Oh Christmas, how I am happy to be on THIS side of you, rather than the BEFORE side. I believe it was … three days, maybe? … before Christmas, that my effing toilet exploded all over everything and at one point, without going into details, led to me traipsing through the house with a bucket of water that could only be described as SULLIED. An entire day of plunging and waiting, plunging and waiting, and at one point, I listened to Google Plumber and found myself dumping a large amount of Tide into my toilet bowl. Yes, TIDE. It didn’t work, and I don’t recommend you give it a whirl (OH A TOILET PUN, HOW CHARMING), because it will only result in BLUE sullied water, and multiple trips through the house with buckets of sullied blue water.
But Christmas itself! Oh, man. Samantha has no real awareness of WTF Christmas even IS, but I can’t say it wasn’t fun anyway. And then, two days later, I turned 34. 34! To me that seems objectively OLD. Cougar-like. NOT YOUNG. I mean, it’s my MID-THIRTIES, for chrissake, and any hope I had of retaining age-related envy by anyone under the age of, say, sixty, evaporated when I blew out the candles. I feel 32. I feel EXACTLY 32, and while I realize that’s not a significant difference in any way whatsoever, I suspect that I will feel 32 for many, many years. I would like to stay 32. Old enough to know who you are, but young enough to still be considered youthful and vibrant. 34 is inching out of that sweet spot, is all I’m saying.
I know 2009 sucked for a lot of people. I know it did, and I hate that. But man, for me, it was nothing short of the best yet. I can’t imagine a bad day, week, month or year, so long as Adam and wee little Beeber McSteebs are in it.
I hope you had a fantastic holiday, and are hurtling toward an outstanding new year.
(Edited because I realized it wasn’t clear and also, a comment: Good holy SHIT, these are NOT ALL FOR HER OMFG. These are all the gifts for NINE — no, TEN — people. And three of the gifts are for the DOGS. And some of the gifts are SOCKS and AS SEEN ON TV GADGETS.
As Samantha becomes more and more mobile, I find myself NOT seized with pride and admiration for how much my girl has grown and how adorably proud she is as she peeks her head over the coffee table as she (oh my God), pulls up to a near-stand on it, oh no. Instead, I am literally — no, LITERALLY — thinking, there must, SURELY THERE MUST, be a way that I can delay this? I’m not ready for her to be bonking her head and landing face first into the kitchen tile, and I am MOST DEFINITELY not ready for her to be pulling the baby gate down from in front of the fireplace and pulling it on top of her like some kind of miniature Steven Seagal in a harrowing cruise ship scene. I actually considered, for a good hour or two, mind you, that if *I* stopped walking, she would forget that she’s descended from homo erectus, and perhaps consider reverting to homo crawldownus, at least for a little while longer.
Because Jesus, the head bonking! The tears as she decides, out of fracking NOWHERE, that no, actually, instead of sitting, she’d like to lounge on her back with a nice cup of water. Oh, is that her tub of Legos behind her? Well, FUCK, that HURTS, what the HELL? Woe! Wailing! Confusion! Oh, and if you were thinking of turning around to, say, pick up the dog dishes before she pours Sunny’s water all OVAH her head, THINK AGAIN. Because in the .02 seconds it will take you to do THAT, she’ll have tangled her torso in your laptop cord and is bleating confusedly while somehow — SOMEHOW — simultaneously bringing the power strip (THE ONE THAT YOU HID) to her wee little mouth, oh my FUCK.
It’s a circus. A freakin’ circus and she’s only ONE TINY PERSON. And it’s going to get WORSE oh my God, when she starts Frankensteining around this place like a tiny DRUNK-ASS BABY and I have a headache just thinking about it.
She’s also STILL at the point where she is SO FREAKING BUSY that she can’t wind down at the end of the night, no matter how tired she is, and oh, fret not, her GENIUS PARENTS are contributing to such madness. For every night, we have been saying “Night-night!” and having her wave goodbye as she heads into bed. It is very EXCITING to wave night-night, apparently, and she can’t turn it off, so for the first fifteen minutes of crib time, she just lays there like a pickle, staring at her waving arm thinking, “What the … this is so STUPID. Why am I doing this?” (I don’t have a good answer, kid) and she can’t turn it off! She waves all night! She wakes herself up fucking WAVING, PEOPLE. EVERY FEW HOURS WITH THE WAVING. And then once she’s waving, she might as well be trying to pull up, because why not? She ain’t got SHIT TO DO but lay there and maybe sleep, but she’s too BUSY FOR THAT SHIT, YO. LET ME PULL UP ON THIS HERE CRIB AND SHOW YOU MAH SKILLZ.
