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. 

Mother's (Not Even A Significant Chunk of a) Day Out

After finishing up yesterday's entry, I closed the laptop with a flourish, satisfied that it was the last time I would have to discuss anything related to the Great Stampedeing Stomach Illness that had consumed us all for nearly a week. I could, perhaps, finally get around to writing the VERY IMPORTANT entry about my hair that I've been putting off day after day. 

But first, I had some equally important mental-health-related things to take care of. So I stood up and got dressed and put on some makeup and grabbed my purse and Kindle and got the hell out of Gastroenteritis Dodge. 

I drove to a sushi restaurant -- the one that has the tuna dish I like but nothing the kids are willing to eat so we never go there, especially since it's three doors down from a place that serves peanut butter and jelly and Noah KNOWS IT, DON'T YOU DENY HIM THE CHANCE TO ORDER THE SAME DAMN SANDWICH HE EATS EVERY DAY OF HIS LIFE, EXCEPT THAT IT COSTS $4.95 AND COMES WITH A SIDE OF FRUIT HE WILL NOT EAT. 

And then...I just...ate the tuna dish I liked. And some soup. I took as long as I wanted. I ordered a glass of wine and surveyed the embarassing backlog of books on my Kindle that I've never gotten around to starting, and then got so engrossed in one that I ordered a second glass of wine just to prolong the experience. 

(That may have been a mistake, as the second glass simply made me extra goopy and emotional and then I started to cry over my book in public like an idiot.)

(And since I know my blog is your one-stop-source for Hot Emerging Literary Trends, lemme tell you: I have a really good feeling about this whole Hunger Games trilogy. I think it might, you know, turn out to be something of a very popular thing! Get in now on the ground floor! Party like it's 2008!)

I decided to skip the planned pedicure because I'd lingered so long at lunch, but I did wander around a CVS for awhile. I bought some hair spray.

Oh, I need to do that again. Even if it's just a cup of overpriced coffee that I could make better myself at home. Even if it's just the pedicure and hitting the drive thru. Even if it's not spending a single dollar but just allowing myself to sit on a bench and read somewhere for as long as I'd like. 

I came home awash in all manner of lame cliched adjectives: I was refreshed, renewed, recharged.

I paid the babysitter (how I love her!), checked in on a napping Ezra and Ike (my precious cherubs! angels straight from heaven!), then met Noah at the bus stop. He greeted me with a huge hug, like always, and we chatted about his day on the walk back.

I was suddenly aware of how glorious the weather was. And since I had already made the mental break from feeling any compulsion to "check in" on the Internet and email hours earlier, I suggested Noah ride his bikes with a neighbor while I sat on the stoop with my Kindle (seriously, they should like, make a movie of this book! I bet it would be v. exciting!). Ike woke up and I brought him outside too. 

I chatted with another neighbor and filled her in on some of the less-graphic details of our week of illness, that the boys were all officially on the mend, and now Jason just needs to recover from his night of misery but after that we're out of the woods. Into the sunshine! The rain is gone! The clouds have lifted and I swear this isn't the wine talking I AM JUST BUZZED ON TWO HOURS OF FREEDOM.

And then we all came back inside and I discovered that Ezra had barfed all over his bed again oh my God in heaven have mercy the end.

How Bad Was My Weekend

...let me COUNT THE WAYS.

I cleaned vomit off the top bunk.

I cleaned vomit off the bottom bunk.

I cleaned vomit off the bunk bed ladder and the floor.

I cleaned one child's vomit out of the hair of another.

I cleaned up after the world's grossest fucking diaper, BAR NONE.

I cleaned up...the crib. Enough said.

I cleaned vomit off the wall of the nursery, and the rocking chair.

Also my brand-new, dry-clean-only sweater that I was stupidly wearing because that was before reality set in and all hope was shattered into a million disgusting, crusty pieces.

