Tag Archives: funny

Diary of an Insomniac

Posted on February 22, 2013 | 6 comments

Insomnia1 Insomnia2 Insomnia3 Insomnia4 Insomnia5 Insomnia6 Insomnia7 Insomnia8 Insomnia9 Insomnia10 Insomnia11 Insomnia12 Insomnia13 Insomnia14 Insomnia15 Insomnia16

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To the tax break(ing) point…

Posted on February 19, 2013 | 2 comments

You guys, I feel so bad. I can’t believe I have been so selfish and near-sighted. Not to mention, so utterly unfair. I mean, to think! That I could possibly be the cause of so much financial strife and anguish.

I am so so deeply ashamed right now.

Yes, dear readers, it is with a heavy heart that I inform you my husband and I just finished our taxes and as it turns out, we have cheated our poor government out of their hard-earned money. To the tune of $800!!!

Quite frankly, I’m surprised they’re even still up and running considering this monetary injustice.

To be honest, I’m not even sure how it happened. I mean, I know that our taxes are automatically taken out of our paychecks but, what? I’m just supposed to expect the people getting paid to know this stuff to know they’re taking out the right amount ahead of time!?! Please. These are very important people with very important things to do. I think we can all agree that current bills in Congress, such as H.R. 82, which would establish and implement security procedures to reduce the likelihood of baby switching and H.R. 213, which would ensure that consumers receive notification regarding food products from crops, livestock, or poultry raised on land which contained sewage sludge* aren’t just going to filibuster themself.

I can’t believe I didn’t do my civic duty as a civilian of these United States and double check they were taking out enough every two weeks. Honestly, how lazy can you get? The tax code, at only a mere 70,000 or so pages, is available to anyone who wants to read it.

Gee whiz. Well, I sure hope the government isn’t struggling because they’ve had to try to make ends meet without my $800 so far. To think that they might of possibly had to have had a committee meeting with only bagels, croissants and doughnuts, instead of bagels, croissants and the good doughnuts from that one bakery or that, God forbid, some of them actually had to SHARE staplers. I just…I just can’t even fathom.

But hey, if Congress is reading this right now, let me assure you that I am taking the necessary steps to rectify this situation as soon as possible.

Yes, just as soon as I figure out which only semi-vital organ I can sell on the black market, you will have your check.

*These are real bills being considered right now

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(Snow) drifting through life: Blizzard 2013 edition

Posted on February 11, 2013 | 4 comments

I now have a new reason to look forward to getting old.

That reason?

Future Aprill now gets to be that old person who sits her grandkids down and forces them to listen to the story of how I survived the Great Blizzard of 2013.

blizzard

Yes, dear reader, yours truly has finally joined the ranks of the privileged few (million) who have lived through a historic storm and therefore have earned the indisputable right to bore those who didn’t experience it with their endless tales of what it was like (tales that, trust me, we will force you to listen to until the day we die or the day you die of boredom).

And it’s about time. I can’t tell you how often in my life I’ve had to listen to some blowhard launch into yet another “ah, yes, the blizzard of ’78” when I was growing up in Ohio and “oh, I was there for Hurricane Carla, all right” when I lived in Texas and “aw man, Boston had the worst winter ever right before you came here” anecdote.

But now? Now I get to be that blowhard. Regaling everyone who wasn’t quick enough to jump out the window at the first sign I was about to launch into the well-worn story all about how the city shut down as two feet of snow was unceremoniously dumped on us by Mother Nature (although, over time, obviously some of the details will get a bit exaggerated, such as it was 20 feet of snow and 400 mph winds and people started eating each other and then got sick and then turned into White Walkers whom we survivors had to battle as they tried to storm the giant ice wall that Boston built to keep them out).

The only thing left for me to do is to perfect my story. And by perfect I mean ways to drag it out.

