It’s a boy! It’s a girl! It’s an $8,000,000 disaster!

Gender reveal parties are stupid.

There, I said it.

Granted, as someone who would rather die than create and incubate a small new human which would then repay me by tearing its way into the world via my delicate lady bits, I may be ever so slightly biased.

I (hypothetically) understand why finding out the gender of a baby would be exciting and something worth sharing, I just don’t get why it has to be such a circus. “We have happy news! Come stand around at our house for two hours while we string you along before finally letting you watch us lift a rabbit out of a hat holding a carrot which when cut open will reveal vegetable weevils that have been dyed either blue or pink!”

It’s like on all those cooking competition shows where Gordon Ramsay stalls for twenty minutes before actually announcing whose dish won them a tiny advantage in the next round and you just want to strangle him.

“There were many impressive contenders in the battle to fertilize Heather’s egg. But there can only be one winner. Which sperm had the drive and motivation to rise to the occasion? Was it an X or a Y chromosome of Dan’s that found the perfect pairing with Heather’s X? It’s time to find out. And so…without any further ado…I am so very pleased to announce…that the winner…of the battle to knock Heather up…the gender that I am about to reveal…the child that will be growing up under its lucky parents’ roof for the next 18 years…after an incredible performance during Heather and Dan’s successful act of procreative love…please join me in congratulating this wonderful husband and wife as they welcome…”

Like, enough already. What’s wrong with just, y’know, telling your friends in passing and letting everyone get on with their lives? Sure, have a small gathering if you’re the happy hostess type and you want to blurt the joyful news out en masse and in person. Just don’t make all your invitees wait for the next ice age before you pop your confetti-filled balloon or slice your overpriced layer cake down the middle. And if your guest list absolutely must comprise more than a hundred people, spring for a JumboTron so the people in the back can actually see what the fuck is going on.

Also, try not to set anything on fire.

know it’s just not a baby-related event without guns and highly volatile explosives, but do your best to rein yourself in.

That kid’s gonna cost you enough without an eight million dollar fine on top of it all.

Wired and tired.

Sleeping is hard. So is staying awake.

This is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, isn’t it?

Feels like it, anyway.

It sucks. I look and feel as fed-up and dead as Vincent Schiavelli in Ghost, but my goddamn brain won’t shut off.

“Why are you hounding me like this? Leave me alone!”

My weary body is Oda Mae Brown just trying to get some shut-eye, but my smart-ass inner monologue is Sam Wheat keeping me up all night belting “I’m Henery the Eighth, I Am”. Except Sam was trying to accomplish something useful by that, while my brain is just being an asshole for the sake of being an asshole.

I don’t know why I’m all Ghost references today. I haven’t watched that movie in years. I’m sure my brain has its reasons, but it’s too busy repeatedly singing one of the songs I considered and then rejected for an upcoming musical theatre audition to take the time to clue me in on what any of those reasons might be. You’d think it could throw me a bone and repeat the song I actually chose to learn for the audition, but I guess that’s asking too much.

And I guess creativity is out of the question as well, so here I am spending another blog post bitching about insomnia instead of writing about anything remotely new or interesting.

Thanks for nothing, brain.

Tag, you’re shit.

If you’re ever in the position to borrow clothes from me (which you won’t be, not ever, but play along) you’ll notice that the contents of my closet are almost universally devoid of any labels or tags of any kind.

This is because
a) I’ve been doing laundry for more than twenty years with a pretty decent track record of not ruining anything despite my unwavering belief that separating lights and darks is for pussies (and of course by unwavering belief I mean I’m too lazy to bother)
and
b) clothing tags are the scratchy, lumpy, intolerable work of Satan.

I mean, it has to be Satan, right? Who else would even be capable of evil of this magnitude?

Satan: “Let’s design a sweater made from the most luxurious, silky cashmere available.”
Satan’s Minions: “That sounds uncharacteristically decent of you, Master.”
Satan: “And print the washing label on sandpaper.”
Satan’s Minions:“…there we go.”

And what am I suffering for? Your brand name? “DRY CLEAN ONLY” in 26 different languages? “Don’t iron this unless you like your synthetic fabrics surrealist and melty”?

Come on, fashion industry. If the shirt on my back is going to do its damnedest to erode said back, you could at least make it worth my while. How about you tell me something really useful about my clothes for a change?

Here’s a few ideas to get you started.


“This fabric will develop accordion-like wrinkles the moment you sit down, and stay wrinkled until either this article of clothing is destroyed or time ceases to exist.”

This would have been great to know in advance about, like, 90% of my work clothes.


“Our tags like to stick up out of your collar with the same frenzied enthusiasm as a dog poking its head out a car window. Don’t bother trying to tuck them back in. They just want to see the world!”

