A couple of years ago via email, my friend Bird and I started discussing our Thanksgiving plans. For some reason, one of us referred to the holiday as “Thanksgibbin,” and then it became a game of fucking with the word until barely recognizable (“Fankshiblin,” “Thanesmibin”), and thus, my favorite bastardization – “Shanksgiblin” – was born.

Bird is also the friend with whom I shared a very fateful trip to Chicago for grad school auditions. Through a series of very un-fun events, we ran out of money and had to stay at the posh Hotel Cass, where the front desk staff sat safely behind BULLETPROOF GLASS. I was entirely confident we’d never live to see another Ganksfibbin.

Anyway, today we leave for WV to spend our Thanksgiving being generally ignored by everyone while they fawn over the baby. I’m really looking forward to Sadie getting her first taste of turkey and pumpkin pie, so I’ll be doing my best to ensure all major family blow-ups occur after we’ve all had our fill of whipped topping.

Joins Coffeemate on the list of “Foods I Want To Make The Hydrogenated Nasty With.”

Last year at precisely this time, I was anxiously awaiting updates from my sister, who was experiencing the joys of being in labor whilst sick with the flu. I spent the very early hours of Thanksgiving 2008 staring at my newborn niece and trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I’d be meeting a similarly squishy and crinkly individual just a few months later.

O HAI. AM UR NEECE. PUMPKIN PIE NAO, PLZ.

Obviously, last year was a pretty spectacular Thanksgiving, but some of my other favorites include the two years my we hosted my parents in our apartment in Queens, then took them to explore New York City afterwards.

Each year, my Dad insisted on getting a hot dog from a street cart. Add “Street Cart Hot Dogs” to the list of “Foods I Always Pretend I’m Grossed Out By But Secretly Love And Pray They Will Not Give Me Diarrhea.”

In 2005, we hosted BOTH sets of parents in our new house – the house we had just moved into ONE MONTH PRIOR. Internet, I do not so much recommend doing this, unless you have some pretty friendly narcotics on hand. I recall spending roughly 80 frillion dollars on food, booze, and holiday decorations, and staying up until 2am the night before on my hands and knees (hot!) scrubbing the floor of the entryway (not hot). Then I made the classic mistake of drinking while cooking, so that when it came time to eat, I was too tired and buzzed to really give a hot damn about food.

And then my mother-in-law was scandalized by the fact that I did not own a proper gravy ladle and my head exploded, the end.

Honestly, I’m really not all that hard to please when it comes to Thanksgiving. As long as I get a chance to see some of the Macy’s parade on TV and manage to fill my belly with turkey and pumpkin pie, I’m happy. I don’t care where the meal comes from (last year, we ate at a YOOGE hotel buffet, where there were approximately ten kinds of pie OHTHANKYOUJESUS), I don’t care who hosts (although I’m getting itchy to host at our house again – someone please slap me soundly about the face), I just want 1) parade, 2) food, and oh yeah, 3) family. Even though that last one sometimes makes me want to don a disguise of a pilgrim hat and fancy eyelashes and spend the holiday coasting down Broadway with some pilgrims on my back.

My favorite part about the whole damn parade. Well, except when the singers mess up their lip syncing or almost fall off the floats due to sudden stops. Hee.

Anyway, family drama aside (and I am seriously hoping it stays aside this year), I’m very excited about Sadie’s first Thanksgiving. Now that the enormous task of getting her things packed for the trip is done,* I can sit back and concentrate on giving thanks for the most awesome little turkey I know.

A little turkey who, I might add, now knows how to climb the stairs. She’ll be running marathons by Christmas, I know it.

* Internet, I cannot even begin to explain to you how stressed out I get trying to pack outfits for Sadie whenever we go on a trip. It always starts out innocently enough: I pick out a few outfits, fold them up, DONE! But wait! Do those pants still fit? Isn’t that onesie a little short? Will it be cold this weekend? Why don’t I have tights that match? DAMMIT what if she has an assplosion and I need to change her?! I NEED AN ENTIRE SET OF BACK-UP OUTFIT PIECES, AND THEY ALL MUST FIT AND MATCH!!1!! It took me approximately 1 hour this morning to pack three outfits for a 7.5-month-old baby. And I still had yet to experience the fresh hell of packing my OWN clothes for the trip.

