Fun can Suck It.

You know that song We Are Young by the band Fun?  I know you know it.  It’s on the radio all the freaking time.  It’s super popular.  “Toniiiiiiiight….we are youuuuunngggg…gonna set the world on fiiiiiire…”  blahdy-effing-blah.  Seems like a great drunken anthem.  The kind of song that comes on at the bar when everyone’s had just enough booze to start singing all their favorite songs loudly and without shame, usually accompanied by hugs.  It’s probably very good for that sort of thing.  I can see myself singing it happily with a beer in hand…about eight years ago.

And therein lies the problem.  This song sends me hurtling into an early mid-life crisis every damn time I hear it.  But it’s catchy, so I listen to it anyway.  Because I’m really good at torturing myself and you’re supposed to play to your strengths, right?  So I listen to this song and think many things.  Things like:

  • But I’m not young anymore!  (insert hysterical sobbing here)
  • I barely managed to put on mascara today.  I think “burn(ing) brighter than the sun” is a little ambitious.
  • Then the doorman from the movie Knocked Up is in my mind saying, “I can’t let you in cause you’re old as fuck. For this club, you know, not for the earth.” (except I kinda think he means for the earth too…and if you aren’t familiar with that line, you need to be. You’re welcome.)
  • Wait…Target has quart-sized mason jars on sale?!  Oh HELLS YEAH!!
  • Holy fuck I am OLD!

It’s really depressing – and a little ADD – but mostly just depressing.

And the worst part of it is that I thought I was alone.  I thought I was the only person in the world who was thrown into an existential crisis every time this song was played.  I would ask people about their opinion about it, casually, of course:

Hey, so you know that song “We Are Young”?

Yeah!  I love that song!

Oh. Uh…Does it ever make you feel like you don’t know who you are anymore or like your glory days are already behind you or like maybe you need a cooler haircut…or something?

What?  No.  It’s awesome and I feel amazing every time I hear it.  In fact, you should totally see this adorable video of my toddler singing it with me.  We’re both very cute and youthful.

Then another little piece of my soul would shrivel and die.  Because I’m old and that’s the kind of shit that happens when you’re old and you get confronted with your oldness.  It’s the circle of life.

However, today I experienced a breakthrough.  Something amazing happened.  No, I did not work through all my issues and confront my mortality.  (Seriously, who wants to actually deal with their problems?  Why do you think bourbon was invented?!)  In a blessed turn of events I stumbled across something that gave me hope; proof that someone – somewhere – has a psyche as fragile as mine.  That lovely soul went so far as to parody this song and for that, I will be forever grateful.  My spirits are lifted and better yet, I am entertained.

Now, it’s possible that this little ditty went viral four minutes after Fun released their distressing single and I’m only just now hearing it because of, you know, The Old.  But I’m ok with that.  I just want everyone to get in on this sardonic naval-gazing goodness with me and have a little laugh.  I’ll warn you, there are a few rather rough bits in this.  Mostly just crude humor – nothing too awful – but consider yourself warned.

Disclaimer: Just for the record, I seriously love my family and my life and I wouldn’t trade my oldness or boring housewife crap for all the epic bar fights in the world.  


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.