Category Archives: Books

We’re all just glorified end tables

I’m not sure when it happened exactly but at some point in my parenting career, I went from being Mom to Glorified End Table. Cause that’s pretty much all I do now. Just hold my children’s crap for them. Backpacks. Sippy cups. This cool leaf they found on the ground. 

All in all, it’s not a bad gig. Much better than when they used me as their Glorified Couch. Or when they were babies and I was merely a Portable Buffet Table. But there are some downsides. Such as how long I have to hold these items. Which is apparently forever. 

Did I ever think I’d wake up one day as furniture? No. Truthfully I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. But it’s hard to type when you’re holding three very important pine cones and a hoodie and a blueberry muffin with two bites taken out of it. A muffin they INSIST they will finish. Eventually. Probably before they go to college. 

So I’m doing my best to settle into this new role of mine. My dreams can wait. Especially since this used candy wrapper isn’t going to hold itself, now is it?

Plus, I mean, if I’m not going to do it, who will? The kids? Don’t be ridiculous. Why would THEY hold their OWN crap? 

I did try it once though. Making them hold their own belongings. Back when I was still Mom. And then we immediately turned around after getting home to go right back to the park and grab the mountain of stuff they left there. Oh, sorry. Correction: The mountain of stuff they left lying there in a mud puddle. 

It was soon after that that I metamorphosized into the end table. (Eat your heart out, Gregor Samsa). 

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Oh, I can’t tell you the sheer number of things I’ve had to hold for them. Half drank water bottles. Hats. Sunglasses. Baggies of Cheerios. Wet socks. What turned out to be a dead cricket. A water gun that they definitely stole from someone. Rocks. So many rocks. An entire menagerie of stuffed animals. Half eaten lollipops. Every single dandelion that grew in our neighborhood. 

Then there were the three dozen acorns they acquired when we went camping in New Hampshire. Each one as precious and unique as a diamond. And yes, they knew if I tried to nonchalantly drop a few to make it easier to carry. 

There were the shells from that time we went to the beach. Enough to decorate the bathroom of every single beach house on the east coast. 

And, my personal favorite, the giant bags of cotton candy they JUST. HAD. TO. HAVE. but (surprise!) didn’t eat so I carried them around a street fair in 90 degree temperatures for four hours. 

Of course, just like any reliable piece of furniture, there’s been some wear and tear. The rings alone. Mostly under my eyes. Plenty of dents and scratches. But it could be worse, I suppose. Daddy, for instance, woke up one day as Mobile Playground. 

Luckily, I have many parent friends who also double as Glorified End Tables and who are happy to help out and hold my stuff so I can hold my children’s stuff. Of course, then another parent/end table has to then hold THEIR stuff, which is mostly their children’s stuff, so they can hold my stuff so I can hold my children’s stuff and so on and so on in one giant Russian Roulette game of crap-holding. 

But that’s why they say it takes a village to raise a child. Although perhaps a more apt phrase at this point would be that it takes a furniture store. 

And so, in conclusion, that’s why parents are allowed to drink alcohol. Now, can someone get me a straw? My hands are full. 

 

Comic books didn’t prepare me for this

I’ll be honest. I never gave much thought to my lap. Which is sad really, considering it is the most powerful part of my body. 

Oh yes, that squishy fleshy chair I can make appear and disappear at will is literally the seat of my power. (Pun COMPLETELY intended). 

I don’t mean this from a muscular standpoint. Or politically. Or even aesthetically. No. I mean from a supernatural perspective. The second I even attempt to sit and form this lap, it mystically summons, from far and wide, small children.

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Small, bony, wiggly children. With their weaponized elbows and butts and knees. Who then must sit on my lap immediately and are willing to fight each other to the death for the privilege. (A fight to the death that happens, you guessed it, right there on my lap).

It doesn’t matter what I’m doing while in possession of this lap. Eating? Clearly the appearance of my lap at the dining room table meant I wanted to eat this taco while maneuvering around a toddler’s head. Working on my laptop? Obviously by sitting I was inviting my kindergartner to hop on up and “help” by maniacally pushing buttons and erasing everything I’ve written. Disabling a bomb? Pffft. Whoever heard of someone doing that WITHOUT a pile of children on top of them?

