coffee already, but whatever.

“Good day”? Counting coins? I’m sorry – we must have started reading a Dickens novel when I wasn’t looking.

Make that Steinbeck. Of Mice and Men, anyone?

Also, I really like how this bitch fancies herself the fucking Homeless Whisperer. How the hell does she presume to know their relationship? Oh, but it gets better. OF COURSE it gets better.

In case you forgot, we are still SCROLLING.

Bitch, how do YOU know that’s all he can afford? Or that he just wanted to be warm? Or that your sentences no longer need punctuation?

…at which point the homeless dude would have been like, “Gross.”

Why, HELLO, halting pauses.

So, can someone tell me why there might have been staring? Staring at what? This woman standing in line? I also love how she calls McDonald’s a “restaurant,” and suggests that she’s somehow being all subversive by breaching the McDonald’s code of etiquette with her

dramatic

proximity to

the homeless men,

literally.

OMG, you guys! Who let fucking Mother Theresa in here?!

“Resting spot”? Are they migratory geese?

Thank you for your generous donation of a three dollar breakfast that will probably ensure I die traumatically of heart failure beneath a highway overpass. Just giving me the three dollars might have been nice, too. Just sayin’. Oh, and I’m allergic to eggs. But really – thanks a bundle.

God’s all, “Yeaaaah…actually, this was all you.”

…and a BJ on my birthday.”

…and then we tore into some fucking McMuffins, SON!

In other news, it really takes skill to work the word “that” into one sentence no less than three times.

Unnecessary commas, SCROLLSCROLLSCROLL, unnecessary quotation marks.

Why the slow nodding? Why not just regular-speed nodding? Jesus Christ, I hate this woman.

Wow. WHAT? Is she speaking in tongues?

I’m sure you touched everyone.

Literally.

Alright. Just because you bought some homeless dudes a fucking Value Meal ONE TIME does not mean you are next in line for canonization in your tireless quest to teach the world about acceptance. I mean, honestly now: how IN THE WORLD does her lame breakfast-buying = acceptance? Are you fucking kidding me? And you know what? She didn’t even do the fucking assignment. Following directions FAIL.

But HOLD UP! Here are those “facts” I told you about!

Of course! How did angels ever work before email?

*BARF*

If you want to craft a beautiful quote, try not to say “handle” and “head” so much.

What?

I guess there’s little chance this proverb is about terrible grammar, huh?

OK, I’m cutting this off here, because it goes on for-fucking-EVER, and if you’ve ever read a coffee mug at a Hallmark store, you know the gist.

This is my second favorite part of the forward: “…okay, so bit it…” HA. Pretty sure they meant “so be it,” but who am I to question Our Lady of Special Sauce ?

So that’s about it. The rest of the email is a mess of “Make a wish and send it to X people in X days,” and after recapping this MONSTER of a forward, I really do not have the energy to cut and paste the rest in all of its totally predictable glory.

Just do me a favor: if you ever see the patron saint of McFlurries up there openly weeping and buying breakfast for homeless men in your local McDonald’s, please purchase a very hot large coffee and pour it over her head. Keep your receipt; I will personally reimburse you.*

*Attorney fees not included.

Well, Internet, if there was an antidote to last weekend, it was definitely this weekend.

Proximity to multiple wineries = antidote to pretty much anything.

Yes, despite illness and exhaustion and one angry little protruding tooth, we actually made it out of the house for our first Sans-Baby Weekend since Sadie’s birth, and it was – as I expected – just the break we needed.

And it turns out that “the break we needed” included a constant flow of wine from 11am to 9pm OH HELL YES.