I called the on-call pediatrician to find out if I needed to take my terrifyingly listless, still-unable-to-keep-solids-down-after-72-hours toddler to the ER or not. 

I went to the store for more Pedialyte only to realize I was standing in the stationary aisle, staring at sympathy cards and slowly going mad with fever.

I came home and experienced some...digestive distress. 

I lay in bed and moaned at the ceiling fan while Jason baked the children COOKIES, since Noah was feeling so much better and Ezra...well, Ezra would probably be fine too, right?

I lay in bed and muttered feverish I TOLD YOU SO'S while Jason cleaned vomit off the bottom bunk. Again.

I cleaned up three puddles of cat vomit off my bedroom floor because why the fuck not, you useless lump of hairballs. 

I noticed my six-year-old suddenly scratching his head a lot, because ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME.

I composed a pointed email to his school mostly to satisfy my need to tell another adult to DO something already. FIX something. HELP ME with something. I CANNOT SOLVE THE ONGOING KINDERGARTEN LICE SITUATION SINGLE-HANDEDLY OVER HERE, ESPECIALLY BECAUSE WE ARE ALL THE FUCK OUT OF CLEAN SHEETS AND TOWELS.

I treated, combed, shampooed, cleaned, sprayed, laundered, bagged, quarantined and combed again.

I called a different on-call pediatrician to find out if I needed to take my still listless, able-to-keep-some-solids-down-but-now-having-diarrhea-every-30-minutes toddler to the ER. 

I did not take anyone to the ER.

I got better.

Mostly.

Now I just have a really bad cold and a need to make up for about a million hours of sleep.

(But hey! I made the Huffington Post!)

Everybody else got better too.

Mostly.

So far, as of this minute.

It's been a good minute.

I'll take it.  

(Just like I happily took Jason's "I'm Sorry Everything Is Terrible, Go Take A Bath And Let Me Handle Things For Awhile Before You Have A Psychotic Break" gift of Lush and red wine. He really is SUCH a good one, misguided mid-onslaught baking attempts aside.)

 

BlogHer Part Two Kind Of

My best story from the conference, other than hanging out with old friends and meeting new ones and also MOJITOS, occurred about three hours prior to Sparklecorn. And like ALL of my best stories, this one predictably involves me going to pieces over something trivial. Basically, CAPS LOCKing all over the place, but live and in real time. 

I was trying to figure out how to get five rather large boxes from the package room at the hotel over to the party location next door. These five boxes contained about 4,000 multi-colored glow necklaces and bracelets, which are a Sparklecorn tradition, as everybody uses them for everything from jewelry to belts to tiaras to elaborate full-on glow-in-the-dark costumes. I'd shipped them to myself at the hotel, not realizing that BlogHer had outgrown its quaint days of underground hotel conference rooms and was now taking over gigantic convention centers, because blogging, apparently, is quite a thing with the kids these days.

And it turned out that the hundred yards or so of sidewalk between the two locations were guarded by an old gray wizard screaming YOU SHALL NOT PASS to anyone working at the hotel, because of unions and balrogs and shit, and no one there could help me carry the boxes. 

Now, okay, you should know that in the months and weeks leading up the the party, every year, I probably talk Tracey down off the ledge of planning-related hysteria on at least a weekly basis. It's okay! We have time! Things will get done! Even when we're down to the last-minute wire, I'm actually pretty calm. BECAUSE THIS IS WHY GOD INVENTED OVERNIGHT SHIPPING.

And then, every year, like clockwork, we arrive at BlogHer and promptly switch roles: She takes the "welp, what's done is done, we did our best" zenned-out stance...while I proceed to freaking lose my ever-loving SHIT over every possible detail that could go wrong, because now there is no time to course-correct, no room for error, the people shall not dance or eat cake or get to pose next to life-sized characters from popular young adult fiction and WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE. 

You know, it's really just one of the reasons we work together so well: carefully choreographed panic attacks. 