Although I generally do not have to plan ahead for my own assplosions. Generally.

Have a happy and assplosion-free Thanksgiving, Internet!

As 4th Reader observed in the comments of the last post, putting up my lovely holiday header was the bloggy equivalent of putting up my Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving – you know, THANKSGIVING: that holiday with all the TURKEYS – so I submit for your approval my Thanksgiving header, brilliantly designed by Brad. Personally, I find it hilarious that the turkey has escaped the header out of self-preservation, because apparently I like to laugh when animals are afraid of being killed and eaten.

Mmmm. PETA is right: I can taste the fear, and it tastes delicious.

Why, HELLO THERE, holiday-themed blog header! You look like you were created by a wonderful husband who may be a little bit deaf after listening to his wife continually squeal over the BLINKING LIGHTS he designed. I mean, look at that shit! They’re blinking! Isn’t that cool?

Uh…nevermind.

Anyhoo, the new header was just one great part of a generally awesome weekend (for your reference, generally awesome weekends = weekends that do not involve viruses, Gatorade, and/or begging for the sweet release of death).

MAI DEATH MACHINE: LET ME SHOW U IT.

Our Saturday morning sojourn to the flu clinic ended up being completely easy and convenient, which I absolutely did not expect. The people at the health department were organized, efficient, and friendly. We were in and out and back on the road within TEN MINUTES. The nerve! How am I supposed to find shit to blog about when people do their jobs right? Well, there was the brief awkward moment when the nurse said Sadie looked “small” for her age, and I had to dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands to stop from spouting off all her growth percentile information because what the FUCK, lady! My baby is perfect! Maybe it’s your BRAIN that’s small, BITCH!

I had kind of ingested a lot of coffee that morning.

On the way back home, we stopped at a farmer’s market and the car wash, and then walked back in our front door at late hour of TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING. I guess being productive before noon is what happens when your baby gets up at 5:30am, but shit, it felt like the fucking Army up in here. There was only one way to handle that situation: laying around on our asses for the remainder of the day until our lovely friends came over for some Sadie time and delicious take-out Indian food. I haven’t had Indian food since before I had Sadie, because it was one of my randomly-chosen breastfeeding-unfriendly foods, along with orange juice. NEVERMIND that I put hot sauce and jalapeños and cayenne pepper on just about everything I eat! THE BABY MIGHT NOT LIKE CURRY!

I am also the same woman who buys unscented baby wipes and proceeds to slather her baby in scented lotion. I call it “Contradiction Parenting.” It works! Except when it doesn’t.

The welcoming of aloo matar back into my diet is just one of the changes I’ve been making lately on the road to (sigh) weaning. I still nurse her in the mornings and evenings, but my supply is down (it took a DRASTIC dip last weekend when I was dehydrated and never really came back), and honestly, she doesn’t seem all that interested or patient for it anymore. I have to admit I’m relieved in more ways that one: I can stop toting the breast pump and accoutrements to work, I can stop obsessing over caffeine and alcohol intake, I can finally put those god-awful nursing bras away. It does make me a little sad to realize that yes, my teeny-tiny boob-dependent infant is no more, but I’m glad to see a decrease in her “GIMME YER CANS, WOMAN” behavior so that this whole process can be as smooth as possible.

Of course, after I spent an evening ingesting spicy Indian food and wine, she randomly woke up at midnight to nurse. This plan is working out perfectly!

Sunday was another contradiction: the HORRIFIC EMBARRASSING AWFULNESS of another Steelers’ loss, followed by the total fucking awesomeness of a night out at the theatre with Brad. The less said about the Steelers the better, so let’s concentrate on the part of the day that involved a pre-show bourbon on the rocks (THANK YOU, WEANING) and a near-perfect production of The Little Foxes.

Come on. I wouldn’t be true to my theatre geek roots if I didn’t find SOME kind of problem with the production. In this case, the actress playing Alexandra TOTALLY missed the mark in delivering the chilling final line of the play, I mean GOD! Now who wants to do some vocal warm-ups?

