Ten Days

So, OOPS, I did not mean to neglect this blog for nearly a week, but I had a busy Friday, and then a busy weekend, and then a busy start to the week which involved the submission of two massive proposals, one of which included the words “penis” and “vagina,” and hey, why isn’t anyone else on this conference call giggling except for me?

“You GUYS! He just totally said VAGINA!”

Hulkin’ Out

One of my newest very favorite things on the Internet is DRUNKHULK, my friends. Visit, and be amused.

THOOOM, indeed.

Taking Requests

A few years ago, I attended the wrap-up party for a conference that Brad’s place of employment was hosting in our fair city (remember, SF Reader?). It was lots of fun: booze, cupcakes, music, booze, some dude who ended up with his tie wrapped around his head. As I am quite fond of laying my stank down on the dance floor, I sidled up to the DJ table at one point to request a song or two. Actually, let me rephrase that: I sidled up to the table of the HIGHLY TRAINED MUSICAL ART-EESTE (i.e., the 23-year-old grad student) who had so generously deigned to spend a few hours bathing us in the healing radiance of his funky freshness — not that any of us mere mortals could even begin to APPRECIATE said freshness — in exchange for our swooning adoration (and probably $45).  Unbeknownst to me, one does not  just REQUEST A SONG from such a god-amongst-men. He is not here to play  “Strokin’,” HE IS HERE TO CREATE ART!

Which was a bit confusing because he had just taken a request to play “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit’ It,” but I digress.

What Would Julia Sugarbaker Do?

[First things first: THANK YOU so much for commenting to wish Sadie a happy birthday. It’s meant a lot to me to share her first year with you guys, and it’s helped me immeasurably to be able to turn to you and this blog for record-keeping/whining/advice/sappy reflection. Thanks also for commenting to tell my sick ass to feel better. I’m feeling a little less like complete and total ASS today, and just scarfed down a huge egg and cheese bagel, so…let’s hope that was a good idea.]

Internet, I wrote once before (a looong time ago) about how I’m not the world’s most assertive soul, despite being exposed to the likes of Claire Huxtable and Julia Sugarbaker during my childhood. Well, in the wake of Dixie Carter’s passing, I thought I’d offer a send up to everyone’s favorite fictional sharp-shoulder-pad-wearing interior designer from Atlanta.

I urge you to HOLLA with respect.

Germ Warfare

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good Advice

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

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

People Who Need Smacked

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

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

Check Yo’self Before You Wreck Yo’self

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

Good Lord.