So anyway, this minor hiccup at the hotel package room is like, EXACTLY the sort of thing that causes my brain to liquidify and leak out my tear ducts. I had less than 45 minutes before they closed to figure out a solution, and the only two I could think of were SHOCKINGLY, not working.

(Solution #1: Attempt to pick up one medium-sized box to see if maybe I could carry them myself, one at a time, back and forth, right before dropping it and nearly breaking my fool foot.)

(Solution #2: Call a couple BlogHer people who were clearly busy with 1,500,000 more important details and shriek into their voicemails, then send a text message 30 seconds later like a total asshole.)

I did finally talk to someone at BlogHer, who promised to make a call and send some BlogHims over to help me, but as the minutes ticked by I stood outside the package room and proceeded to quietly -- and with great dignity -- shrivel up and die from the stress of it all. 

Enter Tracey and Charlie, on their way to the convention center, and then enter Me, Again, with a whole heapload of bad language and over-the-top hand gestures about THESE BOXES. THAT ARE GOING TO BE THE END OF ME AND EVERYONE I LOVE. 

(Oh, and I should probably have included the detail that since I did not want to put my highly impractical and sort-of miniature party dress on yet, but neglected to pack anything well-suited for the possibility of manual labor, I was standing around in cut-off shorts and that "Born to Blog" t-shirt from the BlogHer swag bag of 2009. It's...a nightshirt. I sleep in it. So...I'm technically in my jammies, which is basically ONE LAYER AWAY FROM THE NAKED STRESS DREAM.)

Anyway, Charlie is all, "I got this." And I'm all, "No, I don't think you do." And then he hands me an alchoholic beverage that appears from thin air and marches into the package room and starts negotiating for a hand truck, which they will not give him. 

I think Charlie maybe just intended for me to hold his drink, but we all know how that turned out. I am sucking rum off the ice cubes when he suddenly shows up with one of those fancy luggage carts from the hotel lobby.

"Did they say we can borrow that?" I am delighted.

"I didn't ask," he says.

My delight turns to fear. 

Now, if you've read my blog for any length of time, you know that I live every minute of my life in dread terror of the Imaginary Authority Figures. You just...don't do shit like that, because it is MILDLY NOT RIGHT, and therefore you might get into MILD TROUBLE.

Basically: I get incredibly nervous and embarassed when Jason takes our stroller on the escalator. Which means I had absolutely no mental coping skills for what was about to happen next.

Charlie loads up the boxes and heads off, while I mew in horrified protest because SOMEONE IS GOING TO YELL AT US (while also looking for an acceptable place to deposit the empty cocktail glass, finally settling on a random table that looked like the glass might get cleared and sent to its proper home because I was not adding STEALING TABLEWARE onto our list of hotel crimes).

But then...we all realize we are kind of trapped. To get to the convention center (while avoiding the hotel lobby with our stolen cart), we needed to go down an escalator. Well, that's not going to work. 

OR IS IT.

I run around in search of an elevator -- there IS one, but there's a crazy line for it and I can't tell if it even goes down to where we need to go or just up the guest rooms and while I'm standing there trying to figure it out I realize Charlie is totally taking that motherfucking luggage cart down the escalator.

"WHAT ARE YOU OH MY GOD NO HOLY SHIT," I start shrieking. Or something like that. Maybe in tongues. Anxiety tongues.

"THIS IS HAPPENING," Tracey yells at me. 

I ride down the escalator sitting down, trying to breathe with my head between my legs because this. This Right Here. The sight of a stolen luggage cart stacked with boxes of 20-cent party favors that I was unsure if we had any right to carry ourselves in the first place, precariously and illegally riding down an escalator: This is what broke me. 

Dear readers, that man got that luggage cart down the escalator and out the door without so much as jostling a single package. 

And what's more: NOBODY YELLED AT HIM. I mean, besides me. I don't know if I ever shut the fuck up. 