There’s the whole pre-storm saga, where my husband battled overly panicked soccer moms (the most dangerous breed of mom that exists) at the store, eventually eschewing the riot mobs going after bread, milk and eggs (because apparently everyone has the overwhelming need to make French toast during bad weather) and coming home instead with Captain Morgan and a giant ham. Meanwhile, I maniacally cleaned the entire house under the assumption that our power was probably going to go out and as a result we were going to die and thus, I really wanted the people who found our bodies five days later to say “Hey, these frozen corpses kept a pretty tidy home.”

And then there’s the storm itself, which, well, was a whole lot of sitting on the couch, drinking rum and eating ham, and periodically saying “look, it’s still snowing” to each other. I’m…uh…still working on this part.

But perhaps the best part was post-storm. Waking up the next morning, seeing all the snow, trying to get our dog, Buffy, to go potty in snow that was higher than his head and him being vehemently opposed to this plan. Standard stuff, really. But then came the digging out process that afternoon.

Now, being a native mid-Westerner, I’m sure at some point in my life I have shoveled snow before. Granted, I can’t think of a single, specific time, but I’m pretty sure you’re required by law to do it at least once in Ohio. Just like you are legally obligated to drive like a jackass every time it rains in that state.

But, suffice it to say, it has been many, many moons since I’ve picked up a shovel. However, wanting to be a good neighbor (re: not egged next Halloween…again) I dutifully dug in (heh) and helped my husband and the rest of the neighborhood try to make some order of the chaos that had become the sidewalks.

Well over an hour (and many, many “holy crap, I think I might die of exhaustion” breaks) later, I had made a path that maybe an anorexic pixie fairy could get through. Which we all decided was, screw it, good enough (or at least, that’s what I’m assuming everyone else was thinking since most of them are fairly trim, although a fair amount rounder than your average pixie fairy). And then I went inside for some more rum and ham.

It wasn’t even an hour later when the pain started.

By the next morning, I thought my husband had tied down my arms in some hidden kinky whim he decided to indulge in during the night and I had simply had too much rum and ham in my system to notice. When I realized it was simply only gravity holding them down, I started to worry. When I tried to move them, I outright panicked.

“BABE! I think my arms are broken!”

“Yeah, well, I’d love to come help you but my back is currently holding my body hostage at this delightful 90 degree angle.”

As it turns out, shoveling uses muscles you never knew you had. Or needed. Or wanted. Until it’s too late. My arms were so sore they refused to raise more than roughly two inches. I couldn’t even pick up my weighs-less-than-a-pound cell phone without my body screaming at me to knock it off.

shoveling arms 2

As for anything heavier? Forget it. In fact, rather than attempt to bring my coffee cup to my face, I just jammed a bunch of straws together.

shoveling arms 3

And as for washing my hair? I literally brought my head down to my arm’s level.

Shoveling arms

There’s more to this whole story, of course. But I don’t want to give it away all up front. I’m just going to bide my time until you’re stuck in a windowless room and someone happens to mention the weather.

And then, well, I’ll never forget where I was during the blizzard of 2013…

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Happy National De-Hair Your Entire Body Day

Posted on February 6, 2013 | 5 comments

So, Valentine’s Day is coming up.

(And in case this font isn’t getting it through, that above statement should be read sarcastically).

Or, as I like to call it for us women, National De-Hair Your Entire Body Day.

Yes, every morning on February 14, or perhaps the night before (or for those of us who are in longer-term relationships, five days before followed by a brief shower inspection followed by the sentiment “screw it, the stubble isn’t that bad”), women across this great nation of ours will waste countless hours and hard-earned money systematically removing every single hair that is not in an approved zone on their face or body. To wit:

Hair approval

And may I present Exhibit B:

Hair approval 2

And just as a reference point, here are all the approved hair zones on men:

Hair approval 3

Now, I’ve always hated Valentine’s Day. But it wasn’t until recently I think I pinpointed exactly why (I mean, other than the whole “it’s a horrific commercialization of a real sentiment created to make people spend money on crappy singing stuffed bears that their partner won’t know what to do with the other 364 days of the year and a faux holiday that means you will spend two hours waiting for a seat at a stupid restaurant neither one of you really wants to be at anyway surrounded by other stupid couples who are pretending they want to be there too” thing).

