Tag Archives: kim kardashian

Just call me Adulty McAdultface

You guys, I gotta be honest. I never thought I’d live to see this day. I was mentally prepared for World War III breaking out, or a zombie apocalypse, or Kim Kardashian becoming Vice President.

But not this.

Never this.

There I was sitting at the table, filling out Mother’s Day cards, when I realized that not only was I filling out holiday cards on time for the first time in history, but that I also, for the first time in history, had stamps on hand. Not only that, but I had enough stamps on hand to even cover the extra postage required for the extra weight the two tons of glitter that covers every Mother’s Day card added.

This foreign and unnatural act was then followed by paying our bills online. And by paying our bills, I mean just that. Going to each website, seeing how much was owed, typing in that amount, and hitting the “submit payment” button. There wasn’t one single instance of juggling, or robbing Peter to pay Paul, or digging for spare change in the gross crevices of our ancient couch, or awkward text messages to my husband asking “hey, would you rather go three days without electricity or five days without cell phone service?” followed by a gun emoji.

And in perhaps the most convincing sign of the End Times, I sent out the rent check. On time. Early even. With an actual check in the envelope. A check filled out properly instead of “accidentally” putting the date where the amount should go in a desperate bid to buy myself another week and a half.

But it was when I glanced over my To-Do (Hopefully-But-Probably-Not-Before-I-Die) List and realized it was almost empty that the full impact of what was happening hit me. I can’t believe I’m about to say this, and please excuse my language, but I think my husband and I might actually have our shit together.

Yeah. I think that’s what this strange feeling is. It’s having your shit together. I mean, just look at the evidence.

Everyone in my family has had their doctor appointment and are up-to-date on their shots. Even the dog. Speaking of which, the dog has tick repellent on him at a seasonably appropriate time and my husband trimmed his puppy nails before he even got close to the Edward Scissorhands phase.

Our car has been inspected BEFORE the expiration sticker expired. Our driver’s licenses currently coincide with the actual U.S. state we are living in. There was an error with our taxes and my husband called immediately and dealt with it calmly and efficiently. There was an error with our insurance and I called immediately and dealt with it while hollering over a screaming toddler and a barking dog. But still, efficiently nonetheless.

We took our vitamins this morning, we have a surplus of toilet paper in the bathroom, we have fresh fruit and at least one vegetable in the fridge. We have an actual friggin’ savings account. We bought sturdy wood bookshelves from a grown-up furniture store to replace our cheap death trap bookshelves made mostly of dust and cobwebs. And on any given day our house is clean-ish enough that I don’t have to hide in the bathroom every time the doorbell rings because it’s too embarrassing to even let the UPS dude glimpse at the unholy mess awaiting inside.

I mean, sure, I’ve been adulting for a long time, but this is the first time I’ve adulted so adulty-like. For instance, let’s compare today with a similar day seven years ago.

My mom wouldn’t get her Mother’s Day card until Halloween and only then because I delivered it in person because I never did get around to buying stamps. And mostly I never got around to buying stamps because I really needed the $8 to go instead toward the overdraft fee our bank charged us because I made a student loan payment and bought a Big Mac with super-sized fries that week. Naturally, all the financial stress would wreak havoc with my health but instead of going to a human doctor, I would just Google “weird rash on shoulder that looks like Abe Lincoln” and put some expired yogurt on it because hey, homeopathy is cheap and also I haven’t cleaned out the fridge in three years.

The only time we ever did get our vehicle inspected or make sure our driver’s licenses were up-to-date or that literally anything about our mode of transportation was legal was when we got a friendly reminder in ticket form from our helpful neighborhood policeman. And even then, it took no less than a minimum of five tickets to get our asses in gear. Taxes were attempted at 11:30 p.m. on April 14 and any letters dealing with any kind of insurance or other scary adult stuff were put in the ever-growing “don’t throw away but don’t open” mail pile. Which wasn’t a problem because the pile could never be found because we never cleaned unless someone who had better adult credentials than we did was coming over for a visit. In which case, most of our possessions were just thrown into the tub and we frantically dusted with an old T-shirt while tripping over our dog who looked like a scary homeless mutt on stilts because we never seemed to have time to groom him.

I gotta admit, it’s a great feeling. This shit-having-togetherness. And I look forward to sailing this sea of grown-up tranquility for the next two months. All the way up until my second child is born and everything falls apart again in the savage vortex that is newborn baby caretaking.

Ah, but it was nice while it lasted.

Wah 1

Advertisements

How to take the perfect selfie with your baby

selfie1 selfie2 selfie3 selfie4 selfie5 selfie6 selfie7 selfie8 selfie9 selfie10 selfie11 selfie12

Letter to my unborn child

Dear My Unborn Child,

So…uh…hey, I guess. How are you? I’m fine. Yup. Um…so how ’bout them Red Sox, huh?