We got outside and of course I continued to be a complete non-believer. "STAAAAAIRS!" I wailed. "THERE ARE STAIRS!" 

Yes, there were stairs. But there was also a windy sidewalk ramp through a decorative garden. Charlie, who by this point is pretty much my personal lord and savior, treks the cart up the ramp and into the convention center, where Tracey and I finally manage to regain some control of the situation and insist that HE TAKE THE ELEVATOR, instead of trying his hand at riding an up escalator, you know, for kicks.

At some point, I manage to chill out. Probably once I realized we'd gotten all the packages delivered to the ballroom before the Voices of the Year keynote was even over, so we had time to go hit the cocktail party and pour more liquor nerve tonic down my throat. 

And that is the story of how Tracey, Charlie and I faced challenges and overcame obstacles and saved Sparklecorn with a single stolen luggage cart and only a couple small safety violations. The end!

PS I have no earthly idea what ever happened to the luggage cart. 

We Called Them Rinse & Spit Cups, Even Though We Never Did Either Of Those Things

This photo is for my sister, who is currently pacing a hospital waiting room while her daughter, my niece, undergoes emergency gallbladder surgery. You know, for kicks.

Yeah. It's kind of an inside joke. Which would ideally involve each and every one of those cups filled with shots of contraband Pinot Grigio. On Christmas morning. While huddled in the guest room under the guise of last-minute present wrapping. Which may or may not have actually happened. 

Anyway.

Between that and another week full of chemo treatments and bargain-basement platelet counts, I'm in a giddy sort of limbo where I don't feel particularly funny, nor do I feel capable of being all maudlin and introspective. I'm just sort of spent. Maybe I just need a drink. Or a hug. Or some kind of chocolate-y boozy drink that could be the equivalent of a hug. 

Come to think of it, those mini-sized Dixie cups seem like the perfect serving size for a pregnant woman to safely consume alcohol in moderation. Plus look! At the packaging! The cups have ARMS. I feel comforted already.

Meanwhile...

1) I am recapping Top Chef All-Stars this season at Mamapop. Unfortunately, several of my personal Top Chef All-Time Most Disliked Douchebags are back again. Fortunately, my hatred gives me strength. Delicious, bacon-foam-flavored strength.

2) New column up at The Stir, in which I pretty much guarantee myself an immediate whack in the face as the Quirky Behavior Pendulum swings back in the other direction and takes me out in the process. 

3) There's enough new advice columns up at AlphaMom to prevent you from making any stupid life choices, particularly ones involving being productive at work on a Friday afternoon. Heavens, no.

4) We have a winner in the Windows 7 phone giveaway thingie, and it's...Mrs. Q of Nuclear Momb! With apologies to those of you who tirelessly commented on that post each and every single day possible, Mrs. Q won with a single, solitary comment that she left without even realizing there was a giveaway involved in the first place. This tells me that during the next electrical storm, we should all either stand directly next to her...or as far away as possible. Definitely one of those two things. 

5) Once I accomplish a fifth thing, I will type it here. In the meantime, I'm going to eat the shit out of something unhealthy and high in butter content. Golf claps for me and thing number five!

Mellencampy

I woke up yesterday morning completely incensed at John Cougar Mellencamp. That asshole had the nerve to get MAD at me after I called him "John Cougar Mellencamp" in my dream, because I simply forgot that he dropped the "Cougar" part, like who can keep it all straight all the time, and even after I apologized he yanked my wine glass out of my hand and and said "this is going to kill you one day, young lady" and then I woke up and was like, don't you judge me, John Cougar Mellencamp. For HOURS. Possibly even still now, a little bit.

God. He was just so fucking CONDESCENDING about it. 

Anyway, after I woke up and had a whole imaginary defensive conversation about my imaginary intervention with an imaginary John Cougar Mellencamp, I had to start frantically cleaning the house for our Labor Day party, to which I had invited the local Mamapop contingent -- Sarah, Laurie, Jodi, Tracey, Charlie -- to come over and start drinking before noon.