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Likewise, environmental factors matter little. A Fourth of July party in 101 degree temperatures with a humidity equivalent of one thousand swamps? Hey mom, seems like a perfect time to sit on you and sprawl out every inch of my 40-pound frame, unfolding like a sticky octopus. 

There is one very important rule, however. Whatever you do while sitting on my lap, the one thing you absolutely MUST NOT DO is sit still. Because that would be ridiculous. 

But it’s not just my lap. This is a latent superpower pretty much all moms discover they have, which is why you rarely see a mom sitting. We know that as soon as we do, our laps will be swarming with children. Most likely our own but it’s far from unusual to find someone else’s kid squatting there. Like a beacon, it calls to them. 

Small child No. 1: “Do you feel that? A mom in the close vicinity is getting ready to sit and relax.”

Small child No. 2: “Oh no, that won’t do at all. We can’t allow her to enjoy herself. Let’s go!”

*pitter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter*

See, that’s the thing about laps. It’d be one thing if this was all based on love. If these children just wanted a good cuddle. Who doesn’t love a good cuddle? But that is not what the majority of lap sitting is. No. This is about ownership. Property rights. My kids sit on my lap to stake their claim. “This exhausted worn out husk that was formerly a person is my property!” their bony butt declares every time it plops down. And it’s always a plop. Never a gentle perch. Or even a moderate plonk. Although sometimes, when you least expect it, it’s a flying leap. 

And once they’re on there, very little can pry them off. Property is, after all, nine-tenths of the law. 

“GET OFF!” I’ll roar.

“Wiggle even harder!” they hear.  

“I have to pee!” I’ll plead.

“Let’s move this party into the bathroom!” they assume. 

“Can I just have five minutes to myself?” I’ll ask.

“Fine, fine, clearly what you need is for us to now migrate to your back and put you into a chokehold,” they reason. 

Every once in awhile though, just when I’m reaching my threshold and wondering if woman can live by standing alone, these kids legitimately need a lap. A nightmare scared them. A friend hurt their feelings. A day at the beach exhausted them. 

Or, the best possible reason, their love suddenly grew too big for their little bodies to contain and they had to release it by getting as close to me as humanly possible. 

Which is why we moms put up with all of it. Why we risk the bruises and the plops and the lack of any semblance of personal space. Why a mom’s lap is always open.

Because when words and band-aids and security blankets fail, a mom’s lap can tell them, instantly and in no uncertain terms, that they are loved. And they always will be. And it’s all going to be ok. 

And in the end, that’s a pretty amazing superpower to have. 

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38 Things I’ve Learned in 38 Years

Well, it’s my birthday. Again. And it’s a big one. The Big 3-8. I am now as old as Homer Simpson (at least in season 8). No, I’m not crying. You’re crying. SOMEONE BRING ME A BEER AND A DONUT. 

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If I’m being honest, though, I don’t really mind aging. I’ve learned so many things this past year. Wise things. Sensible things. And so, so many useless things.

All things I would now like to generously share with you…

The easiest way to deal with grass stains on your children’s clothing is to not care that your children’s clothing have grass stains.

If someone says “hey, smell this!” do not, under any circumstances, smell it.

I know there are people out there who don’t drink wine. I don’t understand them but I do think we should still try to love them.

Speaking of love, if you truly love someone, show it. By texting instead of calling.

Preschool teachers do not get paid nearly enough.

Growing older makes you realize what the truly important things are in life. I’d pay way more money for an uninterrupted nap than I would for diamonds or gold.

Never punch down. In comedy or life.

Take photos and videos of your kids when they are at their worst. Then look at these every time your ovaries start whispering “hey, there’s still time to have one more baby.”

I’m young enough to still hate the taste of martinis.

I’m old enough to now like the taste of gross stinky cheese.

In that brief moment when all your laundry is done AND put away, all things are possible. Revel in this moment before it ends.

We should all jump on the saving-the-planet bandwagon. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? We succeed and our grandchildren don’t have to live in a dystopian hellscape?

It’s ok to look your age. Looking young is not an accomplishment. It’s a result of genes or lots of money or an extremely boring life. Or all three.

Hating pop culture is not an acceptable substitute for an actual personality. Shut up and let people like stuff.

No means no, stop means stop, let Mommy finish her coffee means LET MOMMY FINISH HER COFFEE. 

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Most people have no idea what they’re doing. Don’t let their confidence fool you.

The good thing about exercising is that if you do it for so long, you become addicted to it. The bad thing about exercising is that if you do it for so long, you become addicted to it.

