We got a dog. A cute, abandoned, 5 month old lab/boxer/terrier mix, which, given the shelter and vet track records of labeling all breeds as lab/boxers to avoid anti-pitbull feelings, it’s probably a pitbull. Don’t tell my HOA.

She is sweet and it’s hard to talk about her without reverting into baby talk (look at her widdle face with all those widdle wrinkles, who’s the cute girl? is it you? YES IT IS! YES YOU ARE THE CUTEST WIDDLE GIRL!) but needs attention and reassurance every 3 seconds. And that’s hard, because I myself need attention and reassurance every 3 seconds, and competing with a dog with cute wrinkles for attention and reassurance sends us both into a neurotic spiral. I have a couple of wrinkles on my own, probably, but they’re not as cute or fuzzy ( I should hope).

Dog stories incoming.




I hate your blog.

Target Audience. I recently ran across a blog written by a dad, wherein he bemoaned not becoming popular and earning millions of dollars from his blog. I mean, he’s  a DAD, you guys. And he WRITES. ON THE INTERNET. What else do people even want from him? Why is nobody reading his stuff? Did he mention that he is a DAD? D-A-D. I mean, it’s right in the blog title, readers.

I loathe blogs that are clearly written to earn money, for the same reason that I fast-forward through advertisements. I don’t need Happy telling my child that he absolutely needs a stuffed dragon that either transforms into, or fits into, a stuffed castle, and I don’t need to read your stupid blog to find out that women, like the ravenous pig-beasts that we are, need to snack in the middle of the day, but only on low-calorie granola bars which you will personally put into your purse every day, because you got a freebie from Nestle.

And it’s a whole network of bloggers, constantly linking to each other, reading each other, and pushing each other to buy unnecessary products, because they get compensated a whole dollar per entry, and plus, did they MENTION the free compact and mirror that you will get if you leave a comment, link to the post on twitter, and like them on facebook? Because get it? Ladies! Granola bars! It’s like dads and writing on the internet. Instant success formula.

But nobody is going to know, because nobody cares about my blog. Maybe I should do a give away of granola bars or make-up or whatever it is that women bloggers’ target audience wants.

Excuse me, I have a happy napper to buy. For 19.99 plus 5.99 shipping & handling (that’s really expensive handling, is it done with kid gloves)?

I don’t even have twitter

Speaking of twitter, I accidentally referred to twitter as “tweeter” in front of younger family members, who promptly laughed at me.  I may officially be too old for the new social networks, and this makes me sad. I don’t use twitter, because I can either think of none, or too many, 150-character messages that I could publish, and I would prefer not to address those scenarios.  I understand the point of tumblr even less than I understand the point of twitter.

However, this post isn’t really about my inability to evolve with the social networks. No, this post is about empty twitter threats. I need a room table, and World Market desperately does not want to SELL it to me. I have placed an order three times so far – once online, and twice over the phone, and yet, AND YET, the order is not placed.  The online order disappeared into the nether, which I may have referred to as “shitty service” while on the phone with customer service. MAY HAVE. Okay, I totally did. Then I hung up. MATURE.

By evening, I calmed down and placed the order over the phone, except my 10% discount did not work. I got free shipping, and along with that, a liberal misspelling of my easy-to-spell, common last name, that is spelled just like it’s pronounced. So, naturally, the website does not reflect an order. Correcting my last name has not produced a viable result of SENDING OUT A TABLE.

This morning, I called even more enraged – and, what is surely the sign of the times, threatened to tell EVERYONE I KNOW on Twitter about it. As soon as that threat left my mouth, I cringed. I don’t HAVE a Twitter account, awkward. I also, as of now, do not have a dining room table. Fix your shitty service, World Market. GOD. Or I will establish a Twitter account for the sole purpose of TELLING EVERYONE about how you can’t send me a dining room table. I know, sing with me, ~~first world problems~~.



Here is something that I didn’t understand before I had a child: children are always walking away from you. From the moment of birth, they’re reaching towards a future in which you only play a miniscule part – a phone call or two, maybe a visit. As a parent, you hope for this future, when a child is successful and mature enough to leave you, and at night, when your newborn sighs or mewls, the future isn’t scary. When your child hits a milestone – walking, talking, going to kindergarten for the first time, you watch this long-legged child walk away from you and it’s hard not to look back and say – do you remember when you needed me every moment of your life? Of course, they don’t; and that’s a milestone, too.