The party was a great success, if I do say so myself, judging by the two (2) recycling bins we done filled up with wine and beer bottles (STOP JUDGING ME, MELLENCAMP), and the staggering amount of food we all managed to consume. Including grits cakes with tomato-basil marmalade, courtesy of Charlie, grilled lamb with tzatziki, courtesy of Jason and an entire Crock Pot's worth of nacho Velveeta dip, courtesy of me. 

"Bless your little white trash heart," Charlie said to me about that, while we were all practically eating our seventh helping with the little itty-bitty broken corners of chips because GET IN MAH MOUTH, PASTEURIZED CHEESE PRODUCT, but I think he meant in a nice way and not like YOU-KNOW-WHO. FUCK, MAN. MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS. 

The party also included a very enthusiastic Miley Cyrus lip-syncing performance in my backyard, during which I improvised a hairography Ode to Britney Spears' Weave of Busted. It was videotaped. It will...probably be made public embarrassingly soon in a Mamapop Roundtable. So I should go gird my loins for that indignity. With more wine, probably.

But first, I must go put Noah on the school bus for his first day of school. (OH HI THERE, EMOTIONS. GULP. SOB.) I have about 15 more minutes to convince him that he really, really needs to take off Ezra's little red fleece bathrobe, which he's been wearing for about 18 straight hours now and demanding that we all call him Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Go knock 'em dead, kid. You are just too awesome for color TV.

 

(We also took them peach picking this weekend. So lay off with the attitude about a couple imaginary glasses of white wine consumed at some kind of imaginary Hoarders meets Antiques Roadshow party we were all inexplicably attending in an abandoned warehouse down in the city and I was completely and thoroughly overdressed for with like, a tiara and everything, and thus nervous and prone to social faux-pas like including "Cougar" in the name of 80s rockers who have since dropped it due to label disputes or WHATEVER, WE ARE TOTALLY A WHOLESOME SORT OF ALL-AMERICAN COW-PETTING FAMILY.)

There's No Crying In Blogball

It's been brought to my attention that my last couple posts have made a somewhat extraordinary number of you cry. At work, or other embarrassing places/occasions to be caught crying. Obviously, I assume MOST of you are exaggerating for the sake of affect (takes one to KNOW ONE, if you know what I mean), but I guess I do need to take some of you at your word and apologize for all the virtual sucker-punches, and promise that there will be nothing of the sort in today's entry. 

(BAM! SUNRISE SUNSET! MAGIC BABIES! PERSONAL GROWTH AND SHIT! GRAINY iPHONE PICTURES BECAUSE MY REAL CAMERA IS BUSTED! BAM BAM BAM!)

(What? No good? Not doing anything for ya? Oh well.)

Let's see if I can inspire some different emotions today. First up...

ANGER

I finally typed "Mockingjay" into Google this morning to figure out what the freaking frack everybody was talking about on Twitter yesterday, and what exactly we're giving away on Mamapop today. Spoiler alert! It's a book! Now here is my dilemma:

1) Take all of you at your word that it's omg!thebestthing!ever! and start the series at the beginning, looking for all the world like a shameless fad-follower and hopeless behind-the-timer, especially since I'll probably finish the third book riiiiiiight when the "thing that is massively popular" backlash begins and nobody will want to talk with me about it or care that I read it because oh my God, you're still TALKING about that? Whatever, loser, we've all moved on to that OTHER young adult book series that everybody is reading now. Man, you can't even manage to stay hip among the book nerds. 

2) Be the one to up and START the "thing that is massively popular" backlash, on the grounds that I allowed myself to get sucked up into that whole Twilight nonsense, which ended with me reading a book about vampire c-sections and werewolves falling in love with vampire hybrid toddlers, consumed with shame over...well, a lot of life decisions, but namely the one involving me dragging my pregnant ass and child to the bookstore to explicitly buy that horrible, terrible book in hardcover. 

