If you are so concerned with hygience and need a very thin piece of paper between your ass and the toilet seat when you go to the bathroom, then why don't you dispose of it afterwards? I can't fathom the mentality of somebody who has this "Cleanliness is next to Godliness" thing going on and can't even fucking piss without making sure that a sterile toilet seat cover is safely wedged between her and the bog.
But then you lose yourself don't you? Then you become all "crack ho mom of six - who gives a shit?" and leave it there for somebody else to find. Newsflash: you love your ass so much you wouldn't dare to put it on a strange toilet seat. But I don't ok, so I don't need the remnants of whatever you did in the stall before me, still in there when I go in.
Explain that to me. I don't get it. But before you explain it to me, just pick that shit up and flush it or dispose of it or whatever the hell you want with it, but stop leaving it on the toilet seat for people like me to find.
Your self appointed Royal Ass, is a total pain in MY ass.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Does My Ass Look Fat In this Ass?
Are you a woman who is overcoming depression by taking prescribed medication? I can recommend several therapies that don’t require any drugs that can really help. Exercise, beautiful scenery, being at one with nature, being on the receiving end of a random act of kindness. But I cannot fathom how shopping for a new pair of jeans will do anything other than send you spiraling back down into that deep dark chasm from which you have spent months climbing, often with only the use of your own nails as leverage.
I mention this because as I lay about the other night eating bon bons in my fluffly slippers, watching TV, there was an ad for Cymbalta. Depression hurts. Cymbalta can help.
Yes, it probably can. But not shopping for a pair of fucking skinny jeans. First we see this wretched looking woman, a single tear falls slowly from her tired looking eye, the strain of her melancholy clearly visible in the bags under her eyes and the faraway look of helplessness on her face. THEN she takes Cymbalta. Et voila! She’s in a boutique smiling as she picks out a pair of jeans. Damn! If that’s what happens after you take Cymbalta we should all bloody well be on it!
Last time I went shopping for a pair of jeans was about 6 months after the birth of my second daughter. I got them from a shop where the sizing is really big, so if anybody asks I can say “my jeans are a size 4” and I make a point of this because if you check the label they are a size 4. But in an actual proper place, they are probably a 6. Alright, an 8. But they are not a 10 ok, so back off. Plus I have 3 kids!!! Oh, sorry, I thought you were attacking me and judging me and thinking how fat my ass was. It’s not by the way. Just check my jeans.
Anyway, my point is this. Don’t try and get me to think that the idea of happiness and life after depression is buying jeans. It isn’t. In fact for most women nothing is more fear inducingly depressing than buying jeans.
Oh wow. Now I get it. Sneaky. Buy the jeans. Get depressed. Take Cymbalta.
Aren’t pharmaceutical marketers just so clever!
I mention this because as I lay about the other night eating bon bons in my fluffly slippers, watching TV, there was an ad for Cymbalta. Depression hurts. Cymbalta can help.
Yes, it probably can. But not shopping for a pair of fucking skinny jeans. First we see this wretched looking woman, a single tear falls slowly from her tired looking eye, the strain of her melancholy clearly visible in the bags under her eyes and the faraway look of helplessness on her face. THEN she takes Cymbalta. Et voila! She’s in a boutique smiling as she picks out a pair of jeans. Damn! If that’s what happens after you take Cymbalta we should all bloody well be on it!
Last time I went shopping for a pair of jeans was about 6 months after the birth of my second daughter. I got them from a shop where the sizing is really big, so if anybody asks I can say “my jeans are a size 4” and I make a point of this because if you check the label they are a size 4. But in an actual proper place, they are probably a 6. Alright, an 8. But they are not a 10 ok, so back off. Plus I have 3 kids!!! Oh, sorry, I thought you were attacking me and judging me and thinking how fat my ass was. It’s not by the way. Just check my jeans.
Anyway, my point is this. Don’t try and get me to think that the idea of happiness and life after depression is buying jeans. It isn’t. In fact for most women nothing is more fear inducingly depressing than buying jeans.