It’s because Valentine’s Day, by its very nature, expects me to be in a loving mood and sex-ready at all times that day. And sex-ready means de-haired. And de-haired means I shave, tweeze, wax and bleach 80 percent of my face and body. And after that incredibly not fun ritual, I’m supposed to be in a romantic mood. Except I’m not. Because everything is stinging and I have a razor cut on my ankle that refuses to stop bleeding and is currently filling my shoe up with blood. But no, please, feed me another strawberry in front of the fireplace, jerk.

See what I mean? I hate this stupid day.

Of course, I can’t blame all of this on Valentine’s Day. We women are expected to do these de-hairing rituals throughout the entire year. And I, for one, think it’s more than about time we really examine just how ludicrous this whole thing is.

I mean, we’re the only creatures on earth that expect this from our female species. For instance, a male monkey doesn’t tell his monkey wife “Hey, there is no way in hell I’m ever going to do this, but I really need you to take a sharp instrument and remove all the hair on your legs every few days, m’kay?” A male dog doesn’t expect his bitch (it’s accurate, simmer down) to bleach the hair above her lip and pluck, one by painful one, about 35 percent of the hair directly above her eyeballs. And I have yet to hear of a male bear telling a female bear before sex, “Hey, you know what would make this way more appealing to me? If most of the hair surrounding your sensitive lady parts was cruelly ripped out from its roots, all except for a small rectangular patch centered directly above your vagina. Yeah. That’d be hot.”

Not to mention, standards of beauty are always changing. Look at any old painting. Chubby chicks were all the rage. And now we love the “I haven’t eaten in six years but also I’m toned” look. Having a sun-kissed “oh, I just got back from Cabo” tan was in for what seemed like forever until “Jersey Shore” gave us a reality TV funhouse mirror to look in and we all realized that no one looks good with an orange skin tone. And you can’t throw a pair of scissors these days without hitting some woman who has burned all the old pictures of her with the “Rachel” haircut.

So, the only question left is, when the hell is this trend going to die? When can women run around in their natural, hairy state completely free and uninhibited? And, dare I say, even considered sexy, hairy toes and all?

I say we ladies make a stand. Burn our lady Bics and march on Washington! The Million Hairy Ladies March! Damn the Wax! Save the Follicles!

Because if we all do it, all stop removing our hair, all at the same time, we can take away the stigma that generations of weird, hippie chicks who have a pet chicken have given to the Free Hair Movement.

So who’s with me!?! Huh!?!

Because, seriously, trust me, you don’t want me being the poster child of this movement by myself. Cause when I don’t shave, I look like the love child of a hairy Persian man and a female gorilla who has had testosterone injections.

Anyone?

Hello?

Guys?

HELLO!?!

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Posted in Humor

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Chubby sexy cousins and other disturbing things

Posted on January 31, 2013 | 2 comments

So, awhile back I wrote a post in which I listed some of the fascinating things people Googled that led them inexplicably to my website. Oh yes, folks, my website host keeps track of that stuff (you naughty, naughty readers, you).

And as it so happens, this second wine of glass I’m drinking made me realize that we are way over due for another round of this fun (and by fun, I mean HIGHLY disturbing) little game.

Now, before we begin, let me just say that I’m not entirely sure why Google hates me, but hey, I’ll take all the views I can get, even if it is mainly composed of lonely men in their basements looking up “facebook carrot vagina.” (Seriously. Google directed that person to this site…why you gotta hate, Google?).

And so, without further ado…

“Trucker sex” (I’m actually giving Google a free pass on this one. I did actually write about trucker sex once. Hi mom!)

