Everyone Wants a Piece of My Goddamn Pottery Barn Couch--Even the Cat.
"Aww"
"Wait."
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My ONE nice bit of furniture. |
Feck.
Other than this assault, it’s actually only been Sharpied once. Still pretty pristine compared to the rest of our stuff.
A Coupla Reasons Why Amy Schumer is my New Favorite Celebrity Mom
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Image: Wikipedia |
1. Her kid has a great name. First of all, Gene is an underused classic. Secondly, she actually changed her son's middle name when she figured out he might get teased--her kid was originally known as Gene Attell (genital?) but she changed it to Gene David. Some people would've dug in their heels by emphasizing the slightly-less-crotch-y pronunciation, but instead she admitted it was a little weird. And she fixed it for the kid's sake but still figured out how to honor her friend with that middle. Nailed it.
2. She's real about her mental health. Trichotillomania is a stigmatized thing, but we all have our freak flags folded up somewhere. Amy let that sh*t fly, even though I don't know of any other celebrities who've admitted to yanking their own head hair out compulsively. Full disclosure: I have been known to do this--both the blurting out of what used to be shameful secret for the whole damned world to know, AND the freaky hair-pulling thing. It started when I was stressed to be driving one of my kids somewhere every day in a sh*tload of Bay Area traffic. Now that I've allowed myself to notice what I'm doing, I'm trying to stop. It's complex and weird, and I'm a little balder than I would be otherwise, but it happens to some of us. If someone makes a G.I. Jane joke about me I'm hoping Joe doesn't react too poorly, though.
6 Y.O. Son: Yeah Mom I washed my hands.
Me: Did you wash those hands? Really? After you flushed?
Me:
6 Y.O.: I don't WANT to wash my hands right now
Five-Second Screenplays on Raising Sons and Daughters: Developmental Differences
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She's led a hard life. |
Now that I’ve been a mom for kind of a long time, I can’t decide whether I should laugh or get righteously indignant about the following story from my childhood:
When I was about seven and my brother, Max, was five, we would argue and complain a lot.
Addressing an imaginary audience, Dad would interrupt us to say, “These are my two kids, B*tch and Moan!”
Then Max and I would argue with each other about who got to be Moan.
"Here it is, your moment of Zen." -Jon Stewart
Joe and the bigs are visiting my dad and Sandy for a ski trip. So the littles and I needed something to do. I brought them to a petting zoo/amusement park/regular zoo rolled into one, in San José. We petted hot, sweaty goats and watched them poop. We rock-climbed and went down two-story slides. We saw a Giant Anteater. There's even a roller coaster there that Arthur is tall enough to ride.
They did not want to leave.
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Green house (center): what we can afford here. |
Joe and I have tried to keep a sense of humor about the whole thing, especially because we never thought we’d be in this situation—scrambling to purchase something--anything--not even four years after we thought we’d bought our forever home, and probably kissing a swift goodbye to all of the equity in our old place. This is only remotely possible by our having begged our parents* to help us, and we also slashed our family’s budget dramatically on the eve of sending two kids to college. But another tough pill to swallow is that we’ve had no leverage to negotiate with our offers whatsoever. It is such a strong seller’s market that homes in our area are easily going $150-200k over ask, as-is, and please pick our offer, pretty-please-with-a-cherry-on-top.
I hear it is even crazier and more competitive in other parts of the Bay.
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[Dr. Evil voice:] Two *million* dollars, but you can't have the VW |
I know. It’s a douchey thing to complain about. At least we are not unhoused. It’s unbelievably fortunate to have had the financial horsepower to leave our old neighborhood, however reluctantly, when our batsh*t crazy neighbor opted to screw over all of her neighbors within a mile’s radius. Stupid c**ty lady is gonna have her publicly funded, privately profiting “halfway house” with minimal supervision. For violent serial rapists. Who have just been released from prison. And whose therapists are quite concerned about their known personality disorders. Because she hates our other neighbor and feels like doing that sh*t. Ahem.
Anyway, we had a huge stroke of luck with the house hunt with the following letter we sent to the sellers of our dream home. Let it be said that we'd never have a chance to get this place if it weren't pre-market. And to write such a letter may be an underhanded, saccharine tactic, despite the fact that all of the things we’ve said in it are totally true. Also, it probably doesn’t hurt that we have cute kids, one of whom has a ‘Jonathan Lipnicki in Jerry Maguire’ thing going on. Who can say no to these kids’ faces?
“To the Owners of X XXXX Dr,
We are a family of eight, with five sons and a daughter. We are looking for a new place to call our “forever home.” We were recently displaced from our home in Bonny Doon because the state of California approved the release of a sexually violent predator into the home directly next door to ours.
Our younger kids now attend [nearby elementary school] and we would love for them to be able to walk to school and [extremely close park]. Also, having proximity to open space (something we loved about Bonny Doon) and being situated on a quiet and safe cul-de-sac make this location ideal. We love this beautiful home, which would be perfect for our family, and would be forever grateful to live there.
Sincerely,
L & J”
The “heartstrings” tactic, however obvious it must have been, has worked. They've accepted our offer. Full staggering price and they’re renting back to us for a few months at an extreme discount for themselves while they find a new place to downsize into. Joe is nauseous at our new monthly payments, but I figure we can have a steady dinner rotation of red beans, rice, ramen, and ice cubes. Let our financial pounding commence.
*When I say parents, I do not mean my mom.
Everything I Need to Know in Life I Learned From My Family of Farters
A corporeal weapon is one of the most readily available means of revenge.
Some people should never, ever consume pulled pork with beer.
Someone who eats a pound of dried apricots in one sitting before boarding an airplane is up to something sinister and should be reported to TSA.
It’s a good idea to hold your breath for about twenty-five seconds when someone suddenly rolls down the car window.
An unborn child is almost fully responsible for his pregnant mother’s gas and thus provides a perfect scapegoat.
Some of the worst stank imaginable can come from a kitten or a breastfed two-month-old.
When your Danish swim coach shakes his head scornfully and says, “you make the bad air”, very little is lost in the translation.
The human anus has an impressive repertoire of sounds—a towel ripping in half, someone dropping a cup of Jell-o pudding, or the violent squeezing of an angry cat, to name a few.
Your relationship has reached the next level of intimacy when your SO comes over and you no longer bother to cropdust your downstairs roommates before getting it on.
In the flatulence industry, nobody labors harder than six college boys doing abdominal exercises in Speedos.
Establish dominance by sitting in your spouse’s lap and releasing the hounds.
He who smelt it dealt it is mathematically improbable in a household with six males.
The best way to make a classroom full of children scream with delighted laughter is to back yourself through the doorway while dragging an AV cart and loudly rip ass.
There’s a simple fix for when one of you isn’t totally in the mood—one that doesn’t invoke Kathy Bates’s hot tub scene in About Schmidt.
There’s insidious danger in being the big spoon.
The surest way to get your first black eye is to squat over your sleeping brother’s face, yell WAKE UP CALL and let one fly*.
Give a child bean burritos, make him laugh for an evening; teach him to read Walter the Farting Dog and he’ll laugh for a lifetime.
*I should know. I did this to Max in ‘93 and am still laughing about it.