And that brings us to today, the start of a glorious three-day week and the official beginning of the holiday season: that magnificent time of year when we all come together to share peace, goodwill, and disturbing family dysfunction.

Joy to the world, you’re out of the will!

And it is in this spirit that I offer up a humble Googlemania for your holiday consumption. This one contains a special holiday wish at the end! (Although it may leave you with the distinct urge to take a hot shower!)

• ass beach string: Remind me to tell you guys about the time I found an ass string on the beach. SPOILER ALERT: I had to go on antibiotics for a few weeks afterwards.
• real sex dolls: None of those FAKE sex dolls, I’m talking real sex dolls. The kind with the lipstick painted right on the plastic!
• christmas shoes song hate: Hello, kindred spirits.
• lady liberty fetish: Yikes. Is this like the lady who married the Eiffel Tower? If so, add the Statue of Liberty to the list of places you shouldn’t go without a generous stash of Clorox wipes.
• big ass thags: So, Urban Dictionary tells me that a “thag” is “one who embodies qualities of a thug, while looking like a pretty boy sissy,” but I maintain that – as The Far Side taught me many years ago – it is a common caveman name.

They kind of look like they might have big asses, right?

• am pising: Then you probably shouldn’t be Googling.
• polish big asses: Well, yeah. They are the people who brought us pierogis and haluski.
• did god invent turkeys: Nah, you’re thinking of Billy Mays. God invented OxyClean.
• babybel cheese meaning: Yes, it’s cheese, but WHAT DOES IT MEEEEAAAAN?!?!
• big turkish ass trailer movie: I can’t really wrap my mind around this one, except to say that my blog seems to attract people looking for information about all things BIG ASSED, and that makes me sort of proud.

And now, as promised, my special holiday wish to you:

• happy taintsgiving

SHE knows what I’m talkin’ about.

That’s what they call shots at our pediatrician’s office, and that’s what Sadie is getting one of today. And I won’t be there to comfort her, because I have no more sick time. Let me just repeat that: I HAVE NO MORE SICK TIME, meaning that last Friday when my lower intestine was attempting to escape from my body, I HAD TO TAKE A VACATION DAY.

I don’t have the strength to peel myself up off the bathroom floor, YAAAAY! Who wants tacos?!

It’s just one shot – her second dose of the seasonal flu vaccine – so I’m hoping there will only be a fraction of the misery and woe we usually experience when she gets a full round of inoculations. The bitch of it is we’re going to spend the better part of our Saturday driving an hour north of the city in an attempt to get Sadie an H1N1 shot, which is pretty much on par with unicorns as far as being able to track one of the elusive fuckers down.

Anyone else find it ironic that a horse with a giant phallus on its head can only be captured by a virgin? Stupid virgin. Like she’d even know what to do with it.

Brad & I were able to get the H1N1 vaccine mist a few weeks ago, so we’re really hoping we can get Sadie taken care of as well. I’m not going to go into the whole vaccine debate here (that is, after all, what Facebook is for), I am only going to say:

• Every parent is entitled to their own opinion and has the right (and responsibility) to make an informed decision on behalf of their child;
• An “informed decision” means you have read actual scientific and medical findings and talked to your doctor;
• It does not mean “Jenny McCarthy.”

I mean, you know. JUST SAYING.

I also have an acquaintance who got H1N1 this June, and it turned into a horrific situation involving words like “coma” and “ventilator,” and yes, I realize this could have happened with any flu strain, which is why we’re choosing to inoculate against all of it. Totally understand if you don’t wanna go that way, but when it comes to the other stuff, I have to admit I’m really not stoked at the prospect of polio staging a comeback.

Don’t call it a comeback! Call it…infantile paralysis. Holla?

Also on the docket for this weekend: DATE NIGHT! Woo! Yes, were having an impromptu date night thrust upon us (uh, yeah, you really had to twist my arm to take it) by FoST, who put her foot down and was all I WANT TO BABYSIT YOUR ADORABLE CHILD. PLEASE GO AWAY.