Sorry this is so awkward. Truth be told, we hardly even know each other. I mean, all I really know about you currently is that you are violently opposed to Chinese food and all you really know about me is that I eat way too much cheese. So this whole trend just seems a bit ridiculous.

Oh wait, you probably have no idea what I’m talking about, what with you being busy forming eyeballs and a pancreas and all. Let me fill you in real quick. Apparently, in this day and age, any parent or parent-to-be with a keyboard and a Starbucks wifi password is required to write some cheesy letter to their future offspring and then publish it in a public forum. The general goal of this exercise, at least as far as I can tell, is to express their hopes and dreams for the said child and to make random people repost the link on Facebook along with comments like “This is soooo true. I’m totally wiping away the tears after reading this.”

Now normally I am not one to blindly follow the crowd (regrettably jumping on the Twilight bandwagon notwithstanding) but I’m on deadline and need something to write about anyway so, eh, why not? What could it hurt? (Except for your fragile young psyche and self-esteem, that is).

So, I guess to start off with, the first thing I’d like to tell you is that I never want to hear you say you want to be famous when you grow up. (Want to know the quickest way to break your Momma’s heart? Star in a reality TV series). Now that’s not to say I don’t want you to be successful. Or rich. Powerful? Go for it. Influential? Hell yes. Be the white Oprah, baby. But don’t just aim to be “famous.” You know who’s famous? Kim Kardashian and Grumpy Cat. Who are they, you ask, since you are probably reading this at least five to eight years in the future? Exactly.

I know I don’t know your gender yet, but if you happen to be a girl, don’t ever say you deserve to be treated like a princess. This is ‘Merica, sweetheart. People died so we wouldn’t have to deal with princesses anymore. And if you happen to be a boy, never date a woman, or a gay man, who thinks they deserve to be treated like a princess. You want a partner in life, not someone who buys pink tutus for their dog.

Be a nerd. Oh please, please be a nerd. Or a geek. I’ll settle for geek. Cause nerds and geeks end up being the best people.

Don’t sexually assault anyone. Ever. I know that might seem like an odd thing to say or even something that goes without saying, but considering the scary large number of rapes that happen every year, it’s obvious not enough parents are teaching their kids to not rape anyone.

Don’t be “that” guy. And if you happen to be in a crowd of people and don’t see “that” guy, then you are “that” guy. And we need to have a LONG talk about where your father and I went wrong.

Enjoy all things in moderation. Except for cheese. Cause cheese is awesome.

Don’t do drugs. It’s such a cliché.

My child will NEVER be a linejumper. You hear me? One of the things that makes this country so great is our superb standing in line skills. And I will not have you sullying the efforts of our forefathers who had to beat up countless linejumpers in order to give us the freedom to stand in line today without worrying about some brat trying to break the rules.

Be kind to animals. Because if you’re not, I’m going to have countless sleepless nights where I worry that you’ll grow up to be a serial killer.

Above all, I want you to be happy. Although preferably happy and with a well-paying job so that you can buy Daddy and me our dream retirement home in New Zealand.

Now typically these things end with some grand pronouncements of how much I love you and always will and how I loved you before I knew you and you are my heart and other flowery crap and glitter and unicorn farts.

Which is all true, of course.

And you already know that. Or at least you will.

So let’s end it instead in a style much more suited to our family:

If you keep making me fart every time I sneeze, I swear to all that is holy I’ll ground you until you start kindergarten.

Love,

Mom

Bikini Overkill

It’s almost summer, people. And I think we all know what that means.

Sneaking out the back window every time you leave the house in order to avoid your neighbors, who are none-too-happy with the knee-high grass that you’re too lazy to mow.

But summer also means family vacation time. And just like millions of other Americans, yours truly is planning on braving overzealous TSA feeler-uppers, overcrowded airplanes where they ration our Diet Coke like you’ve landed in the middle of the desert and it’s the last drop of water in the canteen, and lost luggage you’ll get back sometime in 2014 for a week of “relaxation.”

Yes, I am heading to the gorgeous country of Panama with my family this June.

Now, for about half of the population, going on a tropical vacation brings up feelings of excitement and anticipation and elaborate fantasies of drinking beer at any and all hours of the day with absolutely no judgment.

The other half is women.

See, for women, summer vacation means hot weather and water. Hot weather and water means swimsuits and various other skimpy outfits will be required. And swimsuits and skimpy outfits means people will actually see the neglected, pale and jiggly body you’ve been pretending didn’t exist since October.

And this realization causes us women no shortage of panic attacks and lucid dreams where children run screaming from the beach at the mere sight of our gelatinous form rising out of the ocean.