It’s ok to laugh uncomfortably at funerals. Unless it’s your funeral.

It’s a small world. It’s an infinite universe.

You’re never too old to wear a tutu.

You’re also never too old to climb trees. (You will, however, be sore for days afterwards).

I’d rather be strong than skinny.

I’d rather be happy than rich.

I’d rather be immortal than dead.

It’s not important to love the same things your partner does. But it is important to hate the same things.

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The last thing all pets should see before they die is your tear-streaked face. We owe it to them to be there until the very end.

One of the best things you can do for your sanity as a parent is to teach your kids how to swing on the swings all by themselves.

Fruit doesn’t belong on pizza or burgers.

No one likes the person who points out that tomatoes are a fruit.

Spiderman should always be played by an actual teenager.

You will regret not being in the photos.

You can never have too much sunscreen on hand.

Admitting you’re wrong isn’t a weakness.

Take pride in your unread emails. It beats panicking. (1,300 and counting!)

Smile at little kids, have a conversation with a lonely elderly neighbor, invite the mom sitting alone at the playground to have a nip from your flask. We could all use more positive human interaction.

Teach your children to be the kind of people who love the smell of old books.

You don’t have to be good at something to pursue it. If you love it, do it. Take it from an extremely mediocre photographer.

Speaking of things people aren’t good at, I am not good at math. Here’s to hoping this is the 38th thing. Because I am out of useless wisdom to impart. Did I mention cheese yet? Cheese is good.

Ways to unsuccessfully deal with insomnia

 

  1. Watch something. But not something too interesting. But also not so boring that it allows your mind to wander. Maybe something you’ve already seen but enjoyed. Preferably where at least one character has a British accent and is trying to solve a crime.
  2. Read something. Same rules apply.
  3. Eat something. Because, hey, it’s there and what else have you got to do?
  4. Count something. Sheep seem to be pretty popular, followed by minutes (“if I fall asleep now, I can still get 3.5 hours of sleep before the alarm goes off”).
  5. Argue something. In your head. Obsessively. Finally find a way to win that Facebook argument from 2015.
  6. Take something. Tylenol PM, perhaps? Or that melatonin that has never ever worked but yet you still keep a giant bottle of it by your bed? Does children’s benadryl work on adults?
  7. Rearrange something. Because you’ll definitely be able to sleep once all your bookshelves are ripped apart and then put back together in a slightly different organizational pattern.
  8. Worry about something. Like every single bad thing that could happen to your children.
  9. Eat something again. It’s now 3:30 a.m. Screw it.
  10. While you’re at it, watch something else. Maybe a 90’s sitcom will do it.
  11. Pray for something. Perhaps divine intervention from the deity of your choosing. Or an anvil to fall from the sky and onto your head, finally knocking you out. Or modern science to prove that sleep is unnecessary for survival.
  12. Scroll something. Sure, they say to avoid technology when you can’t sleep but you aren’t going to sleep anyway so may as well stalk that girl from seventh grade who used to bully you.
  13. Wake something. Like your husband. Who is peacefully sleeping right beside you in the most obnoxious manner possible. Misery does love company…
  14. How is he still sleeping? If you poke him any harder he’ll likely have internal bleeding.  
  15. Sigh.
  16. Clean something.
  17. Eh, never mind.
  18. Daydream something. Maybe cue up that one about marrying Chris Pratt (after your husband dies and you mourn the appropriate amount of time, of course).
  19. Plan something. May as well use all this time productively. Just a quick 36-point plan to improve every aspect of your life.
  20. Is there any cheese left?
  21. Research something. Like how insomnia causes premature aging. Then get up and slather more moisturizer on your decrepit face.
  22. Drink something? Warm milk? Ugh. Gross. No. Then maybe just a small glass of whiskey? Nah. It’s practically morning.
  23. Write something. Like, say, a list of all the futile ways you can try to combat insomnia.

Because this Facebook post is going to save America

I’ve been reading a lot of Mark Twain this summer. In fact, a few weeks ago, I dramatically declared to my husband that “this is The Summer of Twain!” while wearing a straw hat and holding a fishin’ pole (because everything is more fun when you can annoy your spouse with it).