Getting ready to leave Friday afternoon was the frantic mess I expected it would be, with the last-minute trips to the drugstore for teething tablets and the last-minute loads of laundry and the last-minute additions to the ten THOUSAND pages of instructions we were leaving for Sadie’s aunt and uncle (I considered editing the whole thing down to PLEASE KEEP BABY ALIVE, but that seemed a bit too vague). My brother-in-law and his wife arrived at the house just as I was coming home from a half-day at work, which meant that in addition to getting a shower and throwing clothes in a duffel bag (I didn’t even have the presence of mind to piece together actual outfits, so I just grabbed a bunch of shirts and jeans and prayed there were some decent combinations in there somewhere), I had to run downstairs every time I remembered some monumentally important piece of information, like where the extra wipes were stored (SURELY THEY WOULD NEVER FIND THEM ON THEIR OWN!) or where I would put Sadie’s insurance card (JUST IN CASE something happens and you have to take her to the hospitalOMGIamfindingitreallyhardtobreathenow).

You’d drink, too, if I was your mother.

After multiple reassurances from our very capable sitters that THE BABY WILL BE FINE, PLEASE LEAVE NOW, and after depositing roughly ten bajillion kisses on Sadie’s puffy little cheeks, we got in the car (that, for the first time since late March, did not have a car seat), and got on the highway.

I think we made it ten miles out of town before calling the house because HOLY SHIT, I forgot to tell them not to give her pears or bananas because she hasn’t had them yet and she just ate peaches for the first time this morning and YAPYAPALLERGICREACTIONBLAH I cannot relax until you call them!!1! But once that call was made (and we were told that yes, Sadie was still doing fine and was showing no immediate signs of permanent emotional scarring), I was finally able to relax and focus on driving (in the pouring fucking rain) while Brad caught a short nap, since he’d been up since 5am with Sadie so that I could get an extra hour’s sleep which turned into 90 minutes because I overslept and HOLY MOTHER OF ASS, I am getting uptight all over again just remembering the shitstorm that was last week.

Aaah. Much better. Let’s continue.

Despite the constant threat of hydroplaning all over the damn road, it was a pretty drive up north – the dreary weather making all the bright yellow and red leaves stand out even more. As we got further and further away from Pittsburgh and the traffic thinned out, I reminded myself that we had officially entered The Land of No Schedules, and for the next 48 hours I had only one ass to wipe (or maybe two, if he asked nicely). This was gonna be sweet. Of course, every now and then I had that feeling I sometimes get on airplanes when I realize that there is nothing between me and the ground so far below, and suddenly the bottom falls out from under me – but this time the realization was that with every passing second I was traveling further away from Sadie than I’d ever been her entire life. But I wanted to do it. And we needed to do it.

We got to Erie around 6pm, and by the time I was giddily ordering a giant glass of wine at dinner one hour later, a call to Pittsburgh confirmed that Sadie had been successfully put to bed. Now that it was scientifically proven that yes, she would go to bed without my magical rack inside city limits, we breathed a huge sigh of relief and set about gorging ourselves on a delicious dinner and passing out back at the B&B at a ridiculously early hour.

Our room at the George Carroll House, which was not haunted as far as I could tell, even though Brad pointed out that it would be really ironic if it was haunted by the spirit of a crying baby. Ironic, yes, and INFURIATING.

All plans to sleep in the next morning were dashed by two things:

1. The fact that we both woke up at precisely 6:45am, DAMN YOU BODY CLOCK! And;
2. The fact that it was homecoming weekend for the local university, and the girls at the sorority house across the street kicked off the festivities at the ass-crack of 7am by blasting “Single Ladies” for all of Erie to enjoy.

Did not like it, nor did I put a ring on it. But at least none of them needed to be breastfed.

