That was something. If by “something,” I mean something horrible and soul-crushing and easily the most challenging two and a half days of my entire — no, seriously, ENTIRE — life.
(Warning. This is kind of painful, but I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO SAY. IT WAS THAT BAD AS MY TWITTER FOLLOWERS CAN ATTEST AS I LIVE-TWEETED THE HELLFIRE.)
The short version is this: I got the flu — the achy, shivering, feverish, want-to-die kind — plus barfing. The pukles! I GOT THEM! I woke up at 2 a.m. Wednesday morning thinking, boy, that London broil was a bad idea … I wonder if it was old? And by 3, I was in the bathroom, still holding onto hope that it was just a passing food thing when I realized, hm. Adam seems to be holding up just fine. By 7, I was starting to panic, and by 7:30, I was back in the bathroom ready to gouge my eyes out with my Venus razor. By 8, I realized desperately that Adam was leaving on a business trip (an interview in Boston, among other things), and I was supposed to go with him to visit my sister and have dinner with our friend Eve and there was no way in HIZELL I was going to make it.
Now all this seemed fine and good until I realized that while *I* was off the hook for traveling 300 miles (IN A CAR THAT WAS MOVING), Adam was still slated to be there, by hook or by crook, which meant that *I* was going to be home alone with a baby and a dog and The Pukles and … oh heavens, my friends, it was awful. Awful. AWFUL. It was EPIC in its awfulness, and I plopped my kid in front of the TV all day, every day (THE GUILT) and I watched the same! Laurie! Berkner! DVD! over and over again, and I acquainted myself with The Wonder Pets, and twice, I threw my screaming little baby into her crib while I desperately ran to the bathroom to throw up because she was doing something like reaching for the scissors on the counter and … oh.
Random aside: she’s effing tall enough to reach for shit on the counter. She’s not even 13 months old. She’s SO EFFING TALL, you guys, what is this MINIATURE GIANTESS I am raising?
Anyway, the whole thing was a horror show, and honestly, no exaggeration, CHILDBIRTH was easier than that shit, yo. CHILDBIRTH. I was in tears, I had a 102-degree fever, I was throwing up, I was desperate — oh, so desperate — for sleep and by the time Adam came home with sweet, sweet relief on Friday afternoon, the house looked like someone broke in, I hadn’t showered since Monday and Sam was happier than a pig in shit because she was basically wading in piles of it.
I tell you though, and I don’t mind saying this, for I feel I’ve earned it: When Adam came home, and everyone had survived? Dude. I felt like I was fucking BADASS, which is, when you think about it, ridiculous, but I’m telling you, it was like running five marathons with a colicky baby strapped to your chest while getting poked in the lady bits with a ceremonial sword or two. (Maybe the one Jacob and the Man in Black keep trading back and forth?) I LIVED. THE BABY LIVED. Oh y’all. I can do ANYTHING.
Meanwhile, the dog. My God, the dog. The dog was acting like some kind of FREAK DOG the whole time Adam was away — she followed me around underfoot, she barked at the air, she barely slept. Since he’s been home, she’s been passed out on his chest, snoring, every chance she gets. If I may anthropomorphize for a moment, I think she felt like she had to be on high alert because her alpha was gone. (I am not the alpha. Or even the beta. I’m pretty sure I’m her underling. She heeds the BABY better than she listens to me.)
Guarding the important people, before all hell broke loose.
Several epic naps, a husband who cleaned the entire house from top to bottom (including the CARPETS, people) and plenty of time lounging and I am almost recovered, at least physically. Mentally, it’s going to take some TIME, y’all. Like, YEARS.
In other news, I’m going to be in another Smart Pop book! This time in a guide for Glee! GLEE! It comes out in the fall, just in time for the second season. There’s also a contest if you want to submit your own essay on how Glee has impacted your life for a special section in the book.
GLEE!
GLEE!
Trust me when I say re-watching an entire season of Glee, over and over again (this time focusing on Mr. Schue and that irritating, no-good Emma Pillsbury. THAT’S RIGHT, I SAID IT. EMMA SUCKS.) is SO MUCH LESS TRAUMATIZING than two seasons of True Blood. (And infinitely easier than a day filled with C-SPAN.) TRUST ME. Let’s see: perky, whip-smart high school students embroiled in situations that don’t involve blood, guts and gore or John Boehner? Easy! Hell, after deconstructing two seasons of True Blood, teenage pregnancy seems downright wholesome.