It started out that I simply wanted to re-read the adventures of Tom and Huck on long, hot, lazy afternoons. But then, while searching for my copies of these books, I found seven other Twain books languishing on my shelves. Challenge accepted! I thought to myself as I instantly started searching for fishin’ poles on Amazon so I could properly break the news to my husband.

I’m happy to report that so far it’s turning out to be one of my better life decisions (much better than my decision last summer to sign my toddler up for soccer). It’s also having some unexpected patriotic side effects.

I was halfway through “Tom Sawyer,” for example, when a flood of memories from my semi-feral childhood in rural Ohio crashed into my brain. The next thing I know I’m asking my kids if they want to go down to the “crick” and have a picnic (to which they responded by staring at me with professional-grade disdain).

I was only one chapter into “Life on the Mississippi” before I found myself doing CPR on my ancient, wheezing junior high plans to visit every state in the Union.

And then there’s the quotes. Oh, those quotes. The man would just spit out viral-ready gems like “Loyalty to the nation all the time, loyalty to the government when it deserves it” long before the Internet was even a twinkle in Al Gore’s great-grandpa’s eye.

It’s that last one I blame for convincing me it was a good idea to write a political post on Facebook even though previous experience has taught me that there is only one way that ends, which is with all parties involved concluding this world can only be cleansed by fire.

I knew better. You reading this know better. My dog, who has his own Twitter account, knows better. Yet, there I was, romanticizing in my head how Twain brilliantly shed light on our faults as a country and why can’t I do that? I mean, I know words and stuff. Sometimes even BIG words. And with that fail-safe logic, I quickly assured myself that this Facebook political post would be different.

Not only that but it would MAKE all the difference.

It will be well-thought out, says I, clever even, a bit funny, yet poignant, a chastising that morphs into a rallying cry but with a sprinkling of self-deprecation so as to make the medicine go down easier. I mean, I’m not such a Pollyanna that I think a cheesy little paragraph on social media could truly solve anything (I’m only a quarter Pollyanna on my mother’s side). But, on the other hand, these four sentences could be the wisest and most courageous thing the Internet has ever seen.

I won’t know until I try, right?

So I type it out on my phone while pacing the dining room floor, my fingers flying over the tiny keyboard. I’m excited. Nervous almost. So much so it takes a while because I keep making typos. I reread it. Erase that part. Think it over. Put it back in. NO, SWEETIE, MOMMA CAN’T HELP YOU WITH YOUR UNDERWEAR. SHE’S BUSY SAVING AMERICA. Change the wording here. Is that how you spell “tyranny”? I don’t want to get ahead of myself but can you win awards for these kinds of thing? SO GO NAKED THEN. I’LL HELP WHEN I’M DONE BEING AN AMAZING PATRIOT.

I quickly post it. Before I lose my nerve. But already regret has started to set in. I take a deep breathe and remind myself it will all be fine. I just need to remember not to respond to any comments. I already said what I had to say. Let everyone else sling mud at each other down in the gutters.

And I firmly stick by that. For all of three minutes. It’s just this one guy, you know? He’s so smug. So I gently point out how he’s wrong. And three exchanges later, I gently point out how he can suck it. I’m outraged and also nauseous that anyone could believe the things this random person I now hate believes. But I can’t stop. I can’t just WALK AWAY. I have to win this fight. I have to make them see how stupid they are. Win the online fight, win AMERICA.

Except no one wins. Except maybe Facebook.

Hours, sometimes days, later, it’s all over and I feel vaguely dirty and vow to never, ever discuss politics ever again.

But I will. Because this country has been very good to me and I love it for that. So I’m going to keep fighting to make it good for everybody.

And because I may just be another idiot arguing on the Internet but I refuse to let those other idiots have the last word.

If children’s books were actually realistic

Hello! My name is Aprill. I have a son. His name is Riker. He is 2-years-old. He is a wonderful boy!

Riker likes to laugh and play. And he really loves to read!

We read books all the time together. They all sound exactly like this.

Because who doesn’t love short sentences! And lots of exclamation points!

Mommy, that’s who! Or at least not after reading 27 books in a row. Twenty-seven books in a row that feature no less than 4,000 exclamation points!

Yay!

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The worst kinds are the “informational” children’s books. Do you know what an informational children’s book is? It is a book designed to teach children things! But teach them in the most annoying and condescending manner possible!

