Wherein I Lose All My Friends

This past weekend I attended a dinner party for my best friend’s birthday.  We went to a charming little tapas restaurant and ate many delicious and wonderful things.  I believed myself to be in the company of friends until I was thrown under the bus by the birthday girl’s husband.  The party quickly devolved into mayhem.  People were shouting insults and re-evaluating friendships.  Why?  Because I don’t like Oreo cookies.

That’s right.  I said it.  I DO NOT LIKE OREO COOKIES.  Because they are awful and gross.  I believe the phrase “stupid little cancer pucks” may have been bandied about at one point.  The thing is this; I had no idea people were that passionate about Oreos!  But they are.  Oh dear god, they are.  I’m pretty sure the list of topics to avoid discussing in social situations should now read: Religion, Politics and Cookie Preferences.  In a party of ten people I was literally the only one who didn’t think that Oreos were heaven-sent.  My friends were attempting to sway my opinion to their side:

“But have you dunked them in milk?  You HAVE to dunk them in milk!”

“What about the other flavors?  Strawberry?  Chocolate Mint?”

“Double stuffed!  What about double stuffed?!”

The problem is that no matter what form Oreos take, they are still sub-par cookies made of shitty chocolate with a disgusting, gritty shortening type filling.  I find it shocking that apparently nobody has realized this yet.  Why do people like these horrible cookies?!?  Cookies should be delicious.  Oreos are not.  Cookies should not contain chemicals.  Oreos do.  Cookies should not make people angry.  Oreos make people want to punch each other in the face.  Clearly this is not a cookie I can stand behind.

So I ask you this: What the fuck is up with Oreos?

Oh, and can we still be friends?

The Sliding Scale of Terror

It’s an election year. Everybody hates everybody and nobody hates anything more than I hate politics. But I believe, with all my heart, that there is one piece of common ground we can all find. A place where we can all finally agree. A utopia of like-mindedness. A little place I like to call, The Absolute Hatred of Spiders.

And if you don’t agree, you can get the fuck off my blog.

Because spiders suck. They’re gross and ugly. They’re shifty and nefarious. They are conniving bitches who will eat the last cookie and think nothing of polishing off your best scotch. In short, they are total assholes. Allow me to explain…

Once upon a time, we bought a new house. A lovely house with many windows, including a nice big window over the kitchen sink. A window that some clearly deranged spider decided to build a web in. (Exhibit A: Spiders show no respect for personal property. They are hooligans.) So I vacuumed up the unattended web and figured the spider would get the hint and move on. As it turns out, spiders aren’t good with subtlety. She built another web right back where the old one was literally overnight. (Exhibit B: Spiders have vampiric tendencies. Not the sexy kind.) I was mightily displeased and thus began a vicious turf war on my windowsill. Everyday I would clean up this web and EVERY night the spider would rebuild it and go into hiding during the day. The strain of the situation began to wear on me. I would stumble bleary-eyed into the kitchen each morning to assess the damage and spew curses when I saw the web of defiance. Finally there came a day when I saw the icky rebel in action and I killed her. Or at least I thought I did. Until the next morning when I walked into my kitchen to see one long strand of web spanning from the ceiling to the counter, right across the kitchen sink. It shimmered in the morning sun, a delicate and indisputable “Fuck You”. So I totally snapped, filled my cabinets with C4 and blew up the entire kitchen in a fit of fiery rage. Actually, no. But I was really pissed and wrote a very long and strongly worded email to a dear friend who had the good grace not to make fun of me. You’ll be relieved to know that I prevailed and the spider did eventually meet her demise. You’ll also be relieved to know this paragraph is finally over.

So, perhaps you now understand how truly awful spiders are and how I may just have a smidge of the PTSD where arachnids are concerned. Perhaps you will also understand how the following announcement struck fear into my very core.

It’s about 6:45am. The Hubs and I are in our bathroom getting ready for the day.

Max walks in and says, “Mommy! There’s a spider in your room! A big, wriggly one!”

Time stood still. The Hubs and I looked at each other and began doing that silent communication thing that couples do:

Hubs: “Don’t freak out!”


Hubs: “Why don’t you have a prescription for Xanex?!”



Armed with shoes and an intense longing for prescription drugs, we went into our bedroom to assess the situation. There was no spider to be seen. Which could only mean one thing; he was the kitchen spider’s unstable ex-boyfriend coming to exact revenge on us in the most painful way possible starting with psychological warfare. Obviously. And it worked. Because on the Sliding Scale of Terror this falls precariously close to the “All Music Other Than Nickelback Has Been Destroyed” end of the spectrum.