“Chubby sexy cousin” (1. Awesome band name. 2. Should I be offended or should one of my cousins?)

“I am your brother, don’t worry” (I swear, despite this and the one above, I’ve never written about incest)

“I think Winston is cute, too bad he’s gay” (Uh…?)

“Muumuu jokes” (It’s a niche market and apparently it’s all mine)

“Montel Williams shirtless” (I worry about the future of humanity)

“Person crying/Man crying/Geeky guy eating while crying” (Oh god, did I accidentally turn my husband into a meme?)

“Wife home alone” (Apparently I also appeal to rapists, so…cool?)

“here is to all the meanie pies who are always bullying me and forcing me to eat eggnog” (Google, I demand you ban this individual from my website post haste and henceforth! I won’t tolerate that kind of hate speech)

“Humans eating live birds” (The hell, Google!?!)

“Where are your ovaries” (I did actually draw a diagram once, so…well played, Google)

“my hot college boyfriend england” (???)

“my husband is a drunk idiot” (Heh. Sorry, babe. I think I did turn you into an Internet meme)

“Crappy photo of woman” (Aw…now you’re just being mean, you guys)

“Pregnant 49 weeks” (Holy crap, can that even happen? Google, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but I’m thinking WebMD would probably be more appropriate. And/or urging her to immediately dial 911)

“aprill brandon smoking” (I know that’s you, mom! I’m working on it. Back off)

“Cool grandma sex”/”naked breasts of middle-aged females” (Aw…now I has a sad)

“Big nose booger” (Always keeping it classy up here at Broke Wife, Big City)

“Potty mumu poop” (Oh yeah, no, my writing career is going great)

“I can’t help it if your mommy doesn’t know how to dress you cute” (WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE!?!)

“Aneurysm headache location” (Again, Google, WebMD would probably be better for this now almost definitely dead person)

“buffy dog w/ no pants” (Why would you even need to look that…nope, you know what…I don’t care…Screw you, Google).

“Writers drink and smoke” (After reading this, can you honestly blame us?)

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Butt fur the grace of God

Posted on January 22, 2013 | 3 comments

There are many distinct advantages to having a dog vs. having a child. For instance, when your child is misbehaving and you just can’t take it anymore, sticking them in a crate for six hours while you get some much needed “me” time usually results in “jail” time. Likewise, it is frowned upon by authorities to hit your kid with a newspaper (and/or a September Vogue when they’ve been a VERY BAD BOY!) or to rub their face in their own feces to get your point across. Not to mention, have you ever seen a toddler sit and stay upon command? Without the assistance of duct tape, that is?

But the one area where dogs don’t have a distinct advantage? Sickness. Specifically the flu (or whatever the dog-version of the flu is, which is what I suspect my dog Buffy currently has). Because when either one gets sick, it’s pretty much the same scenario for the caregiver–

You will spend at least the next 24 hours cleaning up every manner of vile substances that can squeeze (and/or explode) itself out every orifice imaginable from their tiny bodies.

Which is why my Tuesday thus far has consisted of:

Taking my dog outside so he can poop.

Taking my dog outside again so he can poop.

Cleaning up the vomit I discovered after I got out of the shower.

Taking my dog outside again so he can have an explosive case of diarrhea and then immediately dragging my dog to the bathroom without having his backside touch anything (Note: I was unsuccessful).

Throwing said dog who has an intense hatred of baths into the tub so I could cut out his butt fur that had been tainted with said diarrhea.

Scrubbing his backside in case I missed any of the tainted butt fur.

Trying to get him back into the tub after he escaped and then rinsing him off as his wet body clings to mine with a strength I honestly didn’t think his 32-pound body could possibly possess.

Disinfecting the tub and bathroom floor with the butt fur and diarrhea remains.

Cleaning up all the other areas where he decided to spontaneously sit while being dragged to the bathroom.

