Photography. EVERY TIME.

(Noah and Jason continue to hold on and fight the good-immune-system fight. Ezra has moved on from Pedialyte to bananas and toast, with distinctively mixed results. I am fighting off an encroaching post-stomach-flu sinus infection, because why the hell not? And Ike thinks it's all a bunch of malingering bullshit and would like to go to the playground already, GOD.)

(In other words, hav sum pitchers. Hork.)

PHASE ONE: 

Behold, a photo opportunity!

PHASE TWO: 

A CHALLENGER APPEARS.

PHASE THREE:

A pile-on quickly follows.

PHASE FOUR:

Poorly-focused and unsynchronized hamming, but still with some promise.

PHASE FOUR AND A HALF:

Look at the camera and hold still, guys. No, I meant YOU look at the camera, not twist your brother's head like a Barbie doll, I mean...

PHASE FOUR-AND-THREE-QUARTERS:

Can you stop screaming "cheese" so loud? I think you're starting to freak the ba...

PHASE FIVE:

Foreshadowing of the inevitable.

PHASE SIX:

Hold up. That's not bad...maybe just one more second...if you two would just SMILE like NORMAL PEOPLE, PLEASE...

PHASE SEVEN:

Denouement. Heartbreaking yet oddly LOL-worthy denouement.

EPILOGUE:

The immediate shifting of blame and innocent stares of "What? Us? That? No."

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Tuesday night, this post by Heather B got the two of us texting all nostalgically about Times My Kids Threw Up. (Yes, seriously. She managed to make my vomiting children sound endearing. Kind of.)

And I helpfully tossed in a new anecdote: Ike was sick on Saturday night, alllll night, and around 4 am I basically let him barf directly into my hands because I was out of towels. 

(MY OVERSHARING KNOWS NO TECHNOLOGICAL BOUNDARIES OR LIMITS.)

I washed my hands afterwards (promise), but it was all for naught. Just hours after our conversation I came down with the bug myself. Hard. Bad. Indecent in every way. To the point where you're sick with dehydration but even the tiniest sip of water won't stay down.

(Though does anybody else have a problem with an inability to "sip" water when you're really, really thirsty? I kept telling myself "just a sip, just a sip!" because I knew my stomach was still in full rebellion mode, but then the second the water touched my parched tongue I was all, "GLOBBLE GULP MARRRRRRRRGHH SLARP.")

(It's okay if it's just me. I know. I...know.)

Anyway, I spent the entire day in bed yesterday. Around 8:30 am I sent a few nonsensical texts to people to explain that I would not be working at all that day, and I may have called at least one person by the wrong name. I mumbled something to Jason about the sitter being here until lunchtime and then it's ALL YOU BUDDY.

Then I went back to sleep until noon. 

At that point I attempted to suck on some ice chips while weakly fending off the affections of my two youngest children. Back to sleep until four, when it was Noah's turn to be very concerned about me in the loudest, most exhuberantly physical way possible. Around six I finally graduated to real water and chicken broth. By nine I felt brave enough to turn on the TV, even if there was a high chance of seeing some food-related advertisments or SNL's 4,202,230th re-run of the Schweddy Balls holiday sketch. 

Around two in the morning, it was Ezra's turn to start puking. OH COME ON.

Luckily by then I felt strong enough to help Jason change sheets. Though by 7:15 we were officially Out Of Clean Sheets. 

He's currently on the couch watching Sprout and sucking on ice chips. The usual. 

Cheers! Hopefully I can write more later when no one is yakking anymore.

(So like...March, then.)

In Which I Spend an Awful Lot of Time Talking About Dishes

Hey! Remember when Thanksgiving happened?

<insert Wayne's World flashback fingers and sound effects>

I do the same thing every year: I intend to ROCK OUT with a whole slew of Thanksgiving-related blog posts. I make such a big goddamn deal out of the holiday in real life that you'd think my blog would reflect that. Maybe take a yearly dive into recipe blogging and 500-word entries about napkins. Show you the real depths of my vintage glassware obsession. (It's deep, man. Like The Descent, only with more bowls.)

Instead, I completely freak out over EVERYTHING that needs to be done in preparation for Thanksgiving that my blog basically sits silent while its author runs around like a headless turkey hopped up on coffee brine in the distant background. 

Then I gorge myself on challah-bread stuffing and sleep for four days straight. 