Oh wow. Now I get it. Sneaky. Buy the jeans. Get depressed. Take Cymbalta.
Aren’t pharmaceutical marketers just so clever!
Monday, October 27, 2008
Sweet Memories ( or any would be fine)
I used to have a razor sharp memory. I mean I could remember licence plate numbers from cars that my parents drove when I was growing up. And I could remember important stuff too like when I had to be somewhere, or even where I had to be.
My memory is shot. It's shit. It's almost entirely non existent. Of little consolation is the medically proven fact that HcG, the pregnancy hormone that is responsible for almost every intolerably awful thing that can happen to you when you are pregnant, has worked its magic again. So just when you thought the worst thing about HcG was not being able to go more than 7 minutes without peeing, or apres birth when levels of this hormone dip so low you are convinced that you will never enjoy sex again (or even have it, let alone enjoy it), it reminds you who is in charge once more.
I say consolation because of course the good news is that I don't have early onset althzeimers. My sister can stop calling me Iris, and my husband can stop plotting his week long Madden tournaments thinking that I'll be too "out of it" to understand that these aren't my family but are in fact a bunch of over-age football obsessed morons high on Pabst and cheese curds.
So it isn't my fault. It's the hormones fault. But that just doesn't translate into the real world, where, as a wife, mom of three and professional I have to remember countless things all the time. I've tried lots of different ways to remember stuff too. Outlook, my blackberry, a calendar on the kitchen wall, a calendar on my home computer, a paper diary in my bag. All to no avail. I've written lists (grocery, to do, kids names, best looking guys in High School Musical in desending order) but its pointless. I don't remember where the lists are, or what I was writing it for, or frankly what the point of anything is. I just can't remember.
I do however, find it a fascinating quirk of the human brain, that your memory can suddenly come alive at the most useless of times. Remembering that your daughter has a bake sale as you leave the house on the morning of the bake sale is no good to anybody. In fact, I'd rather not be reminded of that at all. Remembering that you didn't call your mother in law back to tell her what size feet your 3 year old has is probably something you should recall AFTER your husband has finished kissing your neck and nibbling your ear. (You're going to have to trust me on this one - mood killer).
So what am I meant to do? I'm open to suggestions, but short of walking around like Alan Alda in "Hannah and Her Sisters" recording everything into a mini tape recorder ("Idea for movie.......") I'm at a loss. I may have had flashes of genius to solve this problem, but I can't remember any of them anyway. Hell, this was meant to be a blog about something really important. I just forgot what that thing was.
My memory is shot. It's shit. It's almost entirely non existent. Of little consolation is the medically proven fact that HcG, the pregnancy hormone that is responsible for almost every intolerably awful thing that can happen to you when you are pregnant, has worked its magic again. So just when you thought the worst thing about HcG was not being able to go more than 7 minutes without peeing, or apres birth when levels of this hormone dip so low you are convinced that you will never enjoy sex again (or even have it, let alone enjoy it), it reminds you who is in charge once more.
I say consolation because of course the good news is that I don't have early onset althzeimers. My sister can stop calling me Iris, and my husband can stop plotting his week long Madden tournaments thinking that I'll be too "out of it" to understand that these aren't my family but are in fact a bunch of over-age football obsessed morons high on Pabst and cheese curds.
So it isn't my fault. It's the hormones fault. But that just doesn't translate into the real world, where, as a wife, mom of three and professional I have to remember countless things all the time. I've tried lots of different ways to remember stuff too. Outlook, my blackberry, a calendar on the kitchen wall, a calendar on my home computer, a paper diary in my bag. All to no avail. I've written lists (grocery, to do, kids names, best looking guys in High School Musical in desending order) but its pointless. I don't remember where the lists are, or what I was writing it for, or frankly what the point of anything is. I just can't remember.
I do however, find it a fascinating quirk of the human brain, that your memory can suddenly come alive at the most useless of times. Remembering that your daughter has a bake sale as you leave the house on the morning of the bake sale is no good to anybody. In fact, I'd rather not be reminded of that at all. Remembering that you didn't call your mother in law back to tell her what size feet your 3 year old has is probably something you should recall AFTER your husband has finished kissing your neck and nibbling your ear. (You're going to have to trust me on this one - mood killer).
So what am I meant to do? I'm open to suggestions, but short of walking around like Alan Alda in "Hannah and Her Sisters" recording everything into a mini tape recorder ("Idea for movie.......") I'm at a loss. I may have had flashes of genius to solve this problem, but I can't remember any of them anyway. Hell, this was meant to be a blog about something really important. I just forgot what that thing was.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
I Hate NY
No, its not a typo. I used to "heart" NY. Now I hate NY. And although I know that New York has changed considerably since I first moved here, I have to admit that it is I who has changed a whole lot more.
The biggest change is that I now have children, three of them to be exact. So all of those things that I used to love about New York - the theater, late night movies, great dive bars, fabulous gay bars, trashy 80s themed parties at fabulous gay bars, art galleries - yes, all of those things are now but a distant memory.
I am also (shriek with horror) more than ten years older than I was when I first moved here. So I can scratch the "80s themed parties at fabulous gay bars" off the list anyway (loud, crude, allergy to rubber and intolerance for bitchy queens).
I've noticed lately how rude the people are. Ok, I didn't just notice that. New York is famous the world over for its abundance of impatient and hostile residents. I enjoy the brusque manner of the counter guys at Katz's Deli as much as the next person. What I can't stand is that there are so many sodding young people here. Where the fuck did they come from? And what do they expect to find here? As I have learned the sidewalks are not paved with movie deals, publishing deals or any other bloody deal for that matter.
Oh my God. I have just realized something. I'M GETTING OLD. It's happening. I can't stand young people. They get on my nerves with their boundless energy for gay bars, museums, art galleries and late night movies. And they are really annoying me with all their childlessness and freedom. So this is why people move to Westchester! It's not for the great school system (although I hear its spiffy). It's so that we don't have to live with the daily reminder that our lives did not pan out as we had once hoped, and that with children in tow for the next 18 years, its going to be pretty damn close to impossible to get our lives back on track!
These young people all have age appropriate airs of entitlement and are just oozing with ambition, ambition that they still have time and energy to fulfill. And its turning me into a curmudgeonly old bird. Just like a REAL New Yorker.
Hey! Fuck you! I'm walking here!
The biggest change is that I now have children, three of them to be exact. So all of those things that I used to love about New York - the theater, late night movies, great dive bars, fabulous gay bars, trashy 80s themed parties at fabulous gay bars, art galleries - yes, all of those things are now but a distant memory.
I am also (shriek with horror) more than ten years older than I was when I first moved here. So I can scratch the "80s themed parties at fabulous gay bars" off the list anyway (loud, crude, allergy to rubber and intolerance for bitchy queens).
I've noticed lately how rude the people are. Ok, I didn't just notice that. New York is famous the world over for its abundance of impatient and hostile residents. I enjoy the brusque manner of the counter guys at Katz's Deli as much as the next person. What I can't stand is that there are so many sodding young people here. Where the fuck did they come from? And what do they expect to find here? As I have learned the sidewalks are not paved with movie deals, publishing deals or any other bloody deal for that matter.
Oh my God. I have just realized something. I'M GETTING OLD. It's happening. I can't stand young people. They get on my nerves with their boundless energy for gay bars, museums, art galleries and late night movies. And they are really annoying me with all their childlessness and freedom. So this is why people move to Westchester! It's not for the great school system (although I hear its spiffy). It's so that we don't have to live with the daily reminder that our lives did not pan out as we had once hoped, and that with children in tow for the next 18 years, its going to be pretty damn close to impossible to get our lives back on track!
These young people all have age appropriate airs of entitlement and are just oozing with ambition, ambition that they still have time and energy to fulfill. And its turning me into a curmudgeonly old bird. Just like a REAL New Yorker.