OH MY GOD.
Ahem. Sorry. It’s just that it’s been a little exhausting around these parts lately, but in a good way. I mean, she is SO FUN and FUNNY and lights up like a freakin’ menorah when I walk into the room, assuming she let me leave it in the first place. But MAN, I do believe we have entered the phase of childhood where I can kiss goodbye the idea of ever pooping alone again.
In other news, we finally caved and bought a Wii for Christmas. Yeah, I know, vacuum cleaner, I KNOW, we suck, I KNOW. It was an IMPULSE BUY and I spent the better part of the weekend playing tennis with my Mii, and you know, I wasn’t good at tennis when my parents made me take lessons THEN, and I’m not good at tennis NOW, even when it’s fake tennis, with no running involved. And perhaps MORE pathetic is that I am SORE from non-running tennis and also, a little boxing, and am feeling like maybe I burned a few extra calories … no? No. Whatever.
So! A few other things, in brief:
— I *think* I found a solution and format for the book club, and will be posting something either later this week or just after Christmas. I’m also sloooowly e-mailing all of you back, but don’t panic yet if you don’t have one, because, you know, it’s Christmas, my kid is a freakin’ TRANWRECK and there are an assload of you and also, I sort of suck.
What Jennie and I have been thinking is that we’ll keep it simple and fun and easy for people to be a part of — people can contribute/talk as much as they want to, but the official-like stuff, I’d like to keep relatively easy. Who the hell wants to be a part of something that sucks up all of your time and isn’t fun, because it’s a fracking JOB? No one.
So we were thinking we’d require that everyone be a part of book chats no more than five nights a week, for, say, an HOUR at most. Does that work for everyone?
(I KID I KID OH MY GOD.)
— I continue to be fascinated by TigerGate, and sort of, well, sickened, because again, no matter what she knew, did she REALLY think 12 mistresses? Really? And WHAT, pray tell, did Rachel Uchitel have on the guy that no one else had to earn a bigger payout than Elin will probably get at the end of their marriage? (Damn you, Florida, and your fucking no-fault laws. DAMN YOU! *shakes fist*) I WONDER.
— Ding dong. Brittany Murphy. Whaaa? Sad, yes. Surprising? No. Come on. The woman was a LOLLIPOP ON A STICK and clearly … troubled. Ahem. And yes, I find it fascinating how people become deified in death. First Michael Jackson, now Brittany Murphy. Oddly, this ties into an entire topic that I think about far too much than is healthy, which is the way people handle tragedy on Twitter, and by “people” I don’t mean the people suffering the tragedy, I mean the creepy hangers-on who use someone else’s tragedy to somehow further their own agenda and turn it into some kind of creepy CAMPAIGN. Some things don’t need a Twibbon, is all I’m saying. And if something, God forbid, happens to me or someone I love? I will fucking RIP YOUR THROATS OUT if you start a Twibbon campaign.
— I am disappointed in our government right now, on about a thousand levels. DISAPPOINTED. You know what I wish sometimes? I wish Obama was a little like George W. Bush. No no, not THAT way. I mean in the way that Bush and his cronies just bullied the SHIT out of people to get shit done. For chrissake, the man passed the PATRIOT ACT, one of the biggest travesties in our nation’s history. THE PATRIOT ACT. All of these douchebags referring to Obama as a socialist and is behaving like a dictator? OH HO HO HO, sometimes I wish he would actually ACT LIKE ONE, since he’s being accused of it and all. (I KID KIND OF) At least we wouldn’t be dicking around in this pile of SHIT and getting our asses handed to us by a bunch of manipulative right-wing pundits who know their way around rhetoric so that people who don’t actually believe that our nation is being DESTROYED by health care reform and that Obama is related to HITLER are SOMEHOW BELIEVING IT.
SHUT UP. (I wanted the public option. So sue me.)
— Lately, the word “swollen” has been creeping me out. My mind goes to unsavory things. It’s right up there with ENGORGED.