IN OTHER WORDS, will y'all please indulge me and look at some pictures? You actually don't have to really look at them — I'll never know if you keep your Minecraft window open — just type a fake-appreciative mmm-hmmm in the comments and I'll be happy. 

First: Something old.

Or, well. A lot of somethings old.

I have cobbled together a somewhat bizaare collection of Depression glass and stuff from the 50s and 60s, which I mix in with more modern-looking white plates and serving pieces from Ikea. The black stuff is L.E. Smith black amethyst glass, and is actually the most gorgeous purple color when held up to the light.

Note that this hidden feature is only noticiable if you hold it up REALLY REALLY CLOSE to a lightbulb in an otherwise dark-ish room, which nobody in their right mind is going to do during a dinner party. 

Note that this will never, ever stop me from forcing my guests to hold their black coffee cups up to the light and squint while I fuss with the dimmer switch until everybody nods appreciatively about my weird-ass cups, because I am not in my right mind.

(I LOVE MY WEIRD-ASS CUPS.)

Next:

Ta-daaaa! Look at me, trying to be all grown-up and shit with my table. 

Twee little flower arrangements/party favors courtesy of Jason's aunt, who joined us this year and who shares my obsession with twee little flower arrangements. I was extra jazzed about these flowers because they justified my purchase of an entire set of those funky avocado trays. I mean, I have four and technically only used this one, but lay off me, it looked AWESOME.

(The trays are mid-century Kyes Moire Glaze. I also have a full-size round bar try in cream, and am currently lusting over several others in various colors that I have no specific use for, but HO HO HO that probably won't stop me.)

(I bought the little trays because I thought they were cute. I bought the big tray because it went with the little trays. I bought the ice bucket because it went with the big tray. I bought the hot toddy glasses because they came as a set with the ice bucket, and now I have to figure out what the hell goes in a hot toddy and start drinking them constantly and I THINK I NEED HELP, YOU GUYS.)

More flowers in mini mason jars, restaurant supply tea towels for napkins, and a shot of good whiskey in a tiny jelly jar.

(That last one is kind of a tradition around here. That we just made up. Just go with it.)

After I remembered to light the candles.

FINALLY, some appreciation. For the fire, mostly, but I'll take it.

Now, lest you think I've gone all crazy isn't-my-house-all-perfect design-blogger on you, allow me to show you what was happening all day just out of frame, in the living room:

Aaaaaand that's the squalor we all know and love. Bonus points for the visible tangle of wires. 

Okay, back to the grown-up section of the house, which gives me a sense of control in a world full of Legos:

Appetizer station.

I made you some cheese puffs, but we all ated them. Took about three minutes.

To be fair, we had help. 

YEP.

YEP YEP.

YEP YEP YEP.

A toast to our hipster Thanksgiving.

(And yes, the children were banished to eat in the kitchen. Off colored plastic Ikea plates from the circa last-time-we-went-there era. I did not take any pictures, prefering to forever remember the sounds of their collective whines over having to eat like, four bites of turkey and stuffing before being allowed to have the pie and ice cream IN MY HOLIDAY HEART.)

Appetizer station later morphed into the doodle station. 

And then a dessert station. Ezra ate the filling out of a full half of a pie.

(This is EXACTLY how I ate pumpkin pie for much of my life, so I can't really judge.) 

(Look! I was there! MY PRESENCE WAS DOCUMENTED!)

(I actually made it into a record-breaking TWO photos this year.)

After pie and coffee (LOOK AT THE CUPS. LOOK AT THE SAUCERS!), we had the traditional wrastling:

Feats of strength:

And possibly some impromptu streaking.

The next morning I ate stuffing straight out of the casserole dish for breakfast. 

Best Thanksgiving ever?

Best Thanksgiving ever.

See you at Christmas, mah pretties. Hopefully by then you'll be joined by some vintage Pyrex and some festive hot toddies. 

My Two Disneys

Ahoy there! This post is sponsored by Disney's Epic Mickey 2: The Power of Two the video game.

So don't tell my children, but the Discussions Have Begun around here. The "okay, when do we bite the bullet and take this crew to Disney World" discussions. Do we wait until all three of them have hit the minimum height requirement for most of the rides? Or go sooner, while they're all younger and we might get more OMG AMAZEBALLS CHILDHOOD MEMORIES OMG bang for our bucks? 

Is Cinderella's castle still listing to the left like that? Where are my legs? What's with all the shrubbery in the photo? I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS ABOUT MY PARENTS' PHOTO FRAMING DECISIONS.

My family took two trips to Disney World: Once when I was an adorable little five year old. 