Dear FoST: REST UP. You will be doing nothing but prying cords out of her hands all night long. Dear Fisher Price: save yourself some time and just start selling dusty cat-hair-coated cords.

We’re taking advantage of this opportunity to (FINALLY) go see The Little Foxes, one of Brad’s favorite plays.

And every time I talk about the play, I inexplicably have to pronounce “foxes” like these guys. FOX-EZZZZ! With their big A-mur-can breasts!

In other news, yesterday at daycare Sadie had her first “Ouch Report,” which is pretty much exactly what you think it is. She bonked her head on the edge of a bookshelf while trying to pull herself up (she is PERPETUALLY trying to pull herself up), so we got sent home with a full written account of the incident and a daughter with a small, angry knot on the side of her head. The situation was made worse by the fact that when we arrived to pick her up, she got so excited she accidentally face-planted on a plastic toy in her hurry to crawl over to us.

Uh, so, I was going to make a joke about getting her a helmet, but I guess (AND SHOULD HAVE KNOWN) that baby helmets are actually real. I’m a neurotic mess of a parent and all, but I’m sorry: I DRAW THE LINE AT OLD-TIMEY FOOTBALL HELMETS FOR TODDLERS. I honestly can’t stop laughing at that poor kid in the picture. What a douche.

Alright. Now that I’ve called someone’s baby a douche, I think it’s probably time to wrap this up.

Those teeth are exceedingly nervous that they will meet their end on an Ouch Report. I don’t blame them.

]]> http://jiveturkey.wordpress.com/2009/11/20/pinches/feed/ 11 mary pat vacation unicorn jenny llcool cords wild_and_crazy_guys helmet teeth http://jiveturkey.wordpress.com/2009/11/18/pay-it-forward-pennies-from-heaven/ http://jiveturkey.wordpress.com/2009/11/18/pay-it-forward-pennies-from-heaven/#comments Wed, 18 Nov 2009 16:44:30 +0000 jiveturkey http://jiveturkey.wordpress.com/?p=2202 ]]>

O HAI. Sorry if I made you worry that I had been eaten alive by the germs that caused BANANA SPLITS to CARTWHEEL from my CASHMERE SWEATER, but I’ve been spending a lot of time recuperating and being pissed off about the Steelers, although I enjoyed the shit out of nachos and beer at the game – the most food I’d eaten in one sitting in three days! – although in hindsight that was…not so smart.

Oh, hindsight my ass. I knew it was dumb BEFORE and DURING, but GODDAMMIT I LOVE NACHOS.

So, before I went on my gastrointestinal journey, I received another forward from the very same relative who gave me (and in turn, YOU) the gift of Butt Dust. And with that, I present you with:

Subject: FW: A Penny…Send it back to me please…

Finally! Someone found a way to make pennies more annoying.

MAN, how I wish this forward was actually about Li’l Penny. Remember him?

AWESOME.

Oh, also – that little penny up there (the coin, not the puppet), was actually an animated gif. I mean, why not?

“Great. I lose a son, Mary Todd goes nuts, I get my fool head blown off, and now I’m in a damn forward. YOU’RE WELCOME FOR PRESERVING THE UNION AND ENDING SLAVERY. Fuckers.”

Then Grandpa said, “Give me that penny; I’m saving up for a can of soup or my blood pressure meds.”

Or sometimes to see if they really can kill someone by dropping a penny from an extreme height.

Yes, BY ALL MEANS reach your hand into that filthy puddle of expelled saliva, car oil, and dog urine and pull out that lucky penny. DO IT FOR THE ANGELS. (This message brought to you from Purell.)

Here comes the requisite “pass it on,” complete with all the different breeds of angels you’ll “receive” (via FedEx? Email? Intravenous needle?). I’m not including them all here, but I’m sure you can imagine: the third means happiness, the fourth means health, the fifth means an enlarged penis, etc., etc.

I am including the seventh angel, though, because I just love how the forward forces your hand here. The seventh angel will grant your personal wish! Which is WORLD PEACE. What? It ISN’T? Do you hate world peace or something? Yeah, THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT.