Scrubbing my hands for 45 minutes until they bled and then sitting by the water bowl trying to coax Buffy to take a drink since I know I have personally just cleaned up every single ounce of liquid his body could possibly hold.

And that pretty much brings us up to date, with my exhausted dog cuddled up next to me on the couch as I sporadically check to make sure he’s still breathing while I type this and the vet’s number queued up on my phone in case he gets any worse.

Now, I could be angry about this situation. Or at least unhappy. Or at the very least starting to question what horrific life decisions I had made that had led me up to this point where I spend the majority of my Tuesday scrubbing a dog’s butt.

But I’m not. Because as it turns out, this couldn’t have happened at a better time considering I woke this morning to the Facebook announcement of yet another person in my circle happily proclaiming that they’re pregnant. A proclamation, I’m not proud to admit, that made me irrationally mad.

See, after my first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage in October, my husband and I have started to try to conceive again, which has yet to be successful and which is subconsciously bringing up some of those horrible feelings we dealt with this fall. And which is why instead of being happy for couples who are expecting like I should, I react with:

“But that’s not fair! They already have kids! And now they get another one? Like it’s just so easy to get pregnant! How dare they! How dare they be so happy when I’m not! How dare it be so easy for them when it’s not for me!”

Like I said, irrationally mad. And exceedingly unfair to the happy couple, I know.

But after today, I realize it’s probably a lot harder (and a lot more anxiety-inducing) to deal with a sick kid. Or to deal with even a healthy kid. Because poop-covered-fur-cutting-out aside, my dog is pretty self-sufficient no matter what the circumstances. And if I was dealing with a sick kid, I wouldn’t be able to drink this vodka I’m currently holding in my hand.

So, I’m holding onto that for right now, because I need to hold onto something other than the disappointment of getting my period yet again. And for right now, it’s enough to just try to find the upside of only being responsible for the life of a dog, a creature that has more instincts for self-preservation than a toddler who thinks sticking a fork into a light socket sounds like a downright dandy idea.

And to try to remember that there is always next month, which, of course, is easier said than done, but hey, it’s something.

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Posted in Humor, Pets

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But…white girls are always on a diet, aren’t they?

Posted on January 11, 2013 | 4 comments

You guys…I don’t know. Is it just me or does this new year just seem…I don’t know…a bit lackluster? A bit blah?

I mean, 2013? Thirteen itself is just a crappy number. Unlucky, even. And was anyone happy when they turned 13? Of course not. You had acne and hair sprouting in weird places and were the very definition of awkward and everyone hated you because you were SUPER annoying.

Ermahgerd.+Poptarts_f023ff_4102307

Even the end of the world Mayan prediction was a letdown, unable to live up to the hype of Y2K.

Then again, maybe it is just me. I’m just not feeling the bright, shiny part of this bright, shiny new year. I couldn’t even gather up the energy to make a resolution this year. Not even to lose weight, which, as a white girl born and bred in the Midwest, has been my standard Jan. 1 promise since I was four.

And, come to think of it, maybe that’s the problem.

See, normally, this time of the year is downright magical. The time when we women research and plan and empty our pantries full of junk and buy pills and powders and that yoga DVD which goes perfectly with the brand new cute yoga outfit we just bought and we write out our daily menu for the next two weeks based on the latest, trendy diet book we also just bought. It’s a time of hope, the time when we truly believe THIS diet actually IS the answer to our weight loss woes, unlike the 42 others that we’ve tried and failed miserably at, and the time just before reality sets in and we’d stab a three-legged, orphaned bunny just to get our hands on a piece of chocolate cake.

I can’t explain why the majority of us women love putting ourselves through this year after year. But we do. To the tune of $600 trillion* a year for the diet industry. So there must be something enjoyable about it. Even if we have yet to figure out what that enjoyable element actually is.

*Figure might not be accurate considering I just made it up on the spot.