3) Anger just about everybody in the world by comparing the Hunger Games series to Twilight, because they are so totally different, you giant ignorant asshole, for a zillion different reasons that I will outline for you now. 

(PS. Also, Jacob IMPRINTED on Renesmee. Totally different than falling in love. STOP MAKING JACOB SOUND CREEPY.) 

I decided to go with number 3! I bet it worked!

SCORN

Speaking of shameless fad-following, I bought myself two (2) packages of ZanyBandz last weekend. And then promptly lost them. I last saw them on the dining room table, after I opened them and carefully selected the cutest assortment of colors that matched my outfit, AS ONE DOES, WHEN ONE IS A MATURE, FULLY-FORMED ADULT-TYPE PERSON, but then they vanished soon after that. I'm thinking the babysitter moved them, but I am too embarrassed to ask her about whether or not she moved my ZanyBandz, as this would entail:

1) Admitting to a 24-year-old that I purchased ZanyBandz,

2) Admitting that the ZanyBandz were not actually intended for my children, in case she assumed they were and put them in a toybox or something, 

3) That I care about the whereabouts of said ZanyBandz, and care DEEPLY, and have basically been driving myself crazy all week looking for them, as I'm only admitting defeat days later, and

4) Possibly finding out that she threw out the ZanyBandz, not realizing that a brightly-colored pile of misshapen rubber bands were like, a THING, an IMPORTANT THING, and being forced to smile and assure her that it's okay, I don't mind, because seriously, I'm not going to be an entitled asshole boss about ZanyFuckingBandz.

And yet:

1) I kind of can't help but wonder if damn, bitch stole my ZanyBandz!

Anyway. If you're not feeling particularly SCORNFUL yet, perhaps this will push you over the edge: One of the missing packages of ZanyBandz was the "Moonlight" collection, which includes hearts, wolves and vampire fangs. 

(PS I was actually thinking of True Blood when I bought them. And I bought them IRONICALLY. And yes, I'm totally judging myself for suddenly caring so non-ironically about their whereabouts.)

JEALOUSY

 

I have a snack, and you don't.

GENERAL MIND-FUCKERY

This one is really more for Ezra. I took this photo today to hold for future discussions about faith, reality, Santa, the Easter Bunny and the idea that none of us are really unique special snowflakes. Also that mothers are tricky, sneaky bastards:

 

LAUNDRY DAY IS A CONSPIRACY! EVERYTHING YOU LOVE IS A LIE! THERE IS NO SPOON!

PITY

Wait, have you not even been READING this entry? You MUST be feeling all kinds of superior to me by now. I'd suggest you go back and re-read it but I already promised that I wouldn't make anybody cry today. 

A Day Without Internet

It turns out, if I deliberately decide to stay off the Internet* for an entire day, that I am downright PRODUCTIVE. Possibly even bordering on COMPETENT. 

The first order of business yesterday was a playdate, and don't you love that while I would never betray the sacred trust of What Happens on a Playdate, Stays on a Playdate and actually TELL you about the playdate, I still feel compelled to tell you that yes, I totally fucking had a playdate, motherfuckers. I have friends and am in demand for social gatherings with other human beings. WHAT UP. PLAYDATE.

(She's probably reading this, by the way, so I will thank all of y'all to make me sound awesome in the comment section and not say anything about that time at the place with the thing. You know what I'm talking about.)

So anyway, I decided to clean the house before the playdate. (Playdate! Playdaaaate!) And I realize this is completely 1) lame, and probably 2) cheating, because there's usually some unspoken arrangement between women that we're only supposed to express shame over the messy state of our homes and one-up each other regarding our failures. 

HOSTESS: I am sorry the house is such a mess! 

GUEST: Oh no, this is lovely! You should see MY house! It's a disaster!