Mommy may be biased though. She has read a bunch of these books lately. She is trying to prepare Riker for the arrival of his new baby sister! So every day she reads books with titles like “I’m a Big Brother” and “I’m Going to be a Big Brother” and “Why Is Mommy Crying at That Commercial?”

These books are indeed informative. And repetitive! And redundant! And repetitive!

And oh-so-dumb!

This is why Mommy wrote her own children’s book to prepare Riker for a new baby! A more realistic version! A version that includes stretch marks and curse words!

Because sugar-coating is for babies!

The Adorable Fetus That Is Slowly Destroying Mommy

Chapter One

Riker loves his Mommy. His Mommy is the best. He loves sitting on his Mommy’s lap.

But lately, Mommy’s body is changing. Her belly is getting bigger and bigger. So are her butt and boobs. And her feet and hands. And her hips and thighs. She also now has two chins. Count them.

One.

Two.

Two chins!

Daddy says this is because a baby is growing inside Mommy! Mommy says it’s a parasite that feeds off of Mommy’s nausea. This is why she needs to eat cheeseburgers at 7 a.m.

I am going to be a big brother! I am so excited!

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Chapter Two

Mommy’s brain is changing too. She says it’s just for show now. We play fun games like “Where Did Mommy Leave Her Keys?” and “Where Did Mommy Leave The Dog?” and “Where Is That Horrible Noise Coming From?”

(The answer to all of them is in the fridge!)

Pregnant Mommy can be very fun! This morning she served Skittles and cheese for breakfast. And last week we had ice cream for dinner! Mommy says it’s OK because she’s building a human from scratch and it’s wicked exhausting. Well-balanced meals are for people not currently making a tiny baby spleen.

But if anyone asks, we ate granola and goji berries with organic honey. Yum!

Her skin also looks like a tiger now. I told Mommy I want to have a baby and have tiger skin too. She growled at me. Daddy quickly grabbed me and we went for a long walk. Mommy is so silly.

Chapter Three

Sometimes Pregnant Mommy is not so fun. I gave her a stick I found in the park once. She cried and cried and hugged me super tight! She said “never leave me!” and then she ate my Go-Gurt.

One time Daddy accidentally ate Mommy’s donut. Mommy got really angry. She said a bunch of new and exciting words!

Mommy farts a lot. It is super smelly.

She also makes funny noises when she gets up off the couch. It makes me giggle. Mommy says that’s what happens when you grow to be as big as a planet and have your own gravitational pull.

new baby planet

Chapter Four

When it’s time for the baby to come, Daddy will take Mommy to the hospital. I’m not allowed to go until the baby is outside Mommy’s belly. Mommy said it’s because she will be using even more new and exciting words that I am not supposed to know!

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While Mommy is busying being destroyed by my new baby sister, my grandma is coming to stay with me. My grandma is very fun! She gives me giant bowls of sugar! And non-Mommy approved toys that are loud and have no “off” button!

A few weeks later, my other grandma will come stay with us. She is also very fun! She will also spoil me in non-Mommy approved ways. Because that is her job.

Chapter Five

When our new baby gets home, Mommy and Daddy said things will be different for awhile. They will be very tired. They will be very tired because babies don’t like it when mommies and daddies sleep. They also hate clean clothes. But not as much as they hate letting parents eat a hot meal.

new baby tired

Chances are good I will spend a lot of time doing things Mommy and Daddy never let me do before, like sitting in front of the TV binge-watching “Sesame Street” and eating animal crackers from a giant tub! Fun!

Mommy says things will go back to normal soon. Although we’ll still eat ice cream for dinner occasionally.

But if anyone asks, we ate gluten-free spaghetti with non-GMO heirloom tomato pasta sauce and free-range, grass-fed beef.

Mommy and the Purple Crayon

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Reading is FUNdamental (until it drives you mental)

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Nesting is for the birds (see what I did there?)

I’ll be honest. I didn’t think it was true. I thought it was just another one of those pregnancy myths, like you only gain weight in your stomach (you don’t). Or that your husband will actually run out at 3 a.m. to get you a taco (he won’t). Or that pregnancy is in any way enjoyable (it’s not…although it might be if “someone” would get me tacos in the middle of the night…HINT, HINT, Ryan).

But then a few weeks ago I innocently went to pick out a new book to read and, well, this happened:

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Five manic hours later, every single book I own, which is not an insignificant number, had been taken down, cleaned, mentally recategorized and put back on the shelves using a system that made absolutely no more sense than the original system. Some books were organized via genre, some by how much I thought the authors would get along (Mark Twain and Dave Barry would totally have started a bromance) and some by how smart I thought they made me look.