Not to mention, we’re encouraged by an endless parade of publications putting out their health and fitness issues and Facebook and Twitter feeds of everyone talking about their new, amazing diet:

“Just lost seven pounds on the leek soup diet!!! I’ve passed out 32 times but can totes fit in my skinny jeans!!! Jajajajaja!!!”

So maybe I’m just feeling a bit left out. I have no desire to put myself through all that again. It just seems like too much work for something that has a proven fail rate of 100 percent.

But if I can’t get excited about a new diet, honestly what else is there to live for?

Hmm…then again, maybe I’m being too pessimistic. Maybe this is actually a healthy step for me. Perhaps I’ve finally gotten to the age where I accept and love my body for what it is, muffin top and all.

Or more likely, I’ve reached the pivotal point in my life where I’ve subconsciously decided to just let myself go and start that muu-muu collection that I’m always (kind of) joking about.

Either way, I’m going to eat this pie. And not feel guilty.

Or at least not as guilty as I’d usually feel.

Or at the very least, feel guilty but then have another slice anyway and then start planning my new diet for the start of 2014.

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Posted in Humor, Weight Loss

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The Pizza Principle

Posted on January 5, 2013 | Leave a comment

You know, I often wonder what it’ll be like when I’m old. You know, like, when I’m 35.

Ha! I kid. Thirty-five is now the new 12. You’re not technically old until 44. Everyone knows that.

But seriously, I do often wonder how things will be when I’m in my 70’s and I’m (hopefully) a grandmother to grandkids who are way less messed up than my actual kids. And they all gather around their Ninja Gammy (<—–trademarked) and ask “What was it like when you were young, Ninja Gammy?”

“Well, kids, it was a simpler time, when Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg (now Snoop Sphinx) was blasting from the 800-pound five-CD changer in my car trunk (remember, kids, always keep your mind on your money and your money on your mind) and we communicated via pagers, which were tiny machines that beeped to alert you someone wanted you to find a landline phone (which was a primitive and barbaric form of the cell phone) no matter where you were so that you could call them back immediately so that they could inform you they needed a ride, and we had to walk 30 miles in the snow without shoes to let our best friend know what our status update was, and when we wanted to watch a TV show we had to wait until the actual day and time that the TV network broadcast it, and we were forced to write (by hand!) in the now mythical language of ‘cursive’.”

And as if all that wasn’t embarrassing enough, I still have to figure out how the hell I’m going to explain/justify MySpace and Gangnam Style to them.

“Uh…there were bath salt zombies back then, children. What do you want from me?”

See, the problem is that technology is simply moving too fast. For instance, I remember my grandma playing music on a record player while I was jamming to my cassette tapes (pieces of crap that always had to be fixed with a pencil, kids). But it wasn’t a completely foreign concept to me. As a kid, my cousins had a toy record player that we used to play crappy kid’s albums on. And even though we all had cordless phones (slightly less barbaric versions of cellphones, kids), we could all figure out how to use the rotary phone she had because the generation gap wasn’t wider than the technology gap.

But now…oi vey…

Which brings me to the point of this post. Being the Smart Phone/Facebook/Twitter/Instagram addict that I am, I had an eye-opening experience just the other day that taught me a very valuable lesson about all this runaway technology we’re living with today.

Flashback Wavy Lines…Flashback Wavy Lines…Flashback Wavy Lines…

It was just after New Years. My family was in town. Considering it was January in Boston, it was cold (which was confirmed by the 52 Instagram photos of thermometers in my feed). So we decided to take advantage of home delivery, the culinary technology break-through that made it possible for hot food to be delivered to your door (like in Star Trek: The Next Generation, only slower and without the whimsy).

Considering there were five of us, we decided to go with pizza, the ultimate crowd pleaser and the least likely choice to result in a fist fight.

Or so it would seem at first glance.