Happy Monday! Week ‘O Christmas. HAHAHAHAHA, oh God.
*BOOK CLUB UPDATE: I’m gathering all of your e-mail addresses (and holy, uh, HELL, there are a lot of you. Which: HOORAY!) and will send an update next week. If you don’t hear from me individually yet, please don’t panic! I’m just looking into the best way to manage this so that we all get something out of it. So far, there are several really good options.
Happy reading! (And no, our first book isn’t The Historian. I promise. It’s Sarah Palin’s “Going Rogue,” of course.)
(I KID. And that joke was Jennie’s, not mine, but AHOY did it make me laugh laugh laugh.)
So, what’s new with you? Not much here, except that I goatse’d half the Internet by mentioning it on Twitter, and let me just state for the record for all of you who do not yet know what it is: It is a photo of the inside of a man’s anus. There you go. People used to do it the way they were Rickrolling for a while, and apparently it’s gone so far out of vogue (I think it started in 1999?) that no one is even doing it anymore, and there is an ENTIRE NEW GENERATION OF PEOPLE who have yet to be goatse’d. Well, worry not, I took care of them. Everyone has been goatse’d! My work here is done.
Next up: Two girls, one cup! Tubgirl hidden in a bit.ly address promising cupcakes and happy times!
Secondly, have you seen this sketch from Saturday’s SNL? I know I already talked about the episode and, uh, young lad Lautner, but you should know that almost four days later, I am STILL quoting this bad boy, and just now, as I entered my house, I announced, “DING DONG! Hanukkah house! HALLO!”
Also, related to nothing, my kid has super-curly hair and I … don’t. Like, not even a little. And I have NO IDEA how to take care of it. She came by it honestly, as her father, grandmother and aunt (all three of whom she resembles more than her mother) have seriously kinky hair. As does she. Exhibit A:
Taken just after a bath. Ignore bizarre deer-in-headlights expression.
And finally, and the real purpose for this whole post, hence the fluff (PUN INTENDED), Jennie and I were discussing the idea of starting a book club on Twitter today, and then we mentioned maybe we should do an ONLINE book club and then approximately ELEVENTY THOUSAND PEOPLE were all, OH YES, PLEASE and then we thought, hm! Why not? We can DO this shit, yo!
Anyone is welcome to join, whether you’re a blogger or, uh, Tweeter (Twitterer?) or anything. You need nothing but yourself, yo.
So the next step is, if you’re interested, please leave me a comment or drop me an e-mail at jonniker AT gmail DOT com or do the same to Jennie, and we’ll figure out how to proceed with our first book. We may divide into smaller groups or we may be the world’s largest online book club. The world is our Historian. (OH HA HA HA PAGE 350 BITCHES. HALFWAY THERE.)
I have a zit at the end of my nose, and though Adam never mentioned it, while heading to lunch today, he suggested I “guide the way,” and then I realized he was also singing, “…then one foggy Christmas eve …” under his breath.
Nice, right? My husband, ladies and gentlemen.
Hey, I’m, um, STILL READING THE HISTORIAN, and anticipate that I will be until the new fracking year, after which I plan to pick up something light, fluffy and made of marzipan and rainbows. I’ve put myself on a diet of sorts, wherein I’m not allowed to add anything new to my reading list until I finish five books that are already on it, because nothing makes me want to weep more than a to-read list of more than 75 books. Come to think of it, however, I doubt that 70 will be any less daunting. My attitude may change, however, when I’ve finished this weirdly enjoyable literary albatross that I just can’t bring myself to quit.
Bullets of nothingness ahoy!
— I watched SNL this weekend (Sunday morning, natch), and was … well, let’s just say that I was having some thoughts of the impure variety about Taylor Lautner and felt shockingly inappropriate about the whole thing. I mean, he’s SEVENTEEN. My age would send him into apoplectic FITS, not to mention the fact that ogling him is borderline ILLEGAL. I mean if my husband were drooling over a 17-year-old, I’d be grossed out and lecturing him about how it’s INAPPROPRIATE and how she’s young enough to be his DAUGHTER and … oh my God. OH MY GOD, I just realized that I really AM old enough to be Taylor Lautner’s mother. Assuming I had him when I was HIS AGE.
