Wash me!

A friend stopped by last night to help me dust off the blog and scrape all the pollen off its windows. She's the BEST, I tell ya.' Today's Martha, if you know what I mean. And she's giving away a wedding dress. (I know! It floors me, too. And not just because at least half the days I want to set mine afire and stomp on it.)

Anyway.... It has been a little busy around here this spring. I am working on something for tomorrow, I promise. Right now, though, I have to go pick the watermelon seeds out of someone's breakfast so that they'll actually get some fruit into them. (Busy AND exciting, as you can see.)

In the meantime, don't forget to vote for my good friends Wendi, Kelcey and Jessica, so that their panel, DYING IS EASY, COMEDY IS HARD, gets chosen for the BlogHer '09 conference in Chicago this July. You do have to register to vote, but it doesn't commit you to anything - you're only voting to put them on the schedule. And I can't imagine a more fun thing to watch now that Gray's Anatomy stinks.

Anyway, you can get to the voting page by clicking here:

See you all tomorrow!

Road map to a woman's mind

Dear Man:

OK. I know it might seem like a bit of a nonsequitur* when I mutter "Oh, just shut the hell up"** when you say, "I made the bed for you this morning."

But that is only because the male pea-sized, sexist pig brain cannot keep up with the many, many reply options that roil through a woman's head, leaving her opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water, sifting through the possible (and all correct, but somehow not quite enough on their own) choices before she arrives at one.

So. It's a tad Google of me, but let me draw you a map:

Start at: "I made the bed for you this morning."

1. Take a sharp left three neuro-synapse thingies later at:

" 'For you,' huh? Hm. The implication of that is that you think it's MY job, huh? Well then, thank you for stooping and for your help, you sexist pig."

2. Wonder if that's too wordy and proceed straight to:

"Ya wanna medal?"*

3. Decide that's too brief, and you have more anger pent up in there that needs venting, so bear right at:

"Oh! The bed you also slept in? Why, thank you, and have I mentioned you're a sexist *&^^%$#$ pig?!"

3. Thought construction requires a bit of a detour-digression. Bear right at:

"Was he always this much of a sexist pig? How did I miss that? What was I thinking?! How did I end up here, being a presumed bed-maker?! I was gonna be somebody some day. I must remember to tell Girl not to ever, ever, ever get married. They are tricky little bastards, these men."

4. Take a left onto:

"Oh, that's nice, honey. Because I was busy making the grocery list for your dinner, and putting your breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. "

5. Eh. Find scenery there boring; also, skip through the obvious and too trite:

"And I made you two kids."

6. Pass, too, right through the intersection of I HATE YOU!!!!! and Would this hold up in divorce court? because even in your agitated state you realize that might be a little bit much (just a little, though) under the circumstances and you don't really have the time for that kind of thing right now, but someday, SOMEDAY, it's all just gonna add up and be the last straw, and and and and... Alice, right to the moon! and then? And then? I'm going off to live in Paris all by myself and smoke cigarettes and knit and no one is going to tell me they made my bed, dammit.

7. Take a big sigh, and finally arrive at...

"Oh, just shut the hell up. "

See? Not all that complicated. You just have to keep up, is all.


* Really. That's how it's spelled. I don't like it, either. But there's rules about these things, you know. You can't just go spelling things however you like just because you don't think it looks pretty.

** OK. That's a lie. But this is a somewhat family-friendly place. OK, that's a lie, too. But you know, I try. OK, OK. Three lies in one sentence, you got me. I said some other things, OK? Feel free to substitute your own inappropriate word. Or three. OK, happy now? Yes, I used all three.

*** (Thanks to the ever-hysterical Barb who reminded me of that one!)

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The womenfolk over at humor-blogs know it's hard to always just smile and keep your head down and go along.

Lay off, already

Madoff, schmaydoff.

It's time to bust up the virulent Ponzi scheme of someone far more detrimental to us regular folk:



Dear Easter Bunny:

It is with absolutely no regret whatsoever that I write to inform you that your services will no longer be required in the Mad Mad household.

I did not shed so much as one nostalