Tag Archives: turducken

A Mid-winter’s Nightmare

It always starts off with the same argument.

“Is it even worth it?”

“No. But what’s the alternative? Being stuck in the house for the fifth day in a row?”

“Yeah. But it’s just so much work. So much thankless, unpaid labor. And I’m just so lazy.”

“Exactly. You’re lazy. In the end, this is actually the easier way.”

“Is it?”

“Look, you can once again spend the day sitting on the floor playing peek-a-boo for HOURS upon HOURS, making precious memories and junk but slowly going insane in the process. Or you can leave the house and have strangers entertain him with their googly faces while you play Trivia Crack on your phone. It’s your choice.”


“Do you want the weird hermit baby who doesn’t know how to act in public because while his brain was forming vital connections he only had you for company?”

“You’re right. You’re always right. We’ll…(sigh)…we’ll leave the house today.”

Now, one, this above argument is between myself (Gollum ain’t got nothing on me, precious). And two, it has happened pretty much every day since winter started.

It’s the burden of every at-home parent. Once winter hits, you’re stuck between a home and a snow drift. Suddenly, leaving the house turns into a Herculean task. Only worse, because Hercules never had to stuff five chubby, squirming fingers into a tiny mitten (and then spend an additional 20 minutes looking for that other goddamn mitten, which was JUST RIGHT HERE).

But not leaving the house means ten plus hours of trying to entertain your baby so that he forgets that all he really wants to do in life is hurl himself down the stairs right after he pulls your steaming hot cup of coffee off the end table and unto his still somewhat soft skull.

Which means leaving, even if it’s just to go grab a cup of coffee with a firmly gripped lid, is the lesser of two evils.

And so it begins.

First, I have to take off his pajamas. Because he’s always wearing pajamas. Because I’m always wearing pajamas. Because it’s winter and the part of my brain that cares about non-elastic and footless clothing is hibernating.

Then on goes the onesie. Followed by the baby version of yoga pants. Then real pants on top of those (or, in most cases, just slightly bigger baby yoga pants because baby jeans still have buttons and I, in pure white girl form, literally just can’t even right now). Then a long sleeve shirt. Then that sweater with the bunny on it which is too big but I don’t care because it’s cute and it’s the only thing clean that least clashes with the slightly bigger baby yoga pants (I mean, it still clashes but like a purple and red kind of clash as opposed to a neon orange and zebra print kind of clash).

Then on goes one Batman sock. Then the other. And then the first one again because in the time it took me to put on the second one, he has already pulled off the first one.

Next it’s the snow pants, which may seem like overkill but I made the mistake once, ONCE, of not dressing him warm enough on a particularly cold day and his howls of cold-induced pain haunt me to this day.

Then comes the shoes, which is what I imagine stuffing a turducken is like, only worse because one, the turducken is not alive and wiggly, and two, at least with turducken you get to eat it afterwards and there are VERY strict rules in the U.S. about eating your baby’s toosties (I looked it up).

Then comes the five minutes where I just sit there internally debating whether to put on his big, heavy-duty, puffy winter coat or the thinner, more stream-lined yet slightly less warm pea coat. Because while I should put on the big coat, the straps of the stroller don’t fit over it and so then I’d have to adjust the straps. And I hate doing that. Mainly because I don’t know how. And so I just fiddle with them for an exasperating 12 minutes until I’m red-faced and screaming “Screw it!” and go back to what I did every other time, which is to make them stretch within an inch of their life over the big puffy coat. But even though I’m successful I feel bad because they are probably too tight over the baby so I take him out, take off the puffy coat, put another sweater on him and put on the pea coat.

Can’t forget the mittens. Which is like trying to herd five violently independent worms into a space the size of a grape.

And then…the piece de resistance. The piece very resistance. The hat. Which according to my baby’s scream is made of pure fire and not wool, no matter how much it looks and feels like wool.


Yes, in the time it takes to get my baby fully in his winter gear, Frodo has already gone to Mordor, dropped off the ring and is busy saying his slightly homoerotic goodbyes to Sam.*

And that’s not even counting all the time and effort involved in taking everything off once we actually get somewhere, or the struggle to find a place to put the huge pile of tiny human outerwear, or the struggle to repeat the entire process and get it all back on, only this time with a judgmental audience who all have Twitter accounts and camera phones at the ready.

The good news is that spring is only 44 short days away.

I’m crying right now. I know you can’t see it. But I am.

*Please forgive all the “Lord of the Rings” references. It’s on in the background while I’m typing this and I’m too lazy to come up with actual, decent metaphors when Peter Jackson is just lobbing slow groundballs at me.

Grocery Shopping With Your Spouse 101

There are a lot of ways to get to know your significant other better. And let’s face it, no matter how much you think you know, there are always more things you can learn about them. Human beings are vastly complicated creatures. That’s why no one has yet been able to explain why we like sodomizing dead birds with other dead birds in the form of turducken or why we willingly inject poison into our faces so we perpetually look surprised.

For instance, you could stay up all night talking about your hopes and fears, or about that year you experimented with the goth vampire look, or how you voted for Obama but secretly wanted McCain to win so Tina Fey would keep playing Palin for the next four years on SNL. You could take an extended road trip together (as long as neither one of you brings a weapon of any kind along). You could even let each other read the lame poetry you wrote in junior high (shut up, we all know you did).

But nothing, NOTHING, helps you to see into the very core of your partner’s being like grocery shopping together.


Few other activities can give as much insight into each of your personalities and values. That whole “you are what you eat” is complete bunk. It’s actually “you are what food you buy.”

Take this past Sunday, for instance. Now, normally, it’s my husband who does the bulk of the grocery shopping and this is because I tend to get irrationally angry and downright close to homicidal when I get stuck in an aisle behind some soccer mom who can’t decide between Rago or Prego because while Prego tastes better, Rago has fewer calories and little Suzie doesn’t like mushrooms but hmm they look cut up small enough for her to not even notice but would the four cheese or tomato and basil taste better with the ziti tonight and oh my god, MOVE, YOU PINK TRACK-SUIT CLAD MORON!!!

And he does a great job at it. He even knows my preferred products for all my monthly lady business.

But every once in awhile on the weekends, I’ll tag along either out of sheer boredom or because I’ve had enough tranquilizers to make me relatively harmless toward my fellow shoppers.

And that’s when I discovered that every aisle is a chance to wonder just who the hell is this alien standing beside me.

For example, this is how most of our discourse went:

Me: “Three packages of cookies? Really?”

Him: “Wait, you need a different face cream for day than you do for night? What’s the difference? Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

Me: “You’re honestly telling me you need three 2-liters of Diet Pepsi? At this point, do you just pee pure sugar?”

Him: “Oh my god, who needs that much sausage?” (Me and him in unison: “That’s what she said”).

Me: “Dude, put back that Valentine’s candy or I will saw off your foot off just to give you a taste of your diabetes-filled future.”

Him: “No. NO! Put back the Red Bull. You act like you’re on meth when you drink that stuff and I will not spend another night talking you down.”

Me: “Cracklin’ Oat Bran? That’s the cereal you picked? You have the combined palette of a 5-year-old and my grandpa.”

Him: “What do you mean the ‘fancy’ bread? What the hell is ‘fancy’ bread? Bread that has a little bow tie on each slice?”

Of course, there are things we accept about each other without question. He knows that me being a woman means I am programmed to buy any and all food and drink that claim to have “anti-oxidants” in them. And I know that he has a deep, deep love affair with peanut butter that I can never hope to tear asunder. And, believe it or not, there are also even a few things we agree on, such as you can never have too much coffee or wine or cheese.

But the good news is, who needs to pay for expensive marital counseling when you can just work out your issues in the canned food aisle?


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.


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.


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!