Needless to say, it was a system that would have made any librarian’s head spin around, Exorcist-style, and then explode.

But despite the fact that it didn’t make any sense and that it didn’t actually need to be done, I couldn’t help myself. I HAD to do it. It was a compulsion. A compulsion no less powerful than what I imagine compels my dog to roll around in dead things on days when I am running late for something.

Yes, I had apparently unwittingly begun the phase of pregnancy known as “nesting.” Generally, nesting is when a pregnant mother feels the overwhelming desire to deep clean her home and prepare said home for the imminent arrival of her baby. As I discovered, pretty much all expectant mommas go through this, from animals tearing up newspapers and birds building actual nests, to human women who scrub their entire house with a toothbrush and then organize their spice rack alphabetically.

But in my case, my maternal instincts told me I couldn’t have a baby in a house where the books were shelved all willy-nilly. Never mind that there is food in my fridge that expired in 1997 and the bathroom tub hasn’t been scrubbed since I could wear pants with buttons. Oh no. No, it was far more important that my home be a home where Dorothy Parker took her rightful place beside Robert Benchley.

Luckily not all is lost for this kid. Because while his mother is currently about as useful as a fish with a bicycle, he has a father whose instincts are actually geared toward keeping his tiny butt alive.

For example, that following weekend my husband spent hour upon hour putting together the crib, the changing table and rocking chair, organizing all the tiny, tiny clothes by size and cleaning out our attic of all the useless crap that not only did we not need, but no one would ever need in their lifetime, to make rooom for all the new baby crap we would actually need. I watched him, mesmerized, as he did thing after thing that would, you know, actually be helpful once this little bladder-kicker was out in the world.

He was doing the male version of nesting. Or, as I like to call it, “mesting.”

Not that I was completely useless during this time, mind you. I helpfully did things like hold up random tools while saying “this one? this one? this one?” when he asked for a Phillips head screwdriver. And I put together a mobile for the crib all by myself. Granted, it doesn’t work now, but that could be for any number of reasons.

It just goes to show you, everyone approaches parenthood differently. But believe you me, someday that kid will be OVER THE MOON about the fact that all the Stephen King books are not only together on the shelf, but stacked chronologically.

Dothraki horseloaf with a side of wine. Lots of wine.

Guys. No…seriously. Guys. Stop whatever it is you’re doing right now (except, of course, for reading this blog…keep doing that…but put down your simultaneous game of Angry Birds on your phone and your unlicensed repinning of other people’s work on your iPad).

I have VERY IMPORTANT GEEK NEWS.

There is not one, not two, but…oh, wait…OK, no, just two (but still…TWO) “Game of Thrones” cookbooks.

Now, for you non-Song of Ice and Fire fans (or as we hardcore fans refer to you, Total Mega-Asshats), this may not seem a very big deal. But trust me, it is. Those of us who have devoted a good portion of our lives to reading these novels, which are 1,000 plus pages each, have nothing much to do until the sixth book comes out other than watch the HBO series with friends and lord it over their heads that we already know what’s going to happen in the next episode.

And since it takes the author, George R.R. Martin, approximately eleventy-billion years to finish a goddamn book, it doesn’t look like we’ll have anything to look forward to for quite awhile.

That is, until now. Already, the “unofficial” Unofficial Game of Thrones Cookbook has been published by some clever opportunist and this June, the Martin-approved “official” Official Game of Thrones Cookbook will be released.

Now, I don’t know what any of the recipes are but judging from what I remember about the books, you can probably expect things like:

Arya’s Roadkill Pigeon Pie

Khaleesi’s Krazy Kasserole

LittleFinger’s Lady Fingers with Raspberry Sauce

Jon’s SnoCones

Bran’s Handicapable Halibut

Hodor’s Hodor with a side of Hodor

Cersei’s Incestuous Cinnamon Buns

And the best news is, even if these recipes suck, no worries. Because you’ll probably be too wasted from wine and beer (which is featured prominently about every two pages or so) to care.

So, honey, if you’re reading this (and I know you will eventually simply because you’ll get tired of me repeatedly asking “Hey, did you read my latest blog post yet?”) prepare your palette for some delicious Dothraki horseloaf.