FACT: I loved Robin Hood because there was a song in the movie that mentioned the word "underwear."

And then again when I was a tragically awkward 12 year old:

Oh dear God.

So...yeah. I actually remember each trip pretty equally. When I was five, the highlight was the Character Breakfast. 

I met Snow White and my brain melted out my ears. I think I may have even cried. 

Also: BALLOONS! 

When I was 12, I spent a lot of the trip fantasizing that I was actually there with Joey McIntyre from New Kids On The Block, and that everywhere I walked the crowds were so jealous of us and our love, which was pure. And real. 

Expectation, meet reality. And my fanny pack. 

Meeting the characters as a five year old:

Bubbly adorable joy! With pigtails!

Meeting the characters as a 12 year old:

I feel like it loses a little something once you're THE SAME HEIGHT AS THEM.

Wearing a 'MICKEY' t-shirt to Disney World = Totally being That Guy. 

I loved both trips, though, in different ways. When I was little, it was magic. When I was on the cusp of 13, it was...well, it was fun to still be a kid and at least pretend that I still believed in that magic (and that my autograph book would be worth millions someday, because I mean like PINOCCHIO SIGNED IT).

I kind of can't wait to go back and see what kind of Disney my boys get to experience. 

And to be fair, judging from the background crowds, I think 1990 was simply an EPICALLY AWKWARD TIME for all of us as a nation, across the board. 

This post was sponsored by Disney's Epic Mickey 2: The Power of Two the video game.

Adventures in Family Photography (AKA HERDING CATS UPSTREAM BOTH WAYS)

OMG. So I have like, 40 million things to do today. And approximately 30 million of those things may or may not involve butter.

(Plus I obviously need to go to the store and buy some more butter.)

But I just got our photos from a photo shoot with Blue Lily Photography we did last month, for the second October in a row. (Once again: I have the best boss who gives out the best Christmas presents.) Last year, Ike was a four-month-old blobby of suspicion. 

This year, he proudly moved up the ranks to fully accredited goofball:

He's in good company, obvs:

Despite bribing them with toys and threatening their very lives, my gorgeous children were a horrifically uncooperative pack, I must admit. 

Luckily, Tyler stumbled on the winning trick of getting them to look at the camera by ordering them to not look at the camera. 

Occasionally, we even managed to ALL look at the camera at the same time:

(And by "occasionally," I of course mean "basically those three times.")

And finally, presenting what may be my favorite photo of anyone, ever:

I plan to use this photo as my universal reaction to everything from stupid PR pitches, writing deadlines and suggestions that maybe I should take it easy on the butter. 

Vegas, Sans Babies

OH HI.

I ran off to Vegas. I did not get married or remarried (though I did basically find the wedding chapel OF MAH DREAMS) or spend several days locked on a roof with a chain-smoking monkey. In fact, the biggest trouble I got myself into involved getting mildly scolded by a hotel employee for sneaking into the Microsoft SharePoint 2012 conference without a badge. 

(Okay, I didn't sneak into the conference itself. I just sat in the developer's lounge and used the wifi for a few hours to edit and post conference-related blog posts.) 

(I did steal a cup of conference coffee, though. Possibly two cups. I KNOW, RIGHT? Who am I and when did I become such a scofflaw? VEGAS, BABY.)

Let's see...other interesting things that happened in Vegas that will not stay in Vegas because what, like I have shame or a sense of propriety? 

1) I won money! We're not big gamblers, but you can't go to Vegas and not put a few bucks into the weirdest branded slot machine you can find, especially one that is reaching soooo far to make any sort of sense in any sort of context, like...

MALTESE OF FORTUNE

KITTY GLITTER

BUFFALO

MORE FUCKING BUFFALO

SEXY PILGRIM

SEXY PROBLEMATIC EXOTICISM

I PICKED THE WRONG DAY TO QUIT READING THE FINE PRINT ON MY NAME & LIKENESS LICENSING AGREEMENT

In the end, I won about five hundred dollars on a Gone With the Wind video slot machine that I did not understand in the slightest, except that Scarlett showed up and was all, "OH ASHLEY" and then Ashley also showed up and then BAM. I won money. Then I won money again on something that I think involved the dress made out of curtains? Seriously, it was way confusing for a fucking slot machine.

2) I got a wig caught on my nose piercing during a male strip tease.

(I should probably just leave that story as-is, with no follow-up explanation, right? It's better that way.)

