I know you must be going through some trying times, and my heart goes out to you. But that does not excuse the fact that you some how gave my phone number instead of your own. Now I have lawyers and agents of sorts calling my phone trying to get a hold of you. They have been leaving me messages about how you filed for bankruptcy, and they need you to fill out some more paper work. Please use that opportunity to fill in the correct phone number.
Let me help: when the question asks for your phone number, you’re supposed to put your phone number in the blank, not mine. It’s pretty easy. I know you’re not so good with the numbers, which would explain the pickle you’re in right now, so I’ll have some grace with you, but next time, I may not be so sweet and patient.
I don’t have much to do in my day, and I’ll be honest, I am intrigued with your financial predicament, so in a way, the phone calls have been a welcomed treat. So, I am curious, how did you spend your money? What did you buy that caused you to go bankrupt? Was it a pony? Did you buy an island? A fast car? Is your wife mad at you? I’d be pretty mad, if I was her. Or maybe she’s the one that spent all the money. Did she buy a Birkin bag? Did she get some lipo? A boob job? Well, look on the bright side, at least they can’t take the boobies away…or can they?
Good luck with everything Hugo, I hope it all works out for the best.
Call me sometime, and let me know how everything is going…you have my number, it’s the one you keep giving out.
We are all so excited that the Pope is in America. Here are some pointers to remember when you meet him, brought to you by this guy:
Popetiquette: The Pontiff will always attempt to eat his soup course with a scepter until he is gently corrected by the host’s wife.
Popetiquette: The Pontiff will always offer the last scone to the least attractive person at his table; and you’re not allowed to cry.
Popetiquette: While dining with the Pontiff, if you stump him on New Testament trivia, he has to give you a piggyback ride around the table.
Popetiquette: If you find the Pontiff’s pot of gold, he has to grant you one wish.
Pat works upstairs. It’s like a little cave up there. He keeps it so cold and dark, and periodically precipitation drips from the stalagmites. Because he is tucked into the far left-quadrant of the house, I think he thinks his office is soundproof. But it’s not. Nope, not even a little bit. The thing of if is, Berlyn’s room is right next door, and when she is sleeping I go a bit nutty with any little noise. So if he takes a phone call, and his voice is too loud, I shush him, with my best librarian impression. He, of course hates this, and becomes deeply offended with my efforts to keep my baby sleeping soundly.
Oh, but then there’s the whistling– the stick bamboo shoots under your fingernails, whistling. I can’t blame my hatred of whistling on my husband, noo, I have reserved that bitter resentment for my brother, Jason. He has whistled ever since he was a wee lad, and I have hated it ever since. I don’t quite know what it is about the noise, but I can’t stand it. I don’t know, you’d think a breathy, high pitched, off key noise would be lovely, but no. It’s not. So, when Pat does it, I want to pluck out my leg hairs, and hand them over to him in a gravy boat.
Me: How do I say, “please close the door or stop whistling” without hurting your feelers?
Pat: Don’t say it at all; then no hurt feelings. Put on your headphones.
Me: But my feelings are hurt, because your whistling pierces me so deeply, I can feel it actually scratching my vena cava
Pat: Headphones, or earmuffs-your choice.
Me: But what about my vena cava?
Pat: It’ll be fine. Mental toughness.
Me: I don’t have any of that. I had it removed along with my unsightly mole.
Pat: Not true
We went to the beach this weekend, for two reasons: 1, it was bloody-hot, and 2, I got a new bathing suit. But really, if we’re being honest…the main reason we went to the beach was because I got a new bathing suit.
I need a vacation. I came to this realization at the precise moment that I was going number two in the downstairs bathroom. I drank an extra large cup of coffee this morning, which means I had the urge for a BM extra-immediately. I waddled into the bathroom and cracked the door–this was my mistake, I should have closed the door entirely. Mere seconds later, both my toddler and my pug came traipsing into the half-bath to begin their shenanigans. Berlyn was opening the cupboards and unrolling all the toilet paper, while Zoey was trying to eat my underwear and lick my shins–all while mama was trying to have some ‘quiet-time’. AHHRRHGG!!!
I wish I was here instead of getting my shins licked by an incredibly needy dog:
or here would be nice too:
But instead of whisking myself off to some foreign country, I have a feeling I’ll just have to plug my headphones into my iPod and just pretend, because I’ll most likely end up here:
How do families decide how many kids to bring into this world? You know what would be easier then deciding? If one day you opened your mailbox and found an especially official letter among the stacks of mattress ads. It would be the type of letter that you opened even before you got back into your home, because you were so intrigued with it. And inside it had a number. That’s all, just a printed number. 3. “Oh, honey we got our child quota today, I guess we can start trying.” BOOM, done, easy.