Being that this was my territory, I clicked onto Foodler.com, my go-to magical food portal, an absolutely brilliant contribution to humanity that lets you type in your address and then tells you what restaurants deliver to your ‘hood (complete with full menus for each eatery) and then LET’S YOU ORDER DIRECTLY FROM THE WEBSITE. I know I talk up toilet paper a lot as the best invention of all time (with the Snuggie as a close second), but seriously, I’d be willing to go back to leaves and/or our collective left hand in order to keep Foodler.

The problem was, however, that the majority wanted Regina’s pizza, which was not listed on Foodler. So, trying to be a good hostess, I Googled Regina’s delivery. Found out they do deliver. Clicked on link. Was taken to a new Foodler-esque website. Started to order. Discovered I also had to set up an account, complete with username, password, password hint, security questions, personal info, mother’s maiden name and itemized list of everyone I’ve ever had sex with. Decided to scrap that idea. Sooooo then…

Went directly to Regina’s website. Discovered they had a tab for delivery. No menu listed. Had to create own pizza from list of 3,000 ingredients. Twenty minutes (and 42 stitches later) we realized we cannot, as a family unit, create our own pizza unanimously (or at least, not without Thunderdome breaking out). Sooooo then…

More Googling. More half-hearted attempts to create “accounts” on other third-party food delivery websites. More “your food will be delivered in approximately 3 hours and there will be a $652 delivery fee.”

And just when we thought all hope was lost and we’d be forced to eat leftover Christmas food that may or may not have gained consciousness…

Someone suggested, “Uh, why don’t you just call the restaurant and order the pizza?”

Ninety seconds later, the pizza was ordered. Ready in 15. Have a nice day.

Lesson learned: Technology isn’t simplifying our lives. It’s simply making us stupid.

So, just remember that, kids, when 30 years from now it takes you three hours to order a pizza via the Internet.

And that’s only if you can remember your password.

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Posted in Holidays, Humor

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It’s the end of the world as the Mayans know it

Posted on December 19, 2012 | 5 comments

Even though technically I’m writing this before the supposed end of the world on Dec. 21, I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that we didn’t all meet our fiery doom simply because the Mayans got lazy with their math homework. And if I’m wrong, well, pffft…what are you going to do about it? Judge me? Shove it in my face? You’re freaking dead.

But even though this prophecy is complete bunk (unless, again, I’m wrong, in which case, who cares because I doubt there is an Internet comment section in the afterlife…unless you end up in Hell where you are forced to read “c0mn3ntz buY peepz wh00 truely h8 da Englesh langwuid” all day), it does have the interesting effect of making one reflect back on their life. This is also amplified by the fact that we are staring straight into a bright, shiny new year, which always casts a magical spell on us and makes us promise to do things we actually never, ever intend to do.

So, with this in mind, I’ve been wondering how my life has stacked up so far.

Childhood? Happy. Or, at least as happy as any childhood can be in a world where wearing floral leggings in fourth grade will get you the nickname “Petunia Butt.” And, sure, I still had to deal with bullies and insecurities and childhood fears (I’m still convinced those troll dolls from the ’80s come alive at night) and boo-boos and disappointments (ahem…Kent Blackford likes me but doesn’t “like” me like me) and that horrible process of trying to figure out your place in the world. But at the end of the day, I always knew I was loved.

Adolescence? Ugh. Let’s just say it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Or better yet, if we take out the years 13 through 15 (and any and all photos taken during that period), it was actually pretty damn good. Although there was some pretty awful poetry produced in the remaining years.

College? Two degrees. No STDs. Sixty percent of memories still retained. So, overall, successful.