And with that, happy Monday, y’all. May you all remain puke-free.
I can’t believe I neglected to mention that while watching Martha Stewart the other day, I witnessed her getting her exercise on a — well, it was on a stripper pole, friends. While she had the sense to turn down the request from the guest (a strip class instructor, natch) to do that upside-down stripper thing that probably has a more technical name other than “hump the pole upside down,” she still did that side swing thing that usually precedes it. I am completely traumatized, because again, if you missed it: MARTHA STEWART ON A STRIPPER POLE, DING DONG AND ALSO HALLO. During the same segment, she also admitted that she signed up for her first stripper-aerobics class and … well, God, thanks for the additional visual, Martha. Appreciate that.
I’m not sure if now is the time to admit that I have the television on almost the entire day while I’m home with Sam, but either way, there it is: I have the TV on quite a bit. I like to think I’d be one of those people who speaks of the evils of television and intelligently cites studies and articles about the loss of vocabulary in children who are exposed to it, and how television — even the most benign — encourages kids to be angry and violent, but I’m not. I can’t be. I want to be, but the truth is having adult conversation and adult themes in the background (even in the form of Martha humping the pole) is as important to me as it is to breathe.
The thing is, she doesn’t even look up at it or watch it. I am on the floor playing with my kid for most of the day. We read books at least three times every day. We have a ton of playdates and playgroups. We take time out to listen to music and dance around the living room. We build things with her kiddie-sized Legos, and I almost always catch her before she splits her lip on the coffee table. But yes, the television is on, and most days, I don’t feel bad about it, except when I do, which is also most days, when I worry that she’s going to become a non-verbal angry violent serial killer because I exposed her to too much Meredith Viera, and the occasional Bill Henrickson, including that very unfortunate time that he was boinking Margene.
***
Whenever I hear that someone is getting a divorce or is already divorced or is in the process of marital woe, I have an overwhelming urge to pick at it like a scab. If it’s a blogger, I go combing through the archives, desperately trying to find out what went wrong; I make three times the effort if I find out that they have children. I am of the futile mentality that by dissecting others’ relationships, I can prevent the same dynamics from occurring in my own marriage, as though fact-finding mixed with selfish, paranoid worry is protective, even though I am acutely aware that it isn’t.
I do this even though my marriage is among the most realistically happy I know. Some days I love him so much I can hardly contain myself. Like the love I feel for Sam, I want to pour him into a tall glass and drink him to make sure he’s comfortably inside me, safe and warm. Other days I wish we lived in a cartoon world where I could break him down limb by limb and put him in a wood chipper, taking immense pleasure in his demise, only to watch him put himself together again. Most days I just love him, and feel very lucky.
One of the awful, terrible, annoying side effects of parenthood is that I can no longer just enjoy American Idol for the fluffy piece of SPUN FLUFF it is meant to be. Oh no no no. I can’t even get off on watching the asshole kids who think they can sing screw up royally and stomp off into the ether. OH NO NO NO. NOPE. What am I doing instead? I’m getting choked up and upset and and thinking THAT IS SOMEONE’S CHILD. (Yes, feel free to punch me, because isn’t THAT annoying as fuck.) And when I *do* get angry? I’m angry at the parents. I’m angry that the parents encouraged their kid to make a total ass of themselves on national television and were so freakin’ BLINDED BY LOVE that they thought their child could sing!
Please. Please give me the wisdom and strength to stop my child from auditioning for American Idol if, indeed, she cannot sing. Give me the courage to redirect her into something she CAN do, even if that thing is something as mundane as BASKET WEAVING.
Speaking of my progeny, did I tell you guys we spent Friday afternoon at the pediatrician’s office because I found a — wait for it — LUMP in my child’s, um, BREAST? Yes. Fantastic. I mean, don’t you think ten months old is a bit YOUNG to initiate BSE’s? Seriously, y’all, it was a fracking MASS. A MASS. Well, it IS a mass, I should say. As it turns out, however, it is a normal mass, and the result of her picking up MY hormones in the womb and WOW BIOLOGY IS SOME FREAKY, DISTURBING SHIT.