This belongs on literally every t-shirt Nutty Hubby owns, but I’m the one that suffers. He never notices or cares because he’s the sane(-r) one in this relationship, so it’s left up to me to either be *that* person who keeps reaching over to tuck his tags back in, or else exercise self-restraint and leave them be, at the small personal expense of dying a little inside.


“After a dozen or so washings it will become painfully apparent that we have used two totally different dye lots for the sleeves and the torso of this seemingly monochromatic shirt. Be amazed as the colors evolve with the passage of time and cleanliness! It’s like magic!”

WHY. Oh, wait, there’s a postscript: “Because fuck you, that’s why.”


“Warning: clothing article contains the scratchiest wool that ever wooled. Wear directly next to the skin at own itchy risk.”

True fact: all wool is secretly steel wool.


“We sewed this swimsuit with sturdy invisible thread so the stitches wouldn’t show and also so the trimmed ends would stick out annoyingly and constantly jab you in sensitive areas. We figured you’d like that, because let’s face it, you probably went and got a Brazilian wax just to wear this thing so it’s fair to assume you’re at least a little bit of a masochist.”

I legit thought I was going crazy the first time this happened to me. Funny story: people look at you weird when you keep clutching at your crotch and screaming “WHAT THE HELL IS STABBING ME?!” on a crowded beach.


“Fun fact: you can’t spell ‘elastic’ without ‘last’. Which reminds us, the crappy elastic we used in this underwear won’t last a month! Get it? Haha, language is the greatest sometimes.”

Thongs for nothing, assholes.


“The dyes used in this garment may will definitely bleed slightly like a slasher movie victim when wet and/or rub off on you and everything you love and possibly some things you don’t even get that close to don’t question it we don’t in fact we don’t really know how any of this works we are one with the dye now ALL HAIL DYE LORD.”

I’ll take “things I would have loved to have been told before that time I got caught in a freak summer rainstorm wearing that cheap indigo blue tank top” for $200, Alex.


“You’ll never get these seams to lay flat again, ever.”

I give up. Nudist colony it is.

Shut up and drive.

It’s quarter past five. You’re in front of me on a bridge between two cities, just another set of wheels in a crawling interminable line of drivers heading home from the daily grind.

I can see your hands dancing. You are speaking animatedly to your passenger. Your eyes stay fixed on the road as we all inch slowly forward, but your restless hands are dancing, punctuating your speech, visiting the wheel only temporarily between gestures.

Your dark hair falls in short, springy curls that bounce with the emphasis of your words. Your passenger hasn’t gotten one word edgewise since I merged in behind you.

By the way, your left turn signal has been on for two kilometers.


It’s a Wednesday afternoon and the summer sun is relentless. In the frenzied rush hour turmoil approaching a major intersection, you swerve suddenly into my lane, cutting me off.

I am offered a brief glimpse of you impassively deep-throating a fat Fudgesicle, shoving it into your gaping maw with your non-veering hand as you breeze by. As you settle into place in front of me, I see your head continue to bob sharply over your frozen treat, devouring it with the kind of savagery I’ve seen dogs devote to fresh rawhide bones.

But your eyes in the rearview mirror are still dull and lifeless as you toss the naked stick aside and reach for another.

The passing lane clears. I move into it and leave your car behind, but the image of you and your soulless chocolate zombie stare follows me all the way home.


It’s nearing sunset on a cool evening. Past King Edward Avenue, traffic runs smooth as silk. I’m cruising down the last long stretch of road before my turn, singing along to the radio with my windows down and the wind in my hair.

There’s an alarming flash of candy apple red on my right flank as your car drifts over and tries to become one with mine. Thankfully I lean on the horn quickly enough for you to jerk back into your own lane and avoid impact.

My relief at escaping collision quickly gives way to anger. Your windows are down too. I lean across the armrest and scream at you to fucking pay attention, moron.

You refuse to make eye contact. You throw out a half-hearted wave of contrition and try to zoom ahead.

We still end up next to each other at the light.

I can see you shift uncomfortably as my eyes burn holes in you. You finally turn and meet my gaze. An expression of surprise and interest (?) crosses your face. And then you’re babbling, telling me you’re so sorry, you just weren’t looking, you’ll be more careful, if you’d realized there was a pretty lady driving right nex…wait…are you seriously HITTING ON ME after you almost just hit me, dude?

No no no no no. That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works.

And what, if there was an ugly man driving next to you you’d have just plowed right into him?

Where’s the flying car from Grease when I need it? Or that Tesla Roadster Elon Musk sent into space? I want off this street and into the sky; as far away from your delusional ass as I can get.

Pluto might be far enough.

Oh we did, did we?

BABIES. BABIES EVERYWHERE.

My workplace has baby fever. Please for the love of god send help.

Our receptionist’s daughter-in-law just popped a kid out at 4am the other morning, and she won’t shut up about it.

