BlabberMouse

I'm Going on Vacation, But First Let's Talk About Urine & Asparagus

So, we're off to Seaside. Or Seagrove. Or Seasomething. Who CARES? We're going to Florida! And Florida is ... well, I mean, it's Florida. I get that. But it's also Not Work. And Not A House I Have to Clean. Or a Phone I Have to  Answer. Or a Client Who Can't Articulate What He/She Wants But Would Like Me to Promptly Read His/Her Mind Because CLAIRVOYANCE SHOULD BE INCLUDED.

LONG LIVE FLORIDA!

Before I go, though, can we please talk about asparagus?

Seriously.

Larry and I went to a party on Saturday night, and I became very enamored with the vegetable platter. We had something very special, that much was obvious. The asparagus, in particular, was so crunchy and delicious I could not stop eating it. And when we got home, there is no delicate way to put this ... OH MY GOD!!! OH MY GOD!!!! I mean, I knew this about asparagus, but I didn't KNOW KNOW. I mean this was different.

I called out to Larry from behind the bathroom door: OH. MY. GOD.

WHAT?

OH MY G- YOU HAVE TO--

WHAT?!?

This is just ... You will not believe this.

WHAT?!?!

The asparagus. It's just--I can't--GAH! It's--

I don't need to come in there.

You do. It's unreal.

I am not coming in there.

The air quality in here is non-existent!

(Silence)

You have to experience this for yourself, Lare.

I believe you.

It's like a frantic skunk tried to claw its way out of my urethra.

Pimpety Pimp Monday

The August issue of Her Nashville (also the Anniversary Issue!!) is IN THE PINK BINS!!! I figured what better way to celebrate a year of humor columns than to write about new and exciting ways to HOARD YOUR MENSTRUAL BLOOD.

Enjoy!

As always, if you can't get your cute mitts on a live copy of the magazine, you can read my column here.

I also have a new blog post up, in which I ponder, long and hard, the notion of having more children. So many questions ...

Morning Monologues: 10:44 P.M. Edition

So, last night was the Her Nashville first anniversary party (shwankee), and may I just say:

 HOW CUTE AND PINK ARE THESE DESSERTS?

 

I LOVE PINK! LOVE IT LOVE IT LOVE IT!

(Get over it. I do.)



OMG with the pink!

LOVE. IT.

After I left the festivities, I went to Kroger to pick up the makings of a salad, and WHAT TO MY WONDERING EYES DID APPEAR?

Happy Birthday to Her!

Today I am celebrating the first anniversary of Her Magazine as well as the fact that I have completed a year's worth of humor columns without Larry filing for divorce. Success!

That poor, dear man has been talking me off the ledge month after month as the deadlines loomed, and while I'm certain there will be more writer's block to come, the process has, after a year, FINALLY, gotten (somewhat, you know, like a little) easier.

(KNOCK ON WOOD KNOCK ON WOOD KNOCK ON WOOD.)

I have a new blog post up at Her today, too, if you want to check it out. (Fans of tall, ugly racing dogs, beware.)

Some of you have emailed me about the comments registration process over there, and how you HATE IT'S ASS FACE, but as our real estate agent once said, "When it's not my house, I can only suggest; I can't require."

The Truth About Three

Friday is Patrick's birthday.

My sweet, charming, cherubic, lovey-dovey, doughy CHOMPY CHOMP CHOMP how-have-I-not-eaten-this-delectable-child-ALL-UP-by-now Patrick will be three years old.

He's going to turn evil any minute. I just know it.

Somewhere back in the Mesozoic Era it was decreed that the twos shall be terrible. Terrible twos, terrible twos! Parents, beware of the terrible twos.

But since it's fairly obvious that dinosaurs don't know shit about raising kids, (Hello, may I please speak to Extinct? No? Well can you take a message?) I don't understand why we continue to perpetuate the myth of the terrible twos.

Actually, I do have a theory. It's because of alliteration. Americans will believe pretty much anything as long as the words start with the same letter sound. Terrible twos! Terrible twos! It's so fun to say, it must be true!

If there was such a word as "Therrible", we would all be talking about the Therrible Threes, which, may I say, IS HOW IT SHOULD BE.