In thrilling news, I have lost eight pounds. Eight! On my Wii Fit! For SERIOUS! Yes, there are diet changes as well, but honestly, nothing too drastic. I eat pretty healthily as it is, and though I cut my portions a little (and by “a little,” I mean, “Stop sticking your face in the feed bag like it’s some kind of endless TROUGH”). The worst part? You can’t even tell, swear to Jebus. You can’t tell! It’s all the SAME up in this piece. My Mii still has a muffin top, it still hollers at me that I’m overweight, and it STILL says “Oh!” in a horribly accusatory tone when I step on to start a new exercise. You guys, all I want to do is fit into my old jeans and pants so I don’t have to buy new ones. THAT IS ALL I WANT. Am lazy! And ironically, the way to maintain my laziness is to exercise. Yes, friends, in the battle between exercise and buying new clothes, I have chosen exercise as the lesser of two evils. That’s how much I hate shopping.
And finally, because a day is not a day unless I’m kvetching about something meaningless and yet strangely offensive to a select group of people: Do you know what I find very strange? When people parade their significant others out there as pieces of meat for others to envy. I find it weirder if it’s your husband. Yes, I get that you love him and yes, he’s adorable, but … I … what? Are you REALLY trying to make me COVET your husband? I think that’s odd! I do! I mean, do YOU like him? Awesome! Good thing you married him! Hooray for you! I love my husband, too.
Believe me, it’s not that I don’t want to hear about your relationship, because I do! I really do! And I’m SO GLAD he is awesome and I want to hear how thoughtful he is, because I think YOU are great and you deserve it, but I don’t … I don’t know, I guess there is a TONE in the way some people refer to their significant others that is a little ODD, and I am doing a VERY BAD JOB of explaining this, but I think it’s WEIRD when I’m being put into a position that, again, I’m feeling like you’re trying to make me JEALOUS of the fact that you have a hot husband and I … eh?
This is not limited to the blog world, I must hastily add. This is one of those UNIVERSAL phenomenons that perplexes me offline and on in equal measure.
Again, I ask, does this make sense?
No. No it doesn’t. BUT IT IS WEIRD, YOU MUST TRUST ME.
Happy Wednesday! I have to make three loaves of banana bread for playgroup, and again, I tell you, I’m starting to feel like I have an elementary schooler who constantly needs CUPCAKES. BAH.
You know what still grates my cheese from time to time? Before I had Sam and loved to sleep in, people really loved to act like it was a bad habit and helpfully remind me that once I had children, I wouldn’t be able to do it anymore. You know what? NO SHIT. But Jesus Christ, I KNEW THAT, and also, I maintain that it is an AWESOME habit, and everyone who can do it, should.
All those changes that happened when I had a baby were somewhat natural and easy, uh, relatively speaking. The whole thing is such a fucking shellshock that you’re not sitting around wondering why you’re not sleeping late, because you’re wondering why you’re not sleeping at all, I guess. I mean, you’re not going to sleep until 10 when you have a bleating newborn, and you just ADJUST. Yes, you’re tired, yes, it’s hard, but EEFRACKINGGADS, you can’t PLAN for them. And GOD it is so not HELPFUL to say that to someone who doesn’t have kids, and screeching, “You think YOU’RE tired!” is also not helpful and just makes someone feel shitty for no good reason. Childfree people: You are allowed to sleep late. You are ALLOWED to be tired and even complain about it. I chose to have kids, and I’m allowed to complain about it TOOO, but I’m not allowed to make you feel like your tiredness is INFERIOR TO MY TIREDNESS OH MY GOD.
P.S.: Sleep until 11 this weekend. FOR ME.
P.P.S. It seems I hold pointless grudges.
***
So I was watching SNL this weekend (Sunday morning, my pretties) and was once again smacked in the face with another nonsensical celebrity crush. No, not Andy Samberg, and at the rate my friends are crushing on him, he’s becoming almost MAINSTREAM, yo. And while yes, I ADORE Jason Sudeikis, who DOESN’T, I ask you? This was … well. It’s Bill Hader, okay? BILL HADER. The guy who walks around with a CREEPY FACE and DRINKS PEOPLE’S MILKSHAKES in a completely un-funny sketch and I … oh dear.
Bill Hader. John Malkovich. Gary Oldman. Did I say John Malkovich? MALKOVICH MALKOVICH MALKOVICH. Alan Rickman!