Career? Currently not where I want to be. I mean, I never really achieved my 7-year-old self’s dream of being a model-doctor-marine biologist-author-female Indiana Jones. But I did become a writer and a journalist, my 15-year-old self’s dream. I’ve seen my byline in multiple newspapers, including the Boston Globe, won some awards and was once told by an 87-year-old woman that I was funnier than Carol Burnett, which, let’s be honest, is by far the best compliment one can receive. I even achieved my goal of becoming a paid photographer, my 25-year-old self’s dream. Sure, I still haven’t written that book that is destined to make me rich (or at least get me out of the Ramen Noodle bracket of the middle class) or become syndicated yet, but the fact that I often write currently for publications for free proves that I really am doing what I love.

Love life and other grown-up relationships? My husband tells me I’m beautiful when I just woke up and resemble Wednesday Addams (both in looks and attitude), my family supports me to an embarrassing degree, my in-laws are straight out of some magical Hallmark Christmas movie and my friends, both life-long and recent and everything in-between, are the new, improved Algonquin Round Table.

Hmm…somehow I thought this post would be more cynical. But as it turns out, when you reflect on your life, somehow the good always outshines the bad. Which leads us to the most important question of all:

What would I do if I knew in advance it was my very last day on Earth and that I would shortly be forced to read the worst, most ignorant comments the Internet has to offer for the rest of eternity?

Nothing.

Or more specifically, the same thing I can be found doing on any average Saturday. Cooking breakfast with my husband, yelling at the dog, talking to my mom and cousin on the phone, heading into the city and stopping for a beer at some dive bar and at the end of the day, writing it all down.

Because, as it turns out, it’s in the every day that the magic of life lives.

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‘Twas the month before Christmas…

Posted on November 29, 2012 | 2 comments

This one is dedicated to my husband, the brave hunter

‘Twas a month before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, except for my husband (who was hunting a mouse).
The traps were all placed in the kitchen with care
In the hopes that a dead rodent soon would be there.

I was nestled all snug and a ‘lil drunk in my bed
While visions of sexy fun times danced in my head
But Ryan in his PJ’s, armed with those silly traps
Refused to stop ’til he won against those rats

When suddenly, BOOM! There arose such a clatter
I fell (gracefully) out of bed to see what was the matter
Away to the kitchen I stumbled all lady-like
Cause sweatpants are always classy, am I right?

Through the haze of perhaps a bit too much wine
I looked around to find that husband of mine
When what to my wondering eyes should appear
But him laying on the floor, on his face a big sneer

“I found him, babe! I have him caught under here!”
He declared, so happy his victory was so near
But alas, the poor man was about to lose face
Because soon a half-dozen more took its place

Now, look here Mighty! And you too, Minnie and Mickey!
And don’t think I forgot you, the Brain and dumbass Pinkie!
You guys are all over, coming out of the walls
And I want to bash your stupid heads, bash away them all

Get the hell outta my house, you tiny assholes
You rejects of nature, you hamsters without souls
You’ve invaded our home for much, much too long
And the way you’ve invaded our life is just wrong

Because it’s the same thing every single night
The scurrying and pawing happening just out of sight
And us laying in bed, seething at the thought
Of the havoc and ickiness you have wrought

And trust me, no lie, I used to feel bad for you
Buying humane traps and making much ado
About how your stupid little lives mattered too
A decision I would quickly come to rue

Because your eyes! How evil and so beady!
Your tails, ugh, so gross! Your motives how seedy!
Your stupid little mouths and your need to pee
Not to mention poop on every surface I can see

Thanks to you jerks I now compulsively clean
A habit now I don’t think I’ll ever ween
Going to Lady MacBeth lengths, until I’ve bloody hands
While you laugh and mock and take over the land

But while you have won the battles thus far
We’ll win the war and rule like demonic czars
Turning our house into a mecca of death
Hunting you down like addicts looking for meth

Cause while you may have evaded all our tricks
Never taking the bait and getting your kicks
From outsmarting us and making us look daft
Live it up because, trust me, we’ll have the last laugh

So forget poison and those glue traps as well
Because our next idea is downright next to swell
And I don’t think I’m lying when I say you’ll be quite smitten
With the fact I’m going out and adopting a litter of kittens

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