My child is still a baby, with the boneless, plump baby hands, the small and even baby teeth. He holds my hand willingly in public, and asks me to rock him, just for old time’s sake. But he’s turning five. He’s going to kindergarten. And one day, he will go to first grade, to fifth grade, to high school, to college (knock on wood; for now, he wants to be a construction worker and skip the whole college thing). One day, I will look at my face in the mirror, changed by time, and I will remember that I would hold his hand before bedtime and he would giggle and whisper his five-year secrets to me, and how foolish I was when I thought we would be like this forever.

But for now, my baby is still a baby; and I won’t cry when I see, “Welcome, Class of 2024” on the bulletin tomorrow at his school.

1. The seminole pumpkin is still, stupidly, producing only male flowers. GET A CLUE, PUMPKIN. I have read that it’s normal for a pumpkin to bloom with only male flowers until late summer or fall, so if anyone else googles seminole pumpkin and arrives at this blog (I WAS SO EXCITED, by the way! Thanks for stopping by; sorry my blog is useless) know this about seminole pumpkins: (a) they really like to grow, so plant them far away from any other little seedlings that you would wish to grow; and (b) do not be alarmed if your pumpkin, like mine, is growing through a dude-only identity crisis.

I’m still no help. Whatever, MOVING ON.

2. My son is cleaning up all his toys, and is getting increasingly frustrated when we point out the teeny legos scattered in the kitchen and in the hallway. Finally, when my husband pointed out he legos hiding underneath the table, my son lost  and yelled, “OH COME ON. YOU GUYS ARE ROBOTS!!!”

This is exactly why parenting is so hard. How do you stop yourself from laughing at this indignant  child barely out of toddlerhood, yelling about his parents? Hilarious.

RIP, decorative cuff of my Ann Taylor Pants

Last week, I decided to put an end to my stapled-together-pant-hem, and asked my husband to take the pants to a seamstress shop, just to fix the separated hem on one pant leg. I also decided to include a pair of pants that were too long to me, and asked him to have the black pants trimmed to the length of the gray pants, and to fix the hem of the gray-pants pant leg. Clear as mud?

He looked at me with slight panic in his eyes and asked, “so…what length should the pants be?” I waved the black pants around and said, “cut THESE to THAT length” and gestured to the gray pants. “And fix the stapled hem.”

I should have known that something went wrong when I called today and asked, “so, how much did it cost to get my pants hemmed?”

“Oh, ten dollars”

“Wow, that’s it, for two pairs of pants? See, this is why it’s so great to fix things up instead of throwing pants away and buying new ones!” I sat back and waited for him to smugly agree with me, but instead, there was only silence. A heavy silence. Finally, in a voice full of dread, he replied, “It’s ten dollars for… pair of pants. Which is all that you asked me to fix….right?”

I’m going to spare myself the recounting of that conversation, and I also will not relive the 10 minutes I spent crying about my pants and everything being ruined (the crying that prompted my husband to point out that, “nothing is ruined, and this kind of behavior would have landed our son in time-out, please stop crying”).

My gray pants, with the hem fixed, are long. Ready-for-a-giant-to-wear, long. And the decorative cuff, my favorite part of these Ann Taylor pants, is gone. The black pants are completely unchanged.

I have two pairs of pants fit for a 6 foot woman. Who wants them?

talking to myself, in public

Today, I had three visits to my blog, and guess what? They were all me before I remembered to login so my own visits weren’t counted! I did have a day where, for some reason, I refreshed my blog exactly 21 times without logging in, so that I could see what a well-fed counter reader would look like. Sad.

This past weekend, I spent hours getting my family to jump into the pool while I  feverishly snapped photos, in hopes that I would be spotted as the best photographer in the whole world. This didn’t happen. What did happen was a sunburn on my face, a sunburn which outlined and exposed the sneaky horizontal lines on my forehead that do not disappear when I lower my eyebrows or unscrunch my face. Terrifying.

I give up. I give up scoffing at lotion before bed, or whatever other things that normal people do to their faces to make sure they don’t start getting wrinkles at 29. HELP ME, INTERNET. What do you do with your face?