BILL EFFING HADER. GAWD.
I’m just grateful it isn’t Will Forte, is all I’m saying.
***
Sam has started talking a little, and it’s HYSTERICAL and also, the cutest thing I have ever seen. Thus far we have “doggie!” and “Dad-ee!” and “HIIIIII!” and they aren’t exactly crystal clear, but dude! She can SPEAK! And yeah, um, no “Mama” in there and I am TRYING NOT TO BE BITTER.
***
Speaking of Sam, I’ve posted it everywhere, but this OUTFIT. Seemed like SUCH A GOOD IDEA on the hanger, but on the body? GEEZUS. Circus music much?
***
MENSTRUAL-RELATED QUESTION, MALE EYES AVERT:
Since giving birth, I can’t use tampons. It’s not WORKING, people. IT IS NOT WORKING. There are MULTIPLE PROBLEMS, and ironically, none of them are because I have some kind of TWO-CAR GARAGE down there, but because … oh, forget it, I’m not even sure why, and I don’t even want to ANALYZE why. And I can’t find my Keeper, so I had to order a NEW ONE and folks, I’m using MAXI PADS. IT IS THE WORST TIME OF MY ENTIRE LIFE, this period. THE WORST. You know what makes it even worse? The dog. The dog taking maxi pads out of the garbage, eating them (OMFG) and leaving them all over the house. Like under the bed, where I have to fish them out with a goddamn COAT HANGER.
This is worse than CHILDBIRTH ITSELF AND I AM NOT KIDDING.
***
Ding dong, Heidi Montag plastic surgery, whaaa? No, really, WHAAAA? WHAAAAAA? THAT MUCH? Yes, she’s certifiable, but COME THE EFF ON, HEIDI.
***
A quick note about the book club: Even if you aren’t reading the specific book this month, there are some awesome conversations going on about OTHER books and OTHER genres and it’s morphed into a totally fun place in a totally unexpected way, and I encourage you to join if you read at all. For real. (And while it’s my thang, it’s not like I get PAID for you visiting or anything. It’s just been FUN.)
I tell you, one of the biggest cruel jokes is that when your baby starts sleeping through the night, you are more tired than you were than when she was getting up twice a night. Well, I am, anyway. What IS that? It’s like your body suddenly decides to break down and become a weak shell of its sleep-deprived self.
And. AND! When your kid DOES get up in the middle of the night, someone might as well have set off a gun over your bed, because WHAT THE EFF IS THAT NOISE?! WHAT IS THAT? A teething Sam woke up shrieking at 4 a.m. today, and both Adam and I jerked bolt upright, staring at each other through the foggy veil of sleep wondering WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? Did someone BREAK IN? Oh Christ, it’s the BABY. And I was so ridiculously out of it that I pumped a big ole money shot of Motrin directly into her hair, requiring multiple trips to the living room and dragging out the entire process in a manner that my more-efficient sleep-deprived self would have SCOFFED AT.
I know. World’s tiniest violin, what with my sleeping baby, I know. I don’t blame you.
I went to a wonderful playdate today at my friend Kate’s house (hi, Kate!) for the first time, and though I got there with relative ease, I made a wrong turn on the way back and ended up in some ENDLESS LOOP of Green Mountains, which sounds idyllic and charming, but really felt like some sort of awful blend of Groundhog Day and Deliverance, because — as is typical in Vermont — there was no cell service for most of the drive. As I said to Kate later, I was POSITIVE I ended up in a wormhole and if I tried to go BACK to Kate’s to figure out where I went wrong, her house wouldn’t even be there anymore, and I would be forced to figure out how Sam and I could survive living in an apartment above a store named Jaques, which is mysteriously pronounced JAKE’S, and what IS THAT? JAQUES = JAKES? WHO IS JAQUE? And I didn’t even notice an APOSTROPHE.
This, along with macaroni and cheese loaf (LOAF. IN THE DELI CASE. SLICED FOR SANDWICHES. WITH CREEPY GROUND MEAT IN IT) will remain one of Vermont’s most enduring mysteries.
At any rate, because I mentioned them the other day, and a few people asked and because I like accountability, here are my 2010 goals to date. This seems terribly self-serving and obnoxiously narcissistic, so just please know that I’m self-conscious about it, and don’t blame you one whit if you don’t care. I PROMISE.