Our chatty janitor knows someone-or-other whose due date is in less than a week, and she won’t shut up about it.

And yesterday one of the department managers and his wife brought their four day old baby by the office to show him off and not shut up about it in stereo.

GOOD JOB YOU MADE A THING THANKS FOR SHARING NOW CAN YOU BACK OFF AND LET ME GET BACK TO MY SPREADSHEETS PLEASE?

…uh, I mean…congrats?

I know it’s hard to believe, but some of us just have no interest in any of this miracle of life stuff.

It’s not that I don’t like babies. They’re great and quirky and portable, and necessary for the continued survival of the human race (or so I’m told). I just happen to prefer them from a distance and with minimal conversation about their entrance into this world. Sorry I don’t feel any pressing need to take a deep whiff of your little bundle of joy’s “new baby smell” or be regaled with the birth story of a woman I’ve never met. Especially when my boss has just asked me to drop everything and put together a giant report breaking down five years of sales data before the end of the day.

So when New Dad Manager showed up with wifey and their swaddled collective DNA in tow, I stayed tucked behind my computer hoping I looked either invisible or busy enough that they’d leave me be.

HAHAHAHAHA yeah no, we all know I don’t have that kind of luck.
They made a beeline straight for me.

This was probably my own fault. I got really excited when they brought in their new puppy to visit a while back. They most likely assumed I’d be just as thrilled, if not more so, to meet their kid.

Welp, can’t be right all the time.

Like, sure, he was a cute baby. No elongated alien skull or I-just-ran-into-a-glass-door smooshy face going on or anything. But we’re all well aware I’m as socially awkward as they come. And despite babies’ stellar reputation for being the solution to everyone’s problems, oddly enough shoving a newborn in my face doesn’t do anything to help me be less terrible around people.

So there was a moment of complete silence as I tried to come up with something to say that was more original than, “Congrats, he’s beautiful,” and then I realized I was taking too long and ended up just blurting out, “Hi there, little one…you’re so new!” Which sounded lame as fuck but I couldn’t think of anything else to follow it up with to make it less lame, and on top of that I got distracted by the gorgeous hand-knitted blanket the kid was wrapped in and instinctively started trying to figure out the pattern, but then my coworker rescued us all by coming around the corner and shrieking, “OH MY GOD, IS THAT THE BABY?!”

That brought everyone else out of the woodwork pretty quickly, and soon there was just a big cooing mass of people in the middle of the office and I could safely duck out and return to tearing my hair out over financial records from half a decade ago.

And I would’ve stayed happily mentally checked out from the whole baby ordeal from that point onward, if something New Dad Manager said hadn’t rung out clear as a bell above the babble and smacked me right in the angries.

“Oh, we had a C-section.”

My ears must need cleaning, I could’ve sworn I just heard you say, “WE had a C-section.”
Oh, you did? Haha, well in that case…

NO. BAD HUSBAND. NO NO NO NO NO.

Allow me to dust off my soapbox.

You (pl.) most certainly did not have a C-section, unless your doctor was just that inept that he had you, the father, prepped for surgery and cut open before realizing whoops, duh, the baby’s in the lady. And if that was the case, please tell me at which hospital this took place so I can NEVER GO THERE.

No sir, it was your dear wife – who by the way is some kind of goddamn superhero for climbing the stairs to our office only four days after major abdominal surgery – who got carved up to bring this small creature with the delicate eyelashes and tiny toes into your life. It was your wife whose uterus just had the out of body experience, your wife who now has parenthood permanently etched into her flesh whether she likes it or not.

Let’s not cheapen that by throwing around thoughtless plurals, shall we?

And if you think I’m overreacting and you’re just trying to be supportive and a team player, humor me and take a minute to consider how supported and appreciative you’d feel hearing your wife say, “Three kids was enough, so we had a vasectomy.”

I thought so.

Good talk.

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Letters to my miscellaneous anatomy.

Dear Thyroid,

Here it is, the start of a brand new year – a time of renewal, of positive change, of hope…

…and there you are, the same lazy asshole, wallowing in your own filth and doing absolutely nothing productive with your existence.

You make me sick.
Literally and figuratively.
You’re a 2-for-1 sale on sickness.

Good job.

Fuck you.


Dear Tits,

Jesus Christ, Chesty La Rue, why can’t you be more like Busty St. Clair? CUP SIZE IS NOT A RACE. I don’t know what you think you’re trying to prove, but nobody likes an overachiever. Why don’t you just go ahead and shrink back down to a more reasonable order of magnitude like your sister there on the left and we’ll forget this whole thing ever happened? I’m fed up with having the goddamn Odd Couple staring back at me in the mirror; sort your shit out.