HOSTESS: Oh, but you should see the upstairs! It's a total pigsty up there.

GUEST: Oh, mine too! I've roped it off with police tape!

HOSTESS: I LOST A CAT IN MY CLOSET SIX MONTHS AGO.

GUEST: I HAVE AN ACTIVELY LEAKING NUCLEAR REACTOR IN MY BASEMENT.

And etcetera.

SO ANYWAY. My cleaning of the house mostly involved frantic dishwasher loading and sweeping up a thick carpet of catnip off the kitchen floor, because Max had somehow gotten the bag out of a cabinet during the night and ripped it open. I found him sprawled out and covered in the stuff that morning, high as a freaking kite. Even after I cleaned it all up, he kept returning to the scene to sniff the floorboards and chew on a nearby throw rug. 

Oh! And then I cleared off the dining room table, even going so far as to set a lovely silver centerpiece bowl out, only to realize the bowl looked kind of dumb empty. So I thought: Fruit! I shall fill it with fruit. But the only fruit we had was one overly browned banana and some pathetically shriveled-looking limes. 

I put the bowl away. I think this might be the first time in the history of the world that I successfully backed down from a Bad Idea, instead of like: I KNOW LET'S TRY SOME SCENTED CANDLES! OR TRAIL MIX! SCENTED CANDLES AND TRAIL MIX! IT'S POTPOURRI!

After the playdate, I was feeling so successfully housewife-y that I went on a cooking and baking rampage, the unplanned-for kind, where you're missing a good 25% of ingredients from every recipe but decide to improvise anyway, resulting in 1) several questionably edible results that you will decide to maybe freeze for the babysitter to microwave later, thus making it officially someone else's problem, and 2) a completely re-trashed kitchen because you've used every goddamn bowl you own and decided to do several recipes that contained eggs AND oatmeal, which is a combination you can use to repave your driveway in a pinch, I think. 

(I didn't really have a point to today's entry. By the way. In case you were waiting for one. Sometimes I stumble into a point, like, AHA! I CAN RE-TYPE A SENTENCE AT THE END THAT'S KIND OF LIKE ONE FROM THE BEGINNING AND IT'S LIKE, OOOOOH CIRCULAR DOUBLE MEANING! SO INTENSE.)

In summary: The house was clean but now it isn't again, my freezer is full of homemade stuffed shells and lentil veggie burgers for my children to reject, I dragged them both to the store so I could buy some coconut to make cookies and also bought a bottle of wine. Never made the cookies. No idea how that happened. Catnip fumes, probably. Ordered Indian food because it turned out I really wasn't in the mood for any of the healthy crap I'd made. 

Basically, MOST ACCOMPLISHMENT-FILLED DAY EVER! Going to go lie down now and get all caught up on mah gossip stories. Here is my dog and some toddler feet. 

 

*As opposed to being forcibly (FORCiBLY!) kept off the Internet by Pepco or other technology failures, because then I usually spend 99% of my time checking to see if the Internet is back? Is back now? Internet? I can haz? 

One Step Closer To My Dream Of One Day Thoroughly Annoying Tim Gunn In Person

On Friday night, I went to a party. A non-kid-birthday, grown-up-fancy party! And I, of course, proceeded to act like a toddler the entire time. 

Part the First: I decide to wear my new shoes. I attempt to drive a stick shift in my new shoes. Six blocks and three stall-outs later, I kick them off and drive barefoot instead. 

Part the Second: I arrive early because I am a blogger of considerable influence who is also Internet-Friends with one of the VIP guests, Laura Bennett of Project Runway/Daily Beast/Your Local Bookstore. I bump into the person who invited me in the first place, give her an awkward hug of thanks...and accidently stomp on her bare feet with -- oh my God -- those stupid fucking shoes.

Part the Third: I attempt to give Laura directions to the event via text message, belatedly realizing that my phone auto-corrected my mistyping of "Elm Street" into "Elmo Street." 