Three year olds are very sinister people. They look as if they want to be your friend, but really they want you to feed them cupcakes for dinner or DIE. It's one or the other. Feed me cupcakes. Or die. And god forbid you unwrap one of these cupcakes from its little foil cup, or sample a bite of the cupcake, or break, maim, dent, or harm the cupcake in even the smallest way before you (gently) hand it over; you will be waterboarded in your three year old's own bitter tears.

People send me emails from time to time saying this blog makes them reconsider their desire to have children, and to these people I can only say: I AM TOTALLY SUGARCOATING IT.

And yet, I really do love it. Especially since I decided to reduce my shrieking and nagging by 98%. (That was a good move, by the way. Not being such a crazy maniacal bitch is highly recommended and Mouse Approved. Gold star. Even if you have to cry in the kitchen and point helplessly to the boys' room and make Larry do the whole "you know, them" thing every few nights or so.)

Patrick has made so many giant awesome hilarious leaps this year, and with his big brother entering kindergarten, he'll be on his own at preschool for the first time since he was six weeks old. And then he will be in kindergarten. And then, five or six minutes after that, he'll be six foot two and off to college, leaving me here kvetching to you people about my empty nest and how lonely it is.

How lonely, and ALSO CLEAN.

Tune In to My News Bra-Cast

New post up at Her Nashville, which might be of interest to the bra-curious members of my readership. If you wouldn't mind, could you also let me know if you found the tools to be accurate, so I can go kill myself?

All this ta-ta tape measuring actually reminds me of how the whole time I was growing up, my Dad claimed to be 5' 10". And because I ended up being about an inch shorter than he is, I believed I was 5' 9". For YEARS. Then I went to a doctor post-college, who clocked me in at 5' 6 (and a half)", and I was all "So I'm not supermodel-thin after all, but rather a very average ho-hum weight? DAMN IT."

At least my boobs are supermodel small.

Thank God for the little things.

A Pregnant Pause

My friend Chad emailed me this photograph (courtesy of awkwardfamilyphotos.com) with the subject line: Is this Larry?

And because the guy does look a little bit like Larry, I decided to share this gem/horror with all of you. I also decided to pay it forward and send it to Linda, whose husband also looks alarmingly similar to this man,  with a note saying DO YOU EVEN KNOW THIS WOMAN?, and basically, I think I killed her.

Let's look at the picture more closely, shall we?

WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?

I mean, it's sort of obvious that this is supposed to be a "tender" portrait. But then WHY ARE THEY WEARING NO CLOTHES? Can you not be tender and also WEARING PANTS? Especially if you are these people, who hardly fit the profile for naked pregnant portraiture. What would their friends in accounts receivable think?

And why is he standing THAT CLOSE? I mean, for our sake I'm glad he is, don't get me wrong, but WHY? Because it almost looks like ...

GAH. NO. NO. JUST NO.

This is a chaste and tender moment between two naked CPAs, one of whom is pregnant, and that is all.

Except that it's not all.

There's something on the floor there, by their feet.

Their underwear, maybe? Or are they doing a jigsaw puzzle? They look a little uncomfortable. It's as if they're trying to make peace with the moment, but in the back of their minds they're thinking I WILL NEVER DRINK AT A SILENT AUCTION AGAIN.

And Here’s A Picture of the Time I Was “Becoming A Better Person”

I’m two and a half days into a self-imposed program, wherein (whereby? wherehuh?) I’ve stopped bitching, moaning, whining, yelling, screaming, complaining, nagging, sighing dramatically, speaking ill of others, grunting, or swearing.
 
So basically, I can no longer prove I exist.
 
What prompted this exercise was the overwhelming feeling that all I do is nag. What prompted that feeling was the indisputable fact that ALL I DO IS NAG. And complain. And scold. And say no. Then Gus began expressing his own frustration in much the same way. Whining, complaining, nagging, and yelling at me.
 
This I can not abide.
 
I had to find a way to transform my nagging no-hole into an instrument of peace. So I made a rule. Nothing ugly gets out of my mouth without a makeover.
 
And it’s helping. 