Now, although I really enjoy the bed & breakfast experience, what I don’t enjoy is having to interact with the other bed-and-breakfasters. I know some of them really get off on the whole “getting to know you” aspect of staying in such an intimate setting, but if it was up to Brad and I, everyone else would just shut the fuck up and pass the muffin tray. Luckily, we didn’t encounter a large group at breakfast the first morning – just the innkeeper and another woman – but OH, this woman. She was the mother of a girl who was still up in the room getting ready (“You know these college girls and the primping!”), and she REALLY wanted to start a conversation. We weren’t two sips into our coffee before she asked the innkeeper “So what’s the history of the house?” – which make Brad groan under his breath because the history of the fucking house was written and posted on EVERY SQUARE INCH of the fucking place. JUST SHUT UP AND READ, WOMAN! And then after pumping the innkeeper dry for historical information, she addressed the room: “Does anybody care if I make some noise?” I thoroughly enjoyed the awkward pause that followed that loaded question, mostly because I could SEE the innkeeper carefully weighing her answer. “I just want to get my guitar out and pluck a little,” Chatty Cathy finally elaborated, which Brad and I took as our cue to go back upstairs, where a young girl was about to be totally embarrassed by the discovery that her mom was jamming alone in the parlor.

Let me tell you a little story about my friend George Carroll…

We spent the afternoon driving around to multiple wineries in the area, spending a few bucks at each for some tastings. Most of the places would give you six half-ounce samples for two bucks, and while I’m no expert at math, I do know that six 0.5 oz samples for $2 + my extremely lowered tolerance for alcohol = GOOD MOTHERFUCKING TIMES. The last time I was able to drink without any regard for how it would affect the baby was the summer of 2008, friends, and that was just too long ago.

Yeah, yeah, subtle hints of currant – just give me another sample already.

After the Liver-Bustin’ Wine Tour of ‘09, we checked into the next bed and breakfast. This one was a bit fancier than the first one, and instead of impromptu acoustic guitar, this one came complete with 60-billion thread count sheets and complementary WINE and HOMEMADE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES.

It also came with a four-poster bed (not pictured: the two other posts), which I totally didn’t realize, and – as you may recall – I am of the belief that four-poster beds = SHIT WILL BE HAUNTED, but thankfully I was far too intoxicated to be woken in the dead of night by any wandering souls. Thanks, booze!

We spent the rest of the day laying around on our asses, gathering up our strength for another taxing evening of eating and drinking.

Scallops: one of my favorite foods, although I cannot think about where they come from because it kind of grosses me out.

At dinner, we talked about how – although it was great to get away – now that Sadie is here, things feel incomplete when it’s just the two of us. Although I don’t think she would have enjoyed the wineries or the scallops, she’s so much a part of us that it only seems right when the three of us are together.

There was a wall of post-it notes by the door of the restaurant that patrons were encouraged to scribble something on as they left. I stood there for a minute in my wine-induced haze, trying my best to come up with something creative/funny/poetic/perfect, when Brad grabbed the pen:

That about sums it up.

The next morning, we were up before sunrise again (AGAIN! SO UNFAIR) because we had to get back to Pittsburgh in time for Brad and his brother to get to the Steelers game. The upside of getting such an early start, though, was that we were able to enjoy the amazing home-cooked breakfast in the fancy-ass dining room all by ourselves.

Guitar lady not included.

When we got home a couple short hours later, I scooped Sadie up in my arms and swore she looked older than when we left on Friday (and the tooth had definitely progressed further into the world), but oh, I wouldn’t trade my weekend for anything, Internet.

So many times during our little trip, I looked at Brad and remembered what it was like getting to know him twelve years ago. And although I don’t think our relationship has changed significantly since Sadie was born, I had sort of forgotten what it was like when it was just the two of us. I think we do a pretty good job of finding snatches of time in our day to be alone with each other – on the ride to work after dropping Sadie off at daycare, in the evenings watching TV with the Bug fast asleep – but it gets all too easy to lose the other person in the clip of a routine. At certain points over the weekend, it felt like the past year and a half were just some crazy, wonderful dream. Had I really been pregnant? Had a baby? Did I really see Brad holding our infant daughter that one day in April? How can it seem like everything has changed, but on second thought, nothing has really changed at all?

I’m pretty sure the answer to that last question is that I am one lucky, lucky lady.

Make that “lucky, lucky, lucky lady.”