Part the Fourth: There was wine. It was free.

Part the Fifth: Socialite/Professional Fancy Party Person Tinsley Mortimer was another VIP. Laura and I decide to get our picture taken with her. She's busy holding an interview, but we don't let that stop us.

 

 

 

I put some pigs-in-a-blanket on my plate so our photobombing had a believable cover story. That was my plan, in case someone yelled at us for being obnoxious jackasses. "We're just here for the buffet, sir!" 

Part the Sixth: At some point, so embiggened and boldened by our daring photo op with The Tinz, I just straight up ask Laura to make me a dress for MamaPop's Sparklecorn party. (In less grabby, selfish news, I'm giving away autographed copies of her new book instead. Whee!) 

Part the Seventh: Some woman thinks I am Laura's assistant or PR person and tries to pitch me on...McDonald's franchises? Or something? I explain that I'm just a friend, so she says, "Oh, never mind, here, hold my book for a minute" and then pushes through to Laura directly. After a few minutes she realizes she wants her book signed and starts shrieking "WHERE'S MY BOOK? SECURITY TOOK MY BOOK!" 

Part the Eighth: I give her back her book. 

Part the Ninth: After the book signing party, there was a fashion show. I probably say "FASHION SHOW! FASHION SHOW! FASHION SHOW AT LUNCH!" to a good half-dozen people, but nobody has any clue what I am talking about. Most people would have stopped after the first or second or third time, but I am not most people. CLEARLY.

Part the Tenth: I forget my gift bag full of free hair products under my seat. I spend the next 20 minutes trying to figure out a way that this was Jason's fault, but cannot.

Part the End: I say goodbye to Laura and everybody else who tolerated my over-excited presence all night, wander around in search of some french fries, then almost leave my shoes in the cab. But I don't! So the evening ends on a high note, at least.

Things Nobody Tells You: Four-Year-Old Edition

1) Learning to properly blow one's own nose is, in fact, a highly advanced skill. If you are able to blow your own nose, congratulations! You've accomplished something with your life after all.

2) Even AFTER one has learned and is perfectly capable of blowing one's own nose, it may take even longer before one has figured out that one SHOULD blow one's own nose, rather than sniff sniff snort snorting snot up through one's nasal cavities ALL THE LIVE-LONG DAY.

3) When one DOES opt to sniff sniff snort snort all the cotton-picking live-long mother-loving day and night, despite MUCH PLEADING AND PROMPTING from one's loving, concerned mother, one might eventually get sick to one's stomach and vomit.

4) A lot. A surprising, alarming lot.

5) Usually at 4 am, or so.

6) Maybe again at 5 am, on the sheets that you just changed, or in the wastebasket.

7) Incidentally, wicker wastebaskets are a poor, poor choice for a child's room.

8) Also, if you type the word "wastebasket" enough times it stops looking like a real word. Like you're referring to tissues as "noseblankets" or "snotwrappers" or something.

9) Anyway.

10) There will also be zero fever or any other signs of illness.

11) Which become obvious exactly two minutes AFTER one calls the bus depot and school to inform them that your poor sick child will not be attending school that day, as he is too busy consuming two bowls of Cheerios, a waffle and two fruit smoothies right before running laps at top speed around the living room while singing the Imagination Movers' theme song.

12) Then it all might happen again a week later.

13) At 3 in the morning, you can pretty much swear that you totally read an article once that said <EXACT THING YOU ARE CURRENTLY DEALING WITH> was one of the first symptoms of childhood cancer.

14) Google is open 24 hours. Also: IT'S MUCUS. BLOW YOUR NOSE. LAND SAKES ALIVE.

15)  If your child insists on taking non-traditional toys to bed to cuddle with, consider yourself lucky. It's way easier to clean vomit off a Candy Land board game than a plush teddy bear. Also: NICE AIM, KID.