You know what is not easy? Trying to figure out if one is enough. I spent all weekend envisioning myself, our lives, and our family as just the three of us. And then I tried to envision adding more babies, and it made me a little swirly in the head. The hard part is, is that when I look ahead at my life in 10 years, I think of having 2 or 3 kids, but when I really see our lives now, and how it’s playing out right in front of me, I think, us and Berlyn is perfection. But there are so many pros and cons to this, almost to the point where I am split right down the middle. Thankfully I don’t have to worry about this too much, because I still have plenty of time to have more babies if we decided that is what we want. But wait– I don’t have that much time, because my eggs get older with each passing day. OH GOD, I don’t want to make a baby with old eggs! I wouldn’t even bake a cake with old eggs! I don’t have much time at all. When my mom was my age, she had two babies, ages 3 and 4 and was working on divorcing my father (the divorcing part is irrelevant to my point, but I just wanted to give you a little more background into my life). Crap. Maybe I should just get pregnant today, and say the hell with it.
We have evolved. The evolution I am referencing involves the varied car adornment to describe people’s family situation.
Remember the 80s–where people in boxy Volvos would stick that yellow diamond placard in their window cautioning others around them to drive more carefully because they have a “Baby on Board”?
Well, now people in rounded Volvos strategically place little replicas of themselves in the lower corner of their back window to emblematize their family. What says love more poignantly, than your family tree personified in skulls and crossbones? I don’t know, what do you guys think? Is this cute or incredibly lame?
You know that this is only happening in Orange County. And if you see a car with these stickers outside of Orange County, it’s because they are out of town.
Zoey has had the shits for a solid 18 hours now. But the thing of it is, it isn’t solid. It’s drippy and it’s all OVER OUR HOUSE. Last night she dumped on the rug we have under the kitchen table. She’s crapped there so much, I believe she thinks that that is an appropriate place to go. The poor rug looks heinous, but for some unexplainable reason we don’t get rid of the rug, nay, we clean the poop and try to not to talk about the dark discoloration it leaves behind. Shhh, it’s not really there. It’s not a fancy rug by any notion. But it looks cute under the table, and well…now it’s gone. Yup. I tried to steam clean it this morning, and the end result was even more heinous, so I threw it away. Good riddance.
Oh, but getting back to the reason I am selling my dog (quick side note: I’m not really selling my dog, but hey, if the price is right…), Pat and I were settling onto the couch last night with our assortment of chocolate goodies to eat while watching Top Chef–what is it about that show that makes me want to shove all kinds of food in my mouth and then do 100 sit-ups afterwards? Oh, right, it’s the stellar combination of amazing food and the super-hot host, Padma. That bitch. So Pat goes into the living room with his heaping bowl of coco pebbles, only to step into a gigantic mound of sick-doggie-poo! OH NASTY! After a threatening stream of four letter words towards our oblivious dog, we cleaned the shit and threw Pat’s sock into the HAZ-MAT waste barrel (what? you don’t have a HAZ-MAT waste barrel in your backyard for such occasions?? Weird). We put Zoey outside and brainstormed a host of things to do with her carcass after we finished hanging her by her toenails. We calmed ourselves enough to finish watching Top Chef (that show is brilliant by the way–oh, and the faux-hawk on that one dude could not be anymore out of place. He looks like a total douche). We finally let Zoey back in the house only to find her soaking wet. The sprinklers went on and watered the lawn and our dog with reclaimed water. SUPER! Not only does our dog’s ass smell like shit, but now her whole body smells like the inside of someone’s ear. Oh, and I forgot to mention that after every bout of diarrhea, we have to wipe her ass because if not, she’ll leave a poo-stamp on our furniture.
So… do I have any takers?
I did. It’s true. I went on a blind date with four other women bloggers. One of which was Bossy, who, by the way, has a perfect nose. Don’t ask me why, but these are the things I notice.
Our conversation fluxed between hearts, ears, chickens, and stripper poles.
Thanks ladies, that was fun.
Every Easter I get saddled down with a crap load of Peeps. As much as they look delectable, I have finally elevated my taste to not include the marshmellowly-neon replicas of chickens. So rather than eat my candied livestock, I’ve decided they should see the world:
Peeps enjoying fine dining
Peep on a tractor
Peep on a peach
Peep on a cow
Peep at fisherman’s wharf
Peep knocking at your front door
Peep on a plane
Peep at a junk yard
Peep on a train