(We saw Absinthe at Ceasar's, which was very funny and absolutely fucking filthy. I was busy trying to take a picture of the large padded bra that had just landed in my lap when a wig hit me in the face. An employee was crouched in the aisle to collect the costumes and that's when we realized the wig was completely tangled around my nose ring. The guy in the aisle was like, "Um, I'll, um, be back once you've sorted that out yourself, okay?")

3) I was absolutely NO FUN at the Titanic exhibition. NO FUN. I'm with Robert Ballard on this one. Though touching the manmade iceberg in the exhibit and realizing how insanely cold the water was that night was very, very affecting. But then made me feel even grosser about having paid $32 a ticket to gawk at the victims' personal belongings and bunch of plates.

4) I was a LOT of fun, however, at Eli Roth's Goretorium.

At least for the actors, who clearly had me pegged as someone they could COMPLETELY PSYCHOLOGICALLY DESTROY over the course of a 20-minute haunted house. First there was the woman who cornered me and started whispering that Jason had walked ahead and left me there to die (WHICH WAS TRUE, SO TRUUUUE,) and then there was the giant dude in a bloody butcher's apron who started describing IN GREAT DETAIL what he was going to do to me while I shrieked and cowered and eventually crawled over a bed of bloody sheets and past some guy with an exposed brain in order to get away from him.

(In like, the least-dignified, dumbass girl-who-wore-stilettos-to-a-horror-movie fashion. Y'all would have so been rooting for my spectacular demise.)

"You know if you just keep walking they'll let you past," Jason said later. "It's not like they can touch you. They'll only gang up on you if you stop."

"EXACTLY," I said. "One of us got our money's worth in there. Let's do it again!"

So it was a fun couple of days, though I am pretty happy to be back in the land of container laws and my children, where there's hardly ANY chance of getting menaced by a serial killing zombie butcher and only about a 50% chance of somebody throwing their underwear at my face. 

Deodorant Wars: Where Are They Now? Edition

Once upon a time, I noticed that deodorant labels had kind of lost their damn minds. It was no longer enough for a deodorant to promise you the basic trinity of Shit You Want It To Do — keep you dry, keep you non-smelly, keep your clothing not completely streaked in white chalky goo — because suddenly one single tube was promising at least seven different things. PH balance! Active Body Responsive! Moisturizing! Skin Nurturing! Smoothing! Hair Minimizing! Continually Renewing Fragrance! 24-hour wetness stank protection so yo ass don't even need to SHOWER with this shit, baby!

And it needed to do all that while also looking less like a plastic tube of B.O. balm and more like some kind of fancy ornate perfume bottle with lots of pretty swirls and metallic accents. 

It's hard out there for a deodorant, apparently. 

So also once upon a time, I combined these Overly Deep Thoughts On Deodorant Labels with my compulsion to anthropomorphize inanimate objects and create elaborate soap operas with them. (WHAT.) Thus, the Deodorant Wars were born and I managed to accrue quite a collection of deodorants purchased specifcally for the series. Most of which I shoved in a drawer and never used, because DOVE CLINICAL PROTECTION FTW. 

And yet I could never quite bring myself to throw the extra tubes out, because 1) they weren't even opened, in most cases, so WASTEFUL, and 2) they were my friends. Even the bitchy ones who picked on poor Tom's of Maine.

ANYWAY. OH MY GOD. GET TO THE POINT, SELF. A couple months ago I ran out of Dove deodorant. And yet despite making multiple trips to Target and the grocery store, I keep forgetting to buy more. I'll stand there in the toiletries aisle, my little hamsterbrain working so hard to remember That Thing I Need that it's practically smoking, and then...OOOOH CHAPSTICK LA LA LA.

BREAKING: I'm an idiot.

So I've been forced to dig into my emergency stash of emergency deodorants. Most of which I purchased all the way back in 2008, and are marked with expiration dates of 2010. But I figured maybe -- just maybe, like prescription drugs and the Kardashians' 15 Minutes — those expiration dates could be stretched a little, or ignored outright.

So today I'd like to give y'all an update on our old friends. Where Are They Now? What Do They Smell Like? Who Got Fat? Who Went On To Make Millions From Inventing That App You Totally Could Have Thought Of, Goddamit?

NAME: Secret Flawless Invisible Solid

SCENT: Totally Fresh

WHERE IS SHE NOW: God, more like, "Totally Forgettable," riiiiight? I can't tell you what this was supposed to smell like, because now it's little more than a vaguely perfume-y baby powder scent. And "Powder Fresh" was a SEPARATE OPTION besides "Totally Fresh," so like, I don't even know. It's like, Secret Flawless got married and had a couple kids and moved to the suburbs with the minivan and just gave up on herself and her metallic-edged blooming lady flower. It's sad, really. 

VERDICT: Peaked in high school, but still capable of long-lasting odor protection. 

NAME: Degree Women Body Responsive

SCENT: Sexy Intrigue

WHERE IS SHE NOW: OMG, stop embarrassing yourself! It's all too much. It's a damned "MY MOM DRESSES TOO SEXY & STEALS MY BOYFRIENDS" episode of Maury. The girly pink-and-green swirls with the metallic leopard print? Stop. Just. Stop. And "Sexy Intrigue" IS NOT A THING THAT SMELLS, DEGREE. And while this was part of the "Fine Fragrance Collection," it basically smells like Ex'cla-ma'tion crossed with a little baby powder.

VERDICT: My seventh-grade self would have been all over this shit. 

NAME: Degree Girl Invisible Solid

SCENT: Just Dance

WHERE IS SHE NOW: Girls don't want to wear their moms' deodorant, because moms like to go to bed at least once in a 24-hour period and girls just wanna have fun, party all the time, just dance, it'll be okay, everybody just da-ance.

VERDICT: Don't be fooled by the sleek black packaging, this is NOT the deodorant companion piece to Lady Gaga's Fame perfume. (I KNOW BECAUSE I OWN THAT. WHAT.) "Just Dance" smells kind of like citrus-scented (wait for it...) baby powder. And it works just like every other invisible solid deodorant on the planet BECAUSE THAT'S ALL IT IS. (I know. We're all deeply, deeply shocked that "girls" have the same basic underarm needs as "women" or like, "human beings in general.")

NAME: Secret Scent Expressions Invisible Solid

SCENT: Bella Bloom

WHERE IS SHE NOW: Much like Degree's attempt to capitalize on Lady Gaga's circa 2008 chart domination, I'm guessing this was Secret's sneaky unlicensed take on the Twilight Saga. (Though I don't remember seeing options like "Edwardian Sparkles" or "Full Moon Musk" and have to say I'm a little disappointed in you, Secret.) And much like the hoopla surrounding Twilight, this ridiculously overworked label looks a little dated and mock-worthy now.

HOWEVER. Bella has a secret, y'all:

Underneath her vadge-shaped lid is a iridescent pink cover with a raised blooming lady flower that actually MARKS THE DEODORANT WITH SAID BLOOMING LADY FLOWER. That's some next-level branding shit, Secret, and I have to applaud you for it. Even though I accidentally replaced the cover upside down and kind of mangled it.

VERDICT: It smells like baby powder, works just okay.

NAME: Suave Invisible Solid

SCENT: Powder

WHERE IS SHE NOW: The same as it ever was. And is, and shall be. Suave don't play no stupid label games, making up bullshit scents and trying to dress up like some kind of goddamned sparkle-covered whore-tube. Suave always knew what Suave wanted: Graduate, go to a decent state school for undergrad, then maybe an Ivy for law school, not that Suave is gonna be dick about it; Suave just got really good grades and worked hard, you know? Suave got what Suave wanted, and also paid off Suave's loans in under five years because Suave knows how to fucking budget, y'all. Respect.

VERDICT: If you're ever in the market for vintage expired deodorants (I dunno, check Etsy), I highly recommend you stick with Suave. This one still has the strongest scent and actually works as an actual deodorant/anti-perspirant better than any of the ones I tried. Though I must unfortunately take exception to the "Goes on clear!" promise. Sure, it's clear on your skin, but any fabric within a three-foot radius is gonna get all kinds of streaked up. 

NAME: Tom's of Maine Aluminum-Free Deodorant Stick

SCENT: Lavender

WHERE IS HE NOW: Spent some time in the Peace Corps, got a little sidetracked by the Occupy movement before moving to Portland and getting super into urban farming. Raises chickens. Won't stop talking about the chickens. All his friends are like, will you just eat the chickens already? Knows where all the farmers' markets are and good places for brunch. Sells reclaimed vintage pens on Etsy, like the kind you turn upside down and the lady's shirt falls off. Still smells really, REALLY fucking hard like lavender oil, like wow. 

VERDICT: Shut up, Tom. 