Oh my God. GROOSSSSS.
(But so delicious.)
(It’s worth noting that while calculating how old I would have been had I BEEN Taylor’s mother, I a) had to use my calculator on my computer, why yes, I really did; and b) actually thought my calculator was BROKEN when it kept saying 17 over and over again when I hit the equal sign after subtracting 17 from 34. I went so far as to say it OUT LOUD that my Mac’s calculator was BUSTED, because it WOULD NOT SUBTRACT 17 FROM 34, WHAT THE FUCK? I even used another calculator online! Just to check! Okay, TWO OF THEM. And thought, hm, maybe I don’t know what the minus sign looks like anymore, because it just KEEPS SAYING 17 WHAT THE FUCK? Ten minutes — yes, really, TEN MINUTES — later, I realized that 17+17 = 34. My math skills are truly something to behold. Good thing I never worked in finance! OH WAIT.)
— My daughter is at going through a stage where she is Very Busy, and she is Very Busy learning a staggering amount of new skills like waving bye-bye! And sitting up like a big girl! And pushing buttons to make things happen on her toys! And all these things sound ridiculous, because we can ALL wave goodbye, GOD, but to her, these are VERY BIG DEALS and she is Very Busy and she needs to practice these new exciting things and as a result, she does not want to sleep, because sleep interferes with being Very Busy learning Very Important Things.
It also results in expecting fracking BOUQUETS OF FLOWERS and JOY every time she accomplishes said new skills. Cute, right? Yes, yes, cute. But when she’s beaming with pride every time she pushes a button and expects you to reward her with an explosive reaction at 6 a.m. because she made the froggy sing, it can be … exhausting. Yes, child, you made the frog sing because you pushed the button. THAT IS WHAT THE BUTTON IS FOR. YOU DID NOT SOLVE A MYSTERY.
— In no-shitter news, it’s amazing how much more manageable the cold weather is when you dress appropriately for it. One of the best things about not working in an office is that I don’t have to wear office-appropriate clothes and if it’s wintry, I can just wear what’s WARM, rather than what’s CUTE. And while I’d normally post this sort of thing on Style Lush, this is … not stylish, but BOY HOWDY, is it ever WARM, even in the frigid temperatures of Vermont’s winter and LOOK AT ME, I’m finally DRESSING FOR THE WEATHER LIKE A GROWN-UP. Behold, the Land’s End Squall Parka, on sale right now.
Speaking of Style Lush, have you seen this gift guide? One hundred twenty-five gifts under $25. Good gifts. For real. Also, I did a gift guide for kids, and do you know why I’m not linking to it now? Because almost everything on it is sold out everywhere. Could it be the power of my gift guide? Doubtful, but guess who didn’t get to buy anything on it? Oh that’s right: ME.
So! Look, I can’t help myself, I am effing RIVETED by the Tiger Woods saga. The more sordid and nasty it gets, the more interested I become, sick as it sounds. It’s fascinating to me for about, oh, A THOUSAND REASONS, but the way celebrity images are so carefully constructed, despite our tabloid culture, is amazing. Yes, there are many celebs who are overexposed and victimized by the paparazzi and tabloids, but there are several who seem to be shrouded in a cocoon of safety, and the media plays right along, because if they didn’t, they’d be denied access. Tiger Woods was SO PROTECTED by the media, particularly the golf mags, because they needed him. Like, they KNEW he was a dirty dog, and yet they totally looked the other way. FASCINATING.
And then? BADAM! Some shit hits the fan and all bets are off. Michael Jordan. Kobe Bryant. Tiger Woods. It’s FASCINATING. Oh, they were the GOLDEN BOYS. And then … not so much. Incidentally, Angelina Jolie is still protected, and her bizarre hold over the media was explored in a killer NY Times article that I am too lazy to go find, but dude, it makes SENSE and her day of reckoning is COMING.
It’s so INTERESTING, as both an avid celeb-watcher and former-but-sometimes-current journalist. An assload of rules and disclosure and reporting just … ignored, for the sake of access and continuity. Sarah Palin only WISHES she had that kind of protection from our liberal elite media.