Blah blah pass it on blah. My favorite part of this is the quote at the bottom, which is yet another tired old take on Carpe Diem (which IS A CLASSIC and JUST FINE AS IT IS, can we all fucking leave it alone now?). Believe me, you do not want me to live as if I’ll die today, otherwise I will do the following things (in this order): Weep openly for 35 minutes, quit my job in a flurry of profanities, spend all my money, and eat my weight in potato chips and french onion dip. And I am telling you right now, this would not make for a pleasant tomorrow.

Although it would make for a pretty fucking awesome today NOM NOM NOM.

Hello, Internet. Sorry for all the radio silence this week, but things were busy (but healthy!) over here at JT headquarters, what with the latest plague leaving our household. Or so I thought.

Did Garbage Pail Kids seriously disturb anyone but me? I don’t even like looking at them now. Hello, I am 32 years old.

Yes, the week was going just swimmingly until about 4:40am this morning, when I awoke not with the cry of my baby, but with the cry of my stomach. I really don’t think I need to tell you what happened next. Actually, I will tell you (I mean, is this a fucking blog OR ISN’T IT?), but I will substitute the gory details with happy words.

Like Mad Libs for oversharing!

When I woke up and realized it was way too early to actually be up for the day, I felt a distinct SPARKLING feeling in my UNICORN. I knew that if I got up and rushed to the ENCHANTED PALACE right away, I’d wake up Brad (and maybe also Sadie), and it was clear I was going to have to rely on him for the bulk of the household duties (hee) today. So I laid there, still as possible, concentrating on BEDAZZLING my CUPCAKE, trying to delay the inevitable RAINBOW of FRESHLY PICKED ORGANIC RASPBERRIES that was bound to TAP DANCE into the world.

Is this working for you? Yeah, me neither. But it’s all you’re getting today, so ONWARD!

After a record-breaking 1.5 hours of delaying the ROMANTIC SUMMER THUNDERSTORM, Brad and Sadie woke up and I was clear to DONATE PONIES TO ORPHAN CHILDREN. And oh, did I DONATE. And then I PAINTED A WATERCOLOR STILL-LIFE, before crying out to God and DROPPER-FEEDING AN ABANDONED BABY BIRD. After several more episodes of HOLDING HANDS IN THE MOVIES, Brad and Sadie left for work and daycare, and I tried to get some sleep despite the overwhelming urge to PLANT A COMMUNITY GARDEN.

Well, here I am a few hours later, and the LAUGHTER OF THE BOUNCING BABY JESUS seems to have ceased. Brad, in all his awesomeness, came by on his lunch hour to deliver some Gatorade and ginger ale that I will hopefully not see later in the LOLLIPOP FOREST. I’m most bummed out about having to keep my distance from Sadie and also having to cancel on FoST and husband, who were supposed to babysit for us tonight while we went to see a play. Nope, no theatre for me tonight, Internet. Just laying around and praying that my CARAMEL APPLE doesn’t BREED CHAMPIONSHIP SHOW DOGS and hoping that Sadie steers clear of this MAGICAL WOODLAND FAIRY that will wreak COTTON CANDY on her poor little MIMOSA.

But you’d better fucking believe I will be going as planned to the Steelers game on Sunday. I don’t care if I’ve got 300 THREAD COUNT SHEETS coming out of every GOLD-RIMMED CHAMPAGNE FLUTE on my DUCKLING. And that’s a fact.

OK, Internet. Enjoy your weekend, and hopefully I will be back and pestilence-free in a couple days. I’ve got a new installation of PAY IT FORWARD! for you, but for now, please accept my offering of Adorable Baby Photo:

Cures what ails me.

]]> http://jiveturkey.wordpress.com/2009/11/13/euphemism-friday/feed/ 16 mary pat andy MadLibs berries IMG_6986 http://jiveturkey.wordpress.com/2009/11/09/plagued/ http://jiveturkey.wordpress.com/2009/11/09/plagued/#comments Mon, 09 Nov 2009 21:50:59 +0000 jiveturkey http://jiveturkey.wordpress.com/?p=2173 ]]>

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.