So, I was PLANNING on posting another PAY IT FORWARD! today (and it’s a doozy, I assure you), and I was already rushed because of the insane clusterfuckery that is two neurotic parents preparing to leave their preciouswonderfulperfectangelbaby with relatives for the weekend, and then last night when I was bathing Sadie, she grabbed my finger and started chewing and that’s when I felt…something sharp.

YEEEEEEEEEAAAAHHHH!

(Uh, by the way, have you seen this picture of Lil Jon in high school?

WHAT? OKAAAAAYYYYY!)

Yes, my GROWING-UP-WAY-TOO-FAST 6-month old is cutting her first tooth, which explains her recent ability to go from zero to OMG! FML! in less than 60 seconds. This is all happening just in time for our weekend away, meaning we are saddling her poor, unsuspecting aunt and uncle with a teething baby. I am currently feeling three things:

1. Relief at being able to have someone else deal with Guy Smiley for the weekend;
2. INSANE GUILT AND WORRY because me and my magical calming rack will not be around to soothe her;
3. Sympathy for my brother-in-law and his wife.

Good Lord, I hope not. It’s going to be really hard to find a sitter after that.

Enjoy your weekend, Internet.  See you on the other (much toothier) side.

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.

I am well aware that I am being a whiny asshole about a cold that my infant daughter has weathered without missing a damn beat, but…WAH. Getting sick after coming off the World’s Most Un-Relaxing Weekend was really a kick in the nuts I did not need right now, especially because “right now” is also the time in which I need to do about 56,234 other things, NONE OF WHICH are actually getting accomplished because my head feels like a fucking medicine ball.

I could really go for a ball of medicine right about now. Or bourbon. Whichever.

I am a firm believer in staying the fuck home from work whenever illness rears its phlegmy head, but it seems I have a whopping THREE HOURS of sick time left to take between now and the end of 2009, so…yeah. Off to work for me. Not like staying at home would have been that much better: the only food we have in the house is a frozen pie shell and some fucking barbecue sauce.

Gettin’ our Hubbard on.

I have no choice but to go to the store tonight (to buy food I can’t taste! WEEE!) while Brad stays home and tries to make a dent in the housecleaning and laundry because O HAI, we are leaving in a couple days for our first weekend trip sans-baby, and did I mention that Brad is also sick? Because he is. Because apparently getting viral fucking meningitis won’t stop the universe from slapping a cold on top of that shit for good measure. I am just really hoping we all feel better by Friday and that we don’t spend our precious weekend away coating each other in Vick’s Vapo-Rub.

Um. So. I was going to make a joke about how coating each other in Vapo-Rub sounds kind of dirty, but then I found this. Is Vapo-Rub used for weird sex things? Because if so, I feel pretty old for being behind the curve on this, and also, that seems like a good way to get a particularly hellacious UTI.

We’re also concerned that something ELSE is wrong with Sadie today, as she was uncharacteristically crabby this morning and has been yanking on her ear, which can be an indication of teething or an ear infection or – my all-time vague favorite – NOTHING!  We told the daycare ladies to let us know if she seems to get worse, and if so, Brad will have to take her to the doctor (sans me, because of my fuck-ass lack of sick time – most of which I had to blow through in order to get some semblance of a paycheck during my maternity leave because apparently having a baby means you are sick BUT DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED).

Wow. Sorry about all the complaining, Internet. I am working on a much more entertaining Pay It Forward for you, but I guess I just needed to get some things out of my system (in addition to the many things that are currently being expelled from my system via Kleenex and the occasional sleeve). I keep trying to remind myself that – as always – things could be much worse. I am just really looking forward to a week when Brad and I have more to talk about than the awful diseases the Internet has convinced us our daughter has contracted.

This week? We were convinced she had whooping cough. Like, keep your gross cough to yourself, you fucking crane!

Oh, and thank you for all your awesome comments on my last post. The upside of being sick is that I am far too distracted by my leaky head to give a rat’s ass about who’s angry at who. Who is even paler than normal, has a chest full of congestion and has ceased to care?

THIS GIRL.

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.