Of course it’s early yet. I’m still me after all, and YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS (See: Shallow, Shameless, Dumb Bitch). But eliminating the option to have a hot holy heart attack every time the boys won’t bend to my will has also eliminated a lot of my anxiety. I can be irked (silently) by their whining, but I don’t have to dread the ensuing screaming match, because there won't be one. Period.
 
I suspect Gus is hip to the program, too, because he is testing me at every turn to see how committed I really am.
 
Last night he …
 
Peed in Larry’s sage bush.

Took out a window screen.
 
Ran to the fridge and grabbed a fistful of watermelon just seconds after I told him he needed to finish his quesadilla first.
(Naughty Chair.)
 
Refused to go to the Naughty Chair, opting to stand on our bathroom toilet and scream out the (now screen-less) window “MAHHHHHHMEEEEEEEEE, I NEEED YOUUUUUUUUU. DON’T LEEEEEEEEEAVE ME. PLEEEEEEEASE.”
 
Told Larry the quesadilla I made was DISGUSTING.
(Probably true. Poor kid.)
 
Refused to take a bath.
(But said he’d take a shower. In a few minutes.)
 
In a few minutes, decided showers are horrible.
(Asked me to draw him a bath. Not in those Victorian terms, but ...).
 
When the bathtub was full, the WATER WAS TOO HOT! WAS I TRYING TO KILL HIM? DID I WANT HIM TO BURN AND DIE? COULD HE HAVE A POPSICLE INSTEAD OF DINNER? NO? BATHS ARE STUPID!
(Blllrghmm?)
 
Now just because I’m not saying anything negative doesn’t mean I’m not parenting the four-foot hoodlum. I still tell him, firmly, when his behavior isn’t up to snuff. I just won’t yell. Or complain. Or cry and scream and try to give Larry a coat-hanger vasectomy over it.
 
When I finally got the boys to bed, I picked up the first book (a Coast Guard rescue story!) entitled Mayday! Mayday!
 
“Which one is it?” Gus asked.
 
“Mayday! Mayday!”
 
“I mean, what’s it called?”

"It’s called Mayday! Mayday!”
 
“But what’s the name of it?”
 
“That’s what I’m telling you. It’s Mayday! Mayday!”
 
“That’s what they say in the book?”
 
“That’s the title of the book. See? Look.” (Pointing to words Mayday! Mayday!)
 
“What does that say?”
 
(GAHHHHHHH!)
 
“Mayday.”

Pimp My Bride ... I Mean GROOM

Larry got another one of his short stories published (woot!), this time in a zine called Zygote in My Coffee, which I find sort of awesomely WEIRD, and which you can access in its entirety here. Contrary to what the cover story (which features a naked Ken and Barbie doll riding and discussing a giant banana) might have you believe, MY HUSBAND DOES NOT WRITE DOLL PORN. He also goes by the name Chip, which is probably good considering his stories get published in magazines that prominently feature dolls who ride fruit.

Anyway. I have yet to read Zygote in its entirety, but Chip-not-Larry's story is entitled "Hook Up", and I think it's quite good. The voice is so not-Larry that it's a spectacle for my brain to behold. My only gripe, which has nothing to do with the author, and everything to do with the fact that I took a semester of Typography a few years ago and will leap off furniture at any opportunity to spout off typography rules, (Having a party? Need entertainment? HIRE ME TO TALK ABOUT LIGATURES!), my only gripe about his story is the way the type is set. Zygote (and don't get me wrong, any publisher of Chip O'Brien is a friend of mine) indents their paragraphs AND puts spaces between them, and therefore is obviously trying to KILL ME THROUGH MY EYES.

Quick Typography Lecture:
We indent paragraphs to indicate to the reader that a new paragraph has begun. Adding a space between already indented paragraphs is redundant, not to mention visually disruptive. It's one or the other, but never both. And regardless of which you choose, NEVER EVER indent the first paragraph of anything. Ever. IT'S THE FIRST PARAGRAPH. WE KNOW WHERE IT STARTS. Grrrrkidsthesedays. 

Regardless of my typographic snobbery, let's all take a moment to congratulate the man I love on his achievement, shall we?

 
Chip-Not-Larry O'Brien, 2008

Morning Monologues: MAILBAG!!!