Let’s all take three cleansing breaths to release that horrifying idea back into the ether.

I lived the next 36 hours in a state of high alert. I was like Jason Fucking Bourne up in here. I carried a weapon on my person at all times. I regularly patrolled my bedroom and at long last my vigilance was rewarded. I saw The Target, went into cardiac arrest, located The Target again, hyperventilated, looked at The Target some more, thought about sealing off the room and waiting for The Hubs to come home, checked to make sure The Target hadn’t moved, girded my loins and finally killed the bastard. Death by flip-flop. Booyah. Then I tried not to puke on myself as I destroyed the evidence and framed the next door neighbor for the crime. You can never be too careful. Spiders are vengeful beasts.

Altruism – You’re Doing it Wrong

This morning was busy.  Hectic.  Filled with demands from small people.  You know, normal.  And two hours into the non-stop activity that is an average day my patience was starting to wear thin.  Which was obviously the perfect time for my just-ate-breakfast-twenty-minutes-ago children to start asking for snacks.  I offered them stick cheese, aka string cheese.  Max, my three-year old son, happily takes his and runs off.  Mason, the two-year old, takes his, looks at it then asks me to “make strings” for him.  See, his daddy always pre-strings his cheese for him because he is a daddy.  He has nothing else to do.  As the mommy who was still hoping, nay, longing, for some coffee and (dare I say it?) food, the extra sixty seconds it would take to dismantle sting cheese into a more edible state was a fucking eternity.  So I did what I imagine all beautiful and practically perfect in every way mothers would have done.  I said, “Arrrghhhhhhh!!!!”  (as I worked on the string cheese prep, of course.)

The boys stopped in their tracks and said, “Mommy!  Why did you make that noise?!”

ME: “Because mommy is tired and hungry.”

MASON: “You are hungry?”

ME: “Yes.”


And yes, he totally said it Shouty Caps style.  Because that’s how I raised him; to scream at starving people.  Show no mercy, son!  NO MERCY!!

So after I handed off the uneaten strings, laughed and pondered my failure as a parent I poured a bowl of cereal and refused to talk to them until it was eaten.  Except for when I had to get up and take Max to the bathroom.  And break up a fight over a golf club.  And refill Mason’s cup of water.  And ask them to get three ice cubes out of the freezer because drinking bourbon neat before 9am is just uncivilized.

Then we went to the library.  Where we should have checked out books on charity and great humanitarians but we didn’t.  We opted for dump trucks and dinosaurs instead.  And thus the cycle of egoism continues.


Let the Blogging Begin!

I have no idea how to start a blog.

You’d think I would.  I mean, there are approximately a zillion blogs already in existence and I’ve read my fair share of them.  I guess it’s just different when you’re the one doing the writing.

You may have noticed my tagline, “only a decade after everyone else…” I think that pretty well sums up my feelings about starting this blog.  I know blogging is old news.  Everyone has a blog.  There are many, many people out there doing this better than I ever will.  I’m ok with that.  For the most part.  Just don’t tell me about all the other amazing bloggers out there, ok?  Because then I’d get all depressed and start bingeing on ice cream.  Specifically Ben & Jerry’s Late Night Snack.  I highly recommend it for all your emotional eating needs.  That or bourbon.  Which is obviously a drink but is also highly recommended.

So, other than sub-par blogging, what should you expect here?  I’m glad you asked!

1. Plenty of “mom talk”.  I am a SAHM with two toddlers.  It’s inevitable.

2. Many, many examples of bad grammar…run on sentences and superfluous commas like a mother fucker up in here.  (If it gets totally out of control, you are certainly welcome to let me know. NICELY.  I’m hacking these posts out during nap times and late at night, so have mercy, please.)

3. Profanity.  Why?  Because I like it and my inner sailor needs a place to be heard.  Also, see #1; I have two toddlers.  I have lots of reasons to want to curse and very little opportunity to do so.  If that’s not your thing, no worries.  But you should totally try it.  SO cathartic.  The cursing, not the toddlers.  They’re great but definitely not cathartic.  At all.

4. Fabulous recipes and lots of foodie type talk.  I LOVE FOOD!  I enjoy cooking for my family and love to entertain at my home.  I can’t wait to share some of my favorite recipes with you!

5.The occasional book review or recommendation. I am a bookworm.  I read mostly fiction these days, but I’m always interested in good books, so if you’ve read something great lately, let me know.  I’d love to hear about it!

So let’s get to it, shall we?  All those belligerent cookie recipes and child-rearing anecdotes aren’t going to write themselves, now are they?