Luckily, however, I have come up with a great solution to this never-ending yearly cycle of body shame. Since summer sneaks up on us every year and we as a population are world-class procrastinators, I propose that there needs to be an extra month inbetween May and June that women can use to drop those extra five (and/or 30) pounds before summer officially starts.

Sure, it sounds crazy. But just think about it. There is never enough time to lose weight before summer. We may start to think about it in March, but hey, we’re busy and all that leftover Valentine’s Day candy isn’t going to eat itself. By April, we know we really should start exercising and eating healthier, but hey, all that leftover Easter candy isn’t going to eat itself. And by May, well, the first half of the month we can’t even remember thanks to Cinco de Mayo and suddenly BOOM.

It’s summer.

So, this new month will be called Desperatember and these new 31 days will be dedicated solely to getting us back in shape. There will be no holidays during this new month, since holidays almost always lead to eating your own weight in ham. Work will be kept to a minimum, since stress leads to inhaling a Snickers bar through your tears while hiding in a bathroom stall. And all fitness centers will be free for anyone who doesn’t look like they belong in a fitness center commercial.

Now, you may be thinking “But Aprill, if we have an extra month, won’t that just mess up the calendar? And wouldn’t Desperatember still just essentially be June?”

To that, I say “Well, aren’t you just a Mr. Clever Pants” in an extremely snarky voice. Followed by “Shut up. I hate you.”

Because if we can make Pluto a planet and then cruelly rip that distinction back away from it, if we can claim a tomato is a fruit when it so obviously belongs in the “tastes icky by itself” vegetable category, and if we collectively have resisted the urge to assassinate Kim Kardashian thus far, then we as a society can create a new month.

So let’s make this happen, people. Because with the help of Desperatember, women will no longer have to hang out on the beach clinging to their towel, oversized 80’s T-shirt or old Halloween ghost costume like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

And maybe even…GASP…start to enjoy ourselves on vacation.

Meat, Muppets and other things to be thankful for

Well, stuff my arse and call me a turkey. Thanksgiving has finally rolled around again. It seems like only a year ago we were celebrating this holiday and BOOM! Here it is all over again.

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays, mainly because it is based around my No. 1 favorite activity of eating and drinking way too much and then napping (and then waking up to eat pie and drink some more). There is none of that pressure to buy gifts, or hand out candy to miniature beggars dressed as Dora the Explorer, or search for eggs hidden by a giant rabbit.

Plus, I’ve always been the kind of person who thinks we don’t give enough thanks in our daily lives, especially for the little things. I mean, have you guys ever had bacon? That little product alone deserves epic poems of praise dedicated to it with every single bite.

And as such, I’ve created a list this year of the little things in my life that I am thankful for this year.

Ahem…

The Muppets are making a comeback.

Leggings are still in style, making fat days for chicks everywhere a little less horrible.

Thanks to her 72-day sham marriage, there is finally a backlash against Kim Kardashian.

Eggnog is socially acceptable to drink for breakfast again.

I am wicked close to convincing my friend who is hosting Thanksgiving dinner this year to serve turducken (chicken stuffed into a duck stuffed into a turkey).

Angry Birds.

People who use proper grammar and spelling on their Facebook posts and limit their exclamatory statements to only one exclamation point!!!

There exists a product called the Forever Lazy, which is essentially footie pajamas for adults (complete with butt flap).

Discovering the short-lived TV show “Kitchen Confidential” starring Bradley Cooper is on DVD (with nine unaired episodes!).

Speaking of which, Bradley Cooper…just in general.

The fact that my parole is finally up (just kidding…I have three more months).

I live in a world where my dog can have his own Twitter account (@BuffytheMaleDog).

Pauly Shore has stopped making movies.

Hats with ears designed to make you look like a kitty or a bear.

The fact that even though I’m 30, I have no shame and will wear hats with ears designed to make me look like a kitty or a bear.

Reading books that make you laugh out loud in public.

Meat.

Oxygen (the element, not the channel).

Pumpkin-based beer.

My brother still bear hugs me and calls me Sissy even though he’s now 13 and like, kind of totally too cool for that.

People who realize Wikipedia is not a reliable source of information.

This blog has 46 subscribers, three of which I am not immediately related to.

Knowing a person like Joss Whedon exists in the world.

Thanks to the prolific amount of recently released zombie movies and books, the American people are more prepared than ever for the eventual zombie apocalypse.

The fact that when my husband was surfing movies on Zune last night and asked me “What was that one movie with Sean Penn we couldn’t rent but we could buy and it was about grave robbers?” I instantly knew he meant Simon Pegg in “Burke and Hare.”

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!