Oh, I want to add more, but it’s a start. Some, however, are shamelessly stolen from Jennie. And if I may say so, number one on this list is so far making me SO EFFING HAPPY! You guys simply rule, and the discussions people are having, and the fact that people are reading the books and talking about OTHER BOOKS and I love you, man. There’s no other way to say it.
1. Organize and launch an online book club (CHECK CHECK CHECK BOOK LUSHES CHECK)
2. Read at least 30 books
3. Submit for-fun, non-blog, non-paid (yet!) writing to at least three new places (one down!)
4. Get my fingers thin enough to wear my wedding rings again (yes, seriously, it’s been A YEAR)
5. Buy a really great pair of expensive jeans
6. Find a decent babysitter and leave Sam with someone other than a relative
7. Attend BlogHer ’10
8. Take Samantha to the beach
9. Plan a real family vacation
10. Buy a really great piece of original art.
11. Find a financial planner
12. Take Samantha to meet her great-grandfather and extended family she hasn’t met yet
13. Donate my time and/or items (food, clothing, money) to at least one charity every month
14. Have a piece of clothing custom-made
15. Become strong enough to do a real push-up
16. Make Adam’s birthday as special as he made mine
17. Go away for the weekend with just Adam
18. Call my brother every two weeks
19. Get a decent calendar and write every birthday in it
20. Come up with one signature dinner dish and one baked good to cook for guests/bring places
21. Frame all of the unframed pictures and art in our home
22. Take one picture every day (already failed, but tomorrow is a NEW DAY)
23. Make salted caramels
24. Redesign my blog
25. Wear makeup at least once a week
26. Introduce Sam to her Auntie Meredith and meet her little peanut when she arrives
27. Learn to make bastilla
And with that, I hope you have a fantastic Wednesday.
So! If you were interested in the book club, it’s live! It’s live! It’s still morphing and will no doubt improve (I hope!) as time goes by, but we’ve got members! And discussions!
Yo yo yo, the houseguests are gone, the short ribs and lasagna have been eaten, but slimy sick baby remains! The Nosefrida has been in steady use and BLEEEEAAARRRRRGH.
That’s all I have to say about that, I promise. But that’s where I’ve been, if you were wondering. And because I am exhausted, despite the fact that my kid is now fairly consistently sleeping through (THROUGH) the night (OMFG THE NIGHT), this will be brief.
- For the holidays/my birthday, I got both a Keurig and a Wii Fit. (Yes, I know, I am spoiled, and I have no idea why, but Adam went a little OVERBOARD this holiday season.) To say I am thrilled with both is a VAST UNDERSTATEMENT, and I am hula hooping my ASS off, quite literally, although I am a little embarrassed about that time that my Mii dropped the hoop and I — my actual, non-Mii self — BENT OVER TO PICK IT UP. A FAKE HULA HOOP THAT ONLY EXISTS ON TEEVEE.
And also! I am HIGHLY CAFFEINATED. When I first got the Keurig, I was so excited to be able to make a cup of coffee whenever I wanted that I spent three solid days drinking five to six cups a day. A DAY. I did not sleep! I was having LEG CRAMPS AT NIGHT FROM CAFFEINE-INDUCED DEHYDRATION! And yet, I could not be stopped. I have since purchased several non-caffeinated K-cup varieties, and have removed my body from the ceiling, though it required some assistance.
- Speaking of leg cramps, a side effect of one of my medications is RLS — better known as FUCKING JIMMY LEGS. Suddenly, all of those ads for Requip make a lot of sense, because every night, I climb into bed to read before nodding off and though I can hardly keep my eyes open, it’s taking EVERYTHING I HAVE to stop myself from running around the kitchen island until the feeling passes. Why, jimmy leg, WHY?
- In BOOK CLUB NEWS, we’re announcing the book Monday! It has already been selected! And I am finalizing the place where we will discuss and enjoy! AT OUR LEISURE! I have not forgotten you, friends! It was just … the holidays and then the guests and the sick baby and OY HOW DOES IT ALL HAPPEN AT ONCE?
- I … well, that’s kind of all I’ve got, although I DID put together a list of 2010 goals, like my girl Jennie, and I am EXCITED about them. EXCITED.
And with that, I’ll leave you with my happy bunny, smiling through the snot, yo.
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.)