AB Chao Design Camp DC: Hoarding, Crying & Other Assorted Awesomeness

So remind me to tell you about the time AB Chao bought me a shot of bourbon and drunk-dialed Heather Armstrong. And then promptly shoved the phone at my drunken ass while I shrieked in panic.

I JUST WANTED A PICTURE. YOU CAN'T DISAPPOINT A PICTURE.

Later, I burst into drunken tears at the table while explaining to all the other lovely DC Design Camp attendees how AB and I know each other because you guys. You guyyyyyyssss. This. This right here. This lady and you people and the Internet and blogging and the ENTIRE PATH OF MY LIFE, plus also the universe and everything.

Yes. I am very fun at parties. Always bring a towel, mostly because I will definitely spill something.

(Yesterday it was coffee. I got up mid-session to refill my coffee and unscrewed the lid on an apparently still very full to-go container and coffee just fucking erupted out of the thing, all over me and the floor and like, inside drawers and cabinets and shit. And once again, I stood there doing little else besides PANICKED SHRIEKING because I have no coping skills.)

LAY OFF ME I'M TRYING.

My point is that I had a fantastic weekend. Like, teh best. I learned so much and had even more fun. There was much laughter and champagne (sabering!) and cupcakes and really inappropriate jokes about grommet-top curtains and vagina baskets. My brain is full of so many awesome decorating ideas (I am going to rearrange the SHIT out of some furniture, people) and my phone is full of awesome new contacts/future drinking buddies who are all mysteriously flashing me metal horns and/or their cleavage. 

Plus, on the Metro ride home, I totally got hit on. Like "what kinda pics u got on dat cameraaaaa phone, hot mom lady" hit on. I have not been flirted with that hilariously (or, okay, at all) in ages. He lost my heart (and my smokin' mom ass) when he said he was only down with "ladies marryin' laaaadies, but not like, dudes, cuz gross." I was like, UR FACE IS GROSS. Also, how did we even get on this topic? Also also, I do not believe that you are a male model in from Los Angeles. I would suggest a better cover story, seeing as it clearly did not get you anywhere with the laaaaadies and you're here desperately trying to pick up a bedraggled mother of three on the Red Line at like, 7:45 pm. Hot Mom Lady, OUT. Because she's really tired, and this is her stop.

Anyway, if you're in the Chicago area I highly recommend attending the mini camp in December. Buy AB a shot of bourbon and tell her to drunk dial me. 

Mr. Independent

So I was going to post a video I took of Noah last night, when he wandered downstairs in his Muppet jammies and announced that he wanted to "vote." He went up to the TV  and — amidst a sea of visual noise and percentages and red and blue— found a photo of President Obama, and touched it, iPad style.

"Check! I voted!" he said. "Bock Obama is the President of the United States."

And then he did a little happy dance. He also farted. 

I figured maybe I could edit that part out.

But then I realized I'd probably have to write a whole wind-up about how we have actually never talked politics with Noah, and that he simply wanted Obama to win because Obama is the only president he's ever really known and thus, in his little change-adverse mind, Obama should continue being the president. The fact that his opinion JUST SO HAPPENED to overlap with ours was just an adorable coincidence and not the result of us trying to push him into a specific party affiliation or put him in t-shirts and hand him signs to promote our own adult agendas and gaaaahhhhh.

I realized it was all starting to sound like too much work, what with trying to make sure people weren't offended or irritated and you're all probably getting gloating/opinions/tantrums from all kinds of classless idiots on Facebook and Twitter today AND ALSO EDITING OUT A FART TAKES TIME, so I decided to scrap it and post this dumb little video instead:

Mr. Ike Would Like His Dinner, Please from amalah on Vimeo.

Now that's pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and gettin' shit done. And also tiring your mother out, because LANDS, CHILD. You just climbed right up and ate my baby, didn't you? Why are you afraid of the vacuum cleaner and not of useful things, like gravity? 

PS. Good job, Maryland. And Maine and Minnesota and Washington. The pot thing is pretty cool too, but MAN. Marriage equality. Gets me so damn high, you guys. 

Yo Voté & So Can You

Today is the day. 

The day when all bloggers, blobbers, bloogers, Facebookers, Instagrammers, Twitheads and other Professional Oversharers are legally required (BY INTERNET LAW) to post smug-looking selfies while wearing "I VOTED" stickers.

Ta-da! My job here is done. Now it's time for some coffee to further amp up my nerves until results time tonight. 

(Dear Maryland: VOTE YES ON 6, YOU BEAUTIFUL BASTARDS.)