Hey! Fuck you! I'm walking here!
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Now you see me (Now you don't)
Kids are really fast. No joke. You might be childless and reading this (in which case, can I refer you to some other websites), and you're thinking "They can't be that fast, they only have tiny weeny little legs". Think again my friend. Those legs are short and stumpy, but when in motion, freakishly quick. I mean circus sideshow fast.
Case History One (in a series of over four thousand instances of close calls): Rite Aid, Hair Care aisle. Holding my then three year old by the hand. Sure John Frieda is a little more expensive, but I bet its good. Still holding child's hand. Where is the conditioner that goes with it? Still holding child's hand. Why can't I ever just find stuff and get the hell out of a store? Why does everything take so damn long? CHILD GONE. That fast. Gone. Not in this aisle, or the next aisle. Now I am that mom that I said I would NEVER be (you know, the one you have in your head before you actually become one), screaming at the top of my lungs but still trying to appear calm and in control.
I have always been lucky. These situations have ended well for me. In that case my daughter was pulling boxes of Trojans and Durex off a display near the pharmacy. I got lucky. Again.
Tonight, coming home from an event at my daughters school, a little boy cycled passed us saying 'Daddy, Daddy, Daddy". I thought that was vaguely odd, but nothing else. Two minutes later a man ran passed us yelling and crying "Have you seen a boy on a bike?". I felt like shit that I hadn't stopped the boy and said "Where's your Daddy?". I really hope that situation ended well. The boy was cycling towards a main road. And I didn't stop him. What is wrong with me? I just didn't want to interfere with a little kid I guess.
It takes a village to raise a family. I learned a really important lesson tonight. Stick your nose into peoples business. The worst that could happen is that somebody will tell you to stay the fuck out of their lives. From now on I'm going to risk that. I would really want somebody to do the same for me.
I really hope that little boy found his Daddy.
Case History One (in a series of over four thousand instances of close calls): Rite Aid, Hair Care aisle. Holding my then three year old by the hand. Sure John Frieda is a little more expensive, but I bet its good. Still holding child's hand. Where is the conditioner that goes with it? Still holding child's hand. Why can't I ever just find stuff and get the hell out of a store? Why does everything take so damn long? CHILD GONE. That fast. Gone. Not in this aisle, or the next aisle. Now I am that mom that I said I would NEVER be (you know, the one you have in your head before you actually become one), screaming at the top of my lungs but still trying to appear calm and in control.
I have always been lucky. These situations have ended well for me. In that case my daughter was pulling boxes of Trojans and Durex off a display near the pharmacy. I got lucky. Again.
Tonight, coming home from an event at my daughters school, a little boy cycled passed us saying 'Daddy, Daddy, Daddy". I thought that was vaguely odd, but nothing else. Two minutes later a man ran passed us yelling and crying "Have you seen a boy on a bike?". I felt like shit that I hadn't stopped the boy and said "Where's your Daddy?". I really hope that situation ended well. The boy was cycling towards a main road. And I didn't stop him. What is wrong with me? I just didn't want to interfere with a little kid I guess.
It takes a village to raise a family. I learned a really important lesson tonight. Stick your nose into peoples business. The worst that could happen is that somebody will tell you to stay the fuck out of their lives. From now on I'm going to risk that. I would really want somebody to do the same for me.
I really hope that little boy found his Daddy.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
What's Up With My Boy?
Somebody asked me today; "What's up with your boy?"
This could be anybody. I have many "boys" in my life. My husband? Nobody refers to him as "my boy". I certainly haven't since the day we had a joint bank account and matching Costco cards.
Aaron Rodgers? But he did great. And I don't consider him "my boy" yet. He has to earn that. Clearly he's on the road to "my boy" status, but with the Cowboys loss still so raw, he ain't "my boy".
Brett Favre? He was "my boy" and everybody knew it. He was "my boy" in EVERY sense of the word. Ok. well, not every sense of the word, but close enough. And surely if it is real in my imagination, its real enough? Like an ex-boyfriend who gets fat and rejected by everybody he hits on, this week I deny that Brett is "my boy". Shoulda stayed on the farm.
So what's up with my boy? OH, THAT BOY! George Michael. Now HE is my boy! What? He got arrested in a mens room? Again? Hey, fuck you, its the FIRST time this year, back off. And what's up with my boy? He's a pop star! He's a gay pop star! He is absolutely expected to get arrested in mens rooms. And if he doesn't have any crack on him at the time, then I sure as shit want to know why.
What? You're appalled? Listen, I want my pre-K teachers to be crack free and spend as little time as humanly possible trying to get "intimate" in a park restroom. But my 80's icons? Go crazy! Have unprotected sex while high on crack cocaine til the cows come home. Please. As Bill Hicks once commented on a presidential nod to The New Kids on The Block "Hey Government approved rock and roll, we're partying now!"
When I saw George Michael in Dallas he was amazing and the crowd just lapped it up. I have never been at a concert with more atmosphere before in my life. And feeding off that love, at one point right in the moment he said "Do you forgive me?". Huh? For what? Maybe its me, but I have never ever felt that he is somebody who needs forgiveness from me or anybody else. Even Kenny, his main squeeze who tolerates all this stuff ,doesn't have that power. He is who he is, and everybody loves him just the same.
So in answer to your question "what's up with your boy?", nothing. Absolutely nothing. He is perfection on a stick. Well, on crack and on a stick.
This could be anybody. I have many "boys" in my life. My husband? Nobody refers to him as "my boy". I certainly haven't since the day we had a joint bank account and matching Costco cards.
Aaron Rodgers? But he did great. And I don't consider him "my boy" yet. He has to earn that. Clearly he's on the road to "my boy" status, but with the Cowboys loss still so raw, he ain't "my boy".
Brett Favre? He was "my boy" and everybody knew it. He was "my boy" in EVERY sense of the word. Ok. well, not every sense of the word, but close enough. And surely if it is real in my imagination, its real enough? Like an ex-boyfriend who gets fat and rejected by everybody he hits on, this week I deny that Brett is "my boy". Shoulda stayed on the farm.
So what's up with my boy? OH, THAT BOY! George Michael. Now HE is my boy! What? He got arrested in a mens room? Again? Hey, fuck you, its the FIRST time this year, back off. And what's up with my boy? He's a pop star! He's a gay pop star! He is absolutely expected to get arrested in mens rooms. And if he doesn't have any crack on him at the time, then I sure as shit want to know why.
What? You're appalled? Listen, I want my pre-K teachers to be crack free and spend as little time as humanly possible trying to get "intimate" in a park restroom. But my 80's icons? Go crazy! Have unprotected sex while high on crack cocaine til the cows come home. Please. As Bill Hicks once commented on a presidential nod to The New Kids on The Block "Hey Government approved rock and roll, we're partying now!"
When I saw George Michael in Dallas he was amazing and the crowd just lapped it up. I have never been at a concert with more atmosphere before in my life. And feeding off that love, at one point right in the moment he said "Do you forgive me?". Huh? For what? Maybe its me, but I have never ever felt that he is somebody who needs forgiveness from me or anybody else. Even Kenny, his main squeeze who tolerates all this stuff ,doesn't have that power. He is who he is, and everybody loves him just the same.
So in answer to your question "what's up with your boy?", nothing. Absolutely nothing. He is perfection on a stick. Well, on crack and on a stick.
Friday, August 15, 2008
It's All Going To Shit Today
Good days. Bad days. That's the way it goes. Well, its easy to say that. It's another to mean it. Especially when you are trying to raise a young family. It's Friday. It's the end of the week. We're all exhausted. My three year old has been, and remains, very poorly. My seven year old is already bored senseless by the Summer holidays and the lack of contact with other seven year olds that are obsessed with Zac Ephron and my seven month old is on the verge of becoming a crawling machine. I just saw a commercial on TV for The Olive Garden and I have been struck by how little my family resembles the one enjoying their pasta and breadstick for $6.99.