Let me first dial back the drama a bit and admit that HELL YES, things could have been MUCH WORSE, but this is Cheers & Jeers, not “Cheers & Oh Well, Count Your Blessings,” so let us say FUCK THAT and proceed.

JEERS:

• The four (FOUR!) shots Sadie received at her 6-month appointment on Friday, and the subsequent Unhappy and Feverish-ness that followed…
• …that morphed into another damn cold…
• …that she was kind enough to share with me.
• The 8+ hours spent driving to and from WV this weekend, and the stupid fucking truck driver that almost ran us off the road last night. Hey, I know it’s hard to stay awake between blow-joys at the truck stop, but I’d really rather not die in rural Pennsylvania unless it’s tied in with someone’s really kick-ass Rumspringa.

I accidentally typed “Rumpspringa” at first, which would actually be a brilliant follow-up for Wreckx-n-Effect. YOU’RE WELCOME.

• The FAMILY DRAMA BULLSHIT we encountered over the weekend, which GEE! I am so glad to have shoved my sick baby in a car seat and dragged her ass across state lines just to be faced with such infuriating jackassery. I actually toyed with the idea of writing an entire post on this Cirque de FUCKED UP, but 1) I already have lovely friends and family to rant to about it, 2) it would likely bore you all to tears, and 3) it is – beneath all the bullshit – rather sad, and I don’t blog to discuss sad things; I blog as an outlet for my profanity-laced tirades about email forwards. Oh, and as an excuse to post cute-ass baby pictures.

Oh look! An excuse to post this cute-ass baby picture.

• But I will say that if you claim you have let something go but then hold a grudge about it, bring it up at every occasion, and also give me the silent treatment, then that is a big “letting it go” FAIL.
• Also want to share real quick-like that my baby will not 1) burn in the eternal fires of hell, 2) grow up to be a serial killer, or 3) be otherwise scarred because we have decided not to baptize her.

O NOES!

(I suppose buying this costume for Sadie  would be in poor taste.)

(Brad: I totally want to buy this costume for Sadie now .)

• It was 28 degrees out this morning. I would cry, but it seems my tear ducts have frozen.
• Also frozen: my whore basil plant. Before I got around to making the homemade pesto I have been talking about making since whore July.
• The extra outfit for Sadie that is currently in my purse instead of in her bin at daycare, because her memory-of-a-housefly-havin’ mother totally flaked and forgot to put it in there. This all but guarantees she will have a huge, clothes-destroying diaper blowout, and her caregivers will be forced to clothe her in a onesie made out of construction paper. Add this to the fact that I kept forgetting to bring diapers and formula last week, and I can pretty much guarantee that my picture is on their corkboard next to the number for CPS.

Wonder if they make this in a 6-9 months size.

CHEERS:

• The non-injection portion of Sadie’s 6 month checkup, during which our 16lb, 26.5-inch long bundle of chubby cheeks was declared healthy and “the most laid-back 6-month old [the doctor had] ever seen.” Upon hearing this, Brad and I experienced the exact same thought process:

1. PRIDE! Our daughter is the David Wooderson of 6-month-olds!
2. CONFUSION! Surely this is not our child!
3. PANIC! OH GOD, we are totally going to screw her up with our mountains of neuroses!

• We’re going out for a (long overdue) dinner with FoST and husband this week, and I am looking forward to catching up, eating some yummy Thai food, and watching the World’s Most Laid Back Baby renounce her title when she realizes that hey, it’s bedtime and I AM NOT IN BED.

Behold cousin Abby, who learned this weekend that eating peaches can really wear a sister out.

• Getaway weekend approacheth! Please, immune system, fight off this damn cold by then, and do not allow any more viral interlopers. I need to be healthy to truly enjoy a weekend of drinking and sloth.
• No groceries in the house = I get to buy my lunch today = tofu from Asian place down the street = because I can never prepare tofu at home worth a damn.
• This guy and this girl:

Weathering awkward family visits since 2009