Me: I made some delicious banana bread! We can have it for breakfast tomorrow.
John: I have no idea what you guys are gonna eat… I’m gonna eat this entire thing while you’re both sleeping tonight.
Me: Hahaha! That’s pretty funny. Laugh now. After you eat my banana bread I will stab you to death.
Braden: And then I will cry.
*awkward quiet moment where I’m trying to decide if that was more funny than traumatic or not*
PS: Later that night, John wouldn’t let me hide the banana bread and leave only a pile of crumbs for Braden to find in the morning. I never get to have any fun.
On The Couch. The Other Night. Watching Some Show.
John: Oooh! That reminds me! *pauses show* We did this thing on the way to the gig the other day; it was awesome!
Me: *gets excited at the prospect of hearing awesome! thing* Yeah?!
John: Yeah! Totally awesome! Get a load of THIS!!! We were switching the consonants in our first and last names!!!!!!!!!!! You know? Yeah! :D!!
Me: *blank stare*
John: 😀 😀 😀 !!!
Me: *blank stare in which I am actually considering killing him for his own good*
John: !!!! 😀 !!!!
John: :D! *inkling of my disapproval setting in* Yes? Yes! :D!!
Me: What. the. fuck.
John: You know! Like you’re Cotus Larroll! Hahahaha! :D!!!
Me: You’re saying that like it’s a thing.
John: It is a thing. *look of remembering what a bitch I am creeping into his face*
Me: No. No, really. It’s not. Nobody does that.
John: They do, too.
John: Uh-huh. *realization of how stupid this game is but refusing to let go*
Me: Who? Who does that?
Me: Mmmhm. What kind of people do that? Do they use their brains productively most of the time?
John: *frustrated stare of defeat*
Me: *gloating sneer of victory*
John: Shut up. Shut up, I hate you.
Me: So what, was it quiet for like 3 hours and then all of a sudden someone goes, “OH MY GOD I KNOW WHAT WE CAN DO. IT’S THIS *THING*…”
John: I hate you. I’m not even going to tell you the rest of the story now. *turns show back on*
Me: So, you’re still a big vagina, then?
Conversation. Yesterday. Early morning. Cold(ish).
Me: So, we’re going to go running as soon as we get home from dropping Braden off, right?
John: *look of pain* No, it’s too cold. I’m not doing it.
Me: So, I just asked you if we were going to go running, and you said, “No, I’m a giant vagina.” Is that what you just said? ‘Cause that’s what I heard.
John: Yes. I am a giant vagina.
Me: Okay. I’m glad we got that settled.
These are the days of our lives.
PS: It is rare that I publish a post without a photo, but I think we all know that you appreciate the fact that I didn’t stage the appropriate photo for this one. You’re welcome.
Okay, so maybe I got a leetle bit pissed off when I saw this image on Pinterest tonight.
and the princess didn’t have her heart broken by a man who couldn’t keep his dick to himself for more than five seconds because she was smart enough to say no to the pretty face that was hiding the vile creature behind it. And she had all the time in the world to then pursue her own interests and be the person she was meant to be, reveling in her identity and fulfilling her aspirations fully. She spent as much time as she wanted with the best girlfriends who always built her up and cared about what she was saying rather than pretending to listen and hoping she was soon done. And she hand selected the finest young men to keep her company (and then sent them on their way when she was bored with them) and she read books and made beautiful art and sun bathed and nobody ever left the fucking toilet seat up or made her have to drag their feelings out of them like driving nails into brick because they were such poor communicators that she just wanted to scream into infinity in those miserable moments of complete relationship hell when she would rather be twirling through the living room, singing her favorite song at top volume. She didn’t have to share the remote or watch any sports she didn’t want to, and she only got foot rubs with her pedicures and nobody expected her to have sex with them just for doing it. She smiled every day because she wanted to, not because she was pretending she was happy, and nobody needed her to fetch them a beer or make their food first so that by the time she ate hers it was cold. She played with lady bugs and stopped to smell the flowers every day. Her friends and family thought she was fucking awesome because she was able to live her life to her full potential instead of for some loser who resented her for not wanting him to drink jack daniels every fucking night. And she never had to sleep in the goddamned wet spot. THE END.
Yeah, maybe a little too far.
(Who am I kidding?! That shit had it coming.)
I’m sure that you, the reader of my website, are not an asshole of any sort, including the temperature/climate type. Surely, someone with your impeccable taste is intelligent enough and nowhere near enough of an asshat to engage in the behavior I’m addressing with this post. So please, just let this post serve as a place that you can direct the temperature/climate assholes you come into contact with towards, as necessary.
Dear Temperature Asshole,
When someone says it’s cold where they are, that means >>news flash<< IT’S COLD WHERE THEY ARE. As in, the temperature is such that they have made the judgment that it’s frickin’ freezing, Mr. Bigglesworth. Or at least very cold. To them. Which is all that matters about their comment. This is obvious to people who don’t have their heads up their asses, I’m guessing, but what do I know?
If someone says it’s cold (or hot), I’m thinking, just accept it and move on. This is not a moment for argument or debate. Whatever the temperature is where you are / depth of cold (or intensity of heat) you can withstand / number of brain cells you wish you had horrific weather conditions you are experiencing/have ever experienced – COMPLETELY IRRELEVANT. Please resist your nagging stupidity and do not make someone else’s experience of temperature about you.
No, really. The next time you have the urge to say something like “that’s not cold – you don’t know what cold is” or “pfft, that’s nothing, you know how cold it is where I AM?“ to someone, punch yourself in the face one time, as hard as you can, both because you deserve it and because you can do so without feeling any pain. Really! Rest assured that it won’t hurt, because somewhere, someone is getting punched in the face HARDER and even MORE THAN ONCE.
You think it would hurt to punch yourself in the face that once? Pffft. You don’t know what pain is.
I’m not sure what my willingness to show it to you anyway says about me as a mother. But let’s not dwell on that. Instead, let’s spend some time in your life that you will NEVER GET BACK together, shall we?
Braden and I like to have “Elaine Benes” dance parties together. Nobody on this earth is allowed to see what we do when we crank the music. Not even my husband. If some poor, unsuspecting person happened upon us… well. I would say that I’d have to kill that person, but I’m sure they’d find the nearest cliff to jump off of themselves, unable to bear living with the mental images of what they’ve seen.
Today Braden started busting a move and then perfected it and began repeating it over and over again, and really, what is a dedicated, tech-savvy, camera obsessed mom supposed to do? Film that shit, suckas. I was not disappointed with my decision. I did have trouble trying not to laugh, which just resulted in a squeaky, half-assed muted laugh. All in all, this video is the worst video you might ever decide to watch.