I'm an intelligent, forward thinking, open minded young(ish) woman. And yet, in my weakest moments I feel ashamed that I haven't created more of those bullshit "family" moments that are continuously sold to us in the media. They are timed perfectly, at the very moment when mommy and daddy will be at their weakest. After 830pm when, after lengthy battles, the kids are finally in bed and we get to flop down on the sofa and grunt at each other with a glass of wine in our hands, and pretend we are enjoying quality time, instead we get ridiculed by these images of the perfect family and they make me feel horrible and inadequate. Which I understand is the whole point. Go to Olive Garden and you too can be a great parent! How can a commercial for The Olive Garden have such an effect on me. I mean, its not even a good restaurant for christ sake!
In TV land a great family tradition is sharing crummy food. In Real Nagler land, a great family tradition is shouting "get your hand out of your diaper!" and "honey, not that cup" and "in a minute, let me deal with the baby" all at the same time while yelling down the phone that I don't want to give any more money to the Obama campaign (every night people!). It wasn't supposed to be this way. I thought I would be swaddling my new baby in soft pink cashmere and she would coo contentedly in my arms, while my next baby tickled her feet and giggled and my eldest child would be cooking gourmet meals and cleaning the house (just kidding). The reality of three children has been quite different to anything we ever imagined. If you think that having one kid reveals how little you knew about anything, try having three. It's beyond crazy!
It's so crazy that today it is going to shit. They all sleep soundly and happily in their beds right now, and I sob silently over a bloody Olive Garden commercial and wonder why I'm not more like the nineteen year old woman dressed like a forty year old mother, with an abundance of patience when 20 liters of fruit juice is strewn across the floor. By the way, while still holding down a very busy full time job. It's just one of those days, and I'm glad its over. I can hit the sack, sleep it off, and try again tomorrow. One of the greatest gifts that we can all enjoy. The chance to start anew.
How am I going to make this work?
I'm an intelligent, forward thinking, open minded young(ish) woman. And yet, in my weakest moments I feel ashamed that I haven't created more of those bullshit "family" moments that are continuously sold to us in the media. They are timed perfectly, at the very moment when mommy and daddy will be at their weakest. After 830pm when, after lengthy battles, the kids are finally in bed and we get to flop down on the sofa and grunt at each other with a glass of wine in our hands, and pretend we are enjoying quality time, instead we get ridiculed by these images of the perfect family and they make me feel horrible and inadequate. Which I understand is the whole point. Go to Olive Garden and you too can be a great parent! How can a commercial for The Olive Garden have such an effect on me. I mean, its not even a good restaurant for christ sake!
In TV land a great family tradition is sharing crummy food. In Real Nagler land, a great family tradition is shouting "get your hand out of your diaper!" and "honey, not that cup" and "in a minute, let me deal with the baby" all at the same time while yelling down the phone that I don't want to give any more money to the Obama campaign (every night people!). It wasn't supposed to be this way. I thought I would be swaddling my new baby in soft pink cashmere and she would coo contentedly in my arms, while my next baby tickled her feet and giggled and my eldest child would be cooking gourmet meals and cleaning the house (just kidding). The reality of three children has been quite different to anything we ever imagined. If you think that having one kid reveals how little you knew about anything, try having three. It's beyond crazy!
It's so crazy that today it is going to shit. They all sleep soundly and happily in their beds right now, and I sob silently over a bloody Olive Garden commercial and wonder why I'm not more like the nineteen year old woman dressed like a forty year old mother, with an abundance of patience when 20 liters of fruit juice is strewn across the floor. By the way, while still holding down a very busy full time job. It's just one of those days, and I'm glad its over. I can hit the sack, sleep it off, and try again tomorrow. One of the greatest gifts that we can all enjoy. The chance to start anew.
How am I going to make this work?
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