The OTHER THING — and I know this is unpopular — is that I think that if you’re going to marry a famous person, particularly a professional athlete or a rock star-type, then you should know what you’re getting into. In other words? Expect infidelity. Sorry. SORRY! I’m not saying it’s RIGHT, but I am saying it’s LIKELY, and I’m not sure, given the insanely INSANE circumstances surrounding certain types of celebrity (rockstars and pro athletes have groupies! And naked women throwing themselves at them ALL THE TIME), that it’s even a REALISTIC EXPECTATION that your husband will be faithful. In addition to the hot naked women throwing themselves at you, there is ALSO the creepy sense of entitlement and sycophantic entourage brought on by a lifestyle of always getting EXACTLY what you want without having to work for it. I mean, marriage is HARD, and if some woman over there in a thong promises an escape, maybe even a better lifestyle, one in which she will never wear her period underwear or nag you about taking out the garbage? A little tempting, but resistible. But HUNDREDS of them, asking nothing in return except the thrill of a dalliance with a celebrity and maybe a little cash? HELLA IMPOSSIBLE TO RESIST, I’m guessing, especially if your lifestyle exploits AND masks your character flaws.
And all of this, for some people, can give them the sense that they are untouchable and, I don’t know, DESERVE naked romps with bethonged floozies, and that if they indulge, they won’t get caught, because bitches, don’t you know who I AM?
But let’s pretend that I went into a celebrity marriage with the knowledge that infidelity was inevitable. OH YES, LET’S. Even *I* would be pissed off that it came out that my husband had no fewer than ten LONG-TERM mistresses. I mean, it’s one thing to take the attitude that Dee Snider’s wife has — that sex with whores and floozies doesn’t matter, and I know this because I watched VH1’s “Rock Star Wives” oh yes I did — but QUITE ANOTHER to have relationships that go on for YEARS behind my CHILDBEARING HIPS, you motherfucker, you.
Incidentally, all of this is something that Adam and I have discussed multiple times and once, it led to a ridiculous near-tears altercation wherein I tried to make him promise on his LIFE that if he ever became a (oh my God) FAMOUS RAPPER, that he wouldn’t give in to temptation no matter how many women threw their underwear onstage, and that he would always love me, stretch marks and all. I should point out that my husband is a technology geek-type who is, as far as I know, in no danger of becoming a rapper of any kind, much less the next Eminem, AND he’s the most faithful guy who ever lived, AND right about now all the men reading are silently thanking God that they are not married to me.
And you know what ELSE? I am immensely irritated by people who claim to be above caring about such things. I mean, I GET that not everyone is all in to pop culture but MAN it really grates my cheese when Twitter is abuzz with a bunch of sanctimonious snobbypants who rant and rave that what Tiger does with his penis is HIS BUSINESS and it is NOT NEWS and how celebrities are JUST HUMAN and OH SHUT UP WE SHOULD ALL BE FOCUSED ON REAL NEWS. And it happens EVERY TIME there’s something fluffy that’s in the news. PUH-LEEZE. For God’s sake, I was a JOURNALIST. And yet? Schadenfreude! It’s what’s for breakfast, lunch AND dinner, and I’m sure it will be in even greater abundance when Miley Cyrus releases her version of Poison’s “Every Rose Has Its Thorn,” because OH MY GOD, SERIOUSLY.
Why yes, my friends, I DID just devote an entire post to Tiger Woods, but everyone in my real life is just plain OVER me talking about it all the time, so here! You get to hear ALL ABOUT IT.
So, this is going to sound ridiculous, but right now, I’m reading The Historian, and this thing, it is like … like … an EFFING HAIRSHIRT, and it’s sort of taking over my life. It just sits there, glaring at me, all 600-something pages of it, waiting for me to pick it up and figure out a goddamn way to get through it before the end of the next DECADE.
It’s so up my alley! Dracula! Vampires! Travelogue-like writing style and lots of interesting European places visited and described! Except, OH YOU GUYS, it is like a loaf of canned Boston brown bread soaking in Guinness, THAT’S HOW DENSE IT IS. There are entire chapters devoted to describing a MOUNTAINTOP — yes, whole CHAPTERS! But no no, you cannot skim those chapters, because hidden in all this flowery mountain talk is one sentence — ONE! — that is integral to the entire story. DOUBLEYOU TEE EFF.