Dear Legs,

Yes, we have started jogging again. No, it isn’t the end of the world. Quit yer bitchin’. You think you have problems now? Just wait until I decide we’re up to another squat challenge like the one we did last summer. THEN WE’LL SEE WHO’S LAUGHING. (Neither of us, because OH GOD IT BURNS.)


Dear Digestive Tract,

Thanks so much for choosing the past year to induct me into the “need to drink a tall, swirling glass of psyllium fiber every day to poop right” club.

Really. It’s great. I don’t feel like I’ve become my grandparents at all.

Not one bit.


Dear Booty,

I know you have one of the most thankless jobs around here, getting sat on all day and being in such unavoidably close proximity to my less endearing bodily functions (see above), but hot DAMN do you look good in those new workout pants I bought us.

I’m sure you already knew that from the way I’ve been staring at you in oh, I don’t know, every reflective surface we pass, but I just thought I’d say it anyway, just in case you were somehow oblivious to how totally rockin’ you are.


Dear Uterus,

DIE IN A FIRE.

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A plague on the Nut house.

An alleged friend of Nutty Hubby’s and mine sent us a Christmas card that sheds micro glitter like a sparkly vampire with the world’s worst case of dandruff.

I don’t know what we did to her to deserve this kind of punishment or how we’ll be able to properly atone so it doesn’t happen again next holiday season, but what I do know is thanks to handling that most egregious travesty of holiday correspondence I will now be finding glitter on my desk and in my carpet and in my pores for approximately the next fifty years. Assuming I don’t die before then, in which case my cremation will make for one very festive urn of ashes indeed.

Last night, as I tried for the eleventh time to get a single stubborn fleck of the godforsaken stuff off the tip of my index finger (an emery board eventually did the trick) I found myself wondering who it was we had to castigate thank for making the herpes of the craft world possible. So I typed my glittering way over to Wikipedia to find out.

“The first production of modern plastic glitter is credited to the American machinist Henry Ruschmann, who found a way to cut plastic or mylar sheets into glitter in 1934.” – Wikipedia1,2

Dear Wikipedia,

You misspelled “masochist”.

Dear Henry Ruschmann,


1 “Glitter.” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, 13 Dec. 2016. Web. 16 Dec. 2016.

2 Yes, I know people were using other shit as glitter long before my new nemesis Henry, but sometimes you just need to hate someone with a name.

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Introducing bread…with things on it!

You know what’s super delicious?

Avocado.

You know what else is great?

Toast.

You know what I have absolutely, positively, never once in my life felt I needed? A recipe for putting those two things together.

Yes, avocado on toast is crunchy, buttery, hole-in-your-soul-filling goodness; that’s not being disputed here. But it’s crunchy, buttery, hole-in-your-soul-filling goodness that is, oh, I don’t know, literally one of the easiest things to make in the world.

Yet for some unfathomable reason, I can’t seem to go anywhere on the internet without seeing yet another article on the apparently ever-trending topic of avocado toast.

Top 10 Hottest Locations To Get Avocado Toast In Your City.
32 No-Fail Avocado Toast Recipes That Are Sure To Be Crowd Pleasers.
Avophiles Must Read: We Blackmailed This Michelin Starred Chef Into Revealing His Top Secret Avocado Toast Tips And Tricks!

Really? Are we really so uninspired as a population that we need this much help getting an easily spreadable fruit onto slightly singed bread and into our mouth holes, or do I need to start a hotline?

Sigh.
It’s gonna be the hotline, isn’t it?

Operator: You’ve reached the Avocado Toast Helpline, how may I assist you today?
Caller: Um yeah hi, I’m trying to make avocado toast but the avocado won’t spread, it’s just fanning out into all these layers and now my eyes are red and teary.
Operator: Okay, so it sounds like you bought an onion, not an avocado. Rookie mistake. Just head back to the grocery store and make sure you get an actual avocado this time, okay?
Caller: OMG I’m an idiot. Back to the store I go. Thank you so much!

Operator: Good afternoon, Avocado Toast Helpline, what seems to be the problem?
Caller: So, um…like, my bread? It’s been in the toaster for, like, ten minutes and it’s still all cold and stuff.
Operator: Is the toaster plugged in?
Caller: Uh, of course…*nervous laugh, click*

Operator: Avocado Toast Helpline, I’m listening.
Caller: Is it a crime against nature to use both sun-dried AND smoked paprika on my avocado toast?
Operator: I thought I told you to stop calling this number, you sick fuck.

Operator: Hi there, thanks for holding, how may I help you?
Caller: OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD, I’ve created a rip in the space-time continuum!
Operator: …you added the avocado before toasting the bread, didn’t you?
Caller: …yes.
Operator: Okay, I’m going to put you back on hold for a second while I go get Stephen Hawking on the line. Stay calm, and whatever you do, DON’T TOUCH THE PIT.

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