And yet, I will not — nay, I CANNOT — stop, because again with the vampires and Dracula and the supernatural, and as I keep saying to everyone who will listen, oh my HELL, look for my review on Goodreads sometime around 2012, when the goddamn WORLD IS ENDING ANYWAY.
(Random aside that I am embarrassed to be adding, but look, my love for vampires goes way back to … middle school, I think, when I became creepily obsessed with Elizabeth Bathory, and sometimes I think, oh my God, my poor mother. What the hell was she thinking? Was she WORRIED about me, this little 12-year-old trying to take books out of the library on a woman who BATHED IN THE BLOOD OF VIRGINS?)
(Random OTHER aside is that if we are not friends on Goodreads, we should be, because Goodreads and me, we are BFF, and I want to be yours, too.)
So! A few things:
— Adam and I are not romantic, gift-y people. Sometimes this makes me sad, but usually it makes me happy and relaxed, because the truth is, we are both the exact same way about it, which could also be interpreted that we are both equally lazy, who knows. We observe birthdays, and we usually get each other something biggish, but anniversaries are celebrated with some together time and … that’s about it. And we’ve skipped Christmas/Hannukah for each other for I think the last three years. Last year, we decided to get each other a baby and all baby-related accoutrements, and this year, our gift to each other is a … a … well, look, it’s a new vacuum, there’s no other way to put it. We’re buying each other a new vacuum, which is sad and pathetic, but also VERY EXCITING and we are both VERY EXCITED and have been drooling over new vacuums online and doing all this research with the knowledge that shortly a new vacuum will be OURS, and we’ve actually had CONVERSATIONS about how fun it will be to use a new vacuum. (We both vacuum the house, and in fact, if I’m being honest, he probably does it more than I do. We might not be romantics, but if you think a man who cleans isn’t romantic, who are you?)
But still, a vacuum for Christmas is the saddest thing ever, right? Sad. I know. SAD.
— I can’t quite get it through my head that I’m supposed to be brushing my kid’s teeth. I mean, they’re NUBS, and there are only TWO OF THEM. I’m sure some supermoms have been out there swabbing their kids’ gums with gauze since birth, like all the baby books say to, but my kid will barely let me get a Nuby SPOON in there, so color me skeptical about the prospects for oral hygiene in the under-one set around these parts. I have the baby-friendly toothbrush and the toothpaste, but that is the extent of my efforts thus far and I’m not looking forward to the next step. (NUBS)
— Twice now, I’ve seen the strangest commercial that I’m just not sure what to do with and I … well, it suggests a PAP SMEAR as an appropriate holiday gift and I don’t even know where to go from here. A PAP SMEAR. Adam and I don’t DO gifts for each other, but I’ll tell you if he scheduled my pap smear and pawned it off as an actual GIFT, I would be less than pleased.
Oh, and a quick discussion on Twitter tells me that they had a Hanukkah version as well. In which a man compares a pap smear to a … schmear of cream cheese? Yes, really. A schmear. Oh, and a prostate exam is kosher and I can’t help but feel like there’s something less than kosher about the language here. And thanks to Metalia, here’s the link. Hello, I am dead.
Or, you know, UNDEAD, or soon-to-be, as I’m off to tackle The Historian. Tonight’s goal is a lofty FIVE WHOLE PAGES of fountain talk. See you in 2012! I’ll be the woman with the BLOODIED THIGH.
My parents got her an Anywhere Chair for Christmas and she grins like a total fool every time I put her in it.
That was ROUGH, yo. No one slept! Well, she did, but I did not, because the only way SHE could sleep was attached to my boob. Yes, really, and of course I let her, because come on, it was FLUBABY, and she was so very sick, the poor little punkin pie. And I am BEHIND on … everything. Everything under the sun. Adam and I were consumed with sick baby, he was consumed with helping me out with all the other stuff, and it’s insane how a tiny person can take up so! much! time! while doing nothing but sitting in your arms and moaning piteously.
But! We’re better. I’m just catching up on everything and it ain’t pretty. Our house looks like someone broke in, threw everything around and left. There are bills that want to be like, PAID or something, and God, seriously, our universe is a fucking train wreck, from ONE FRACKING FLU. And holy shit, there is sleeping that needs to be done, because we are all SO TIRED from the all-night Flubaby fests, and oh my God, you do not care about this one whit, so HERE, here’s another picture of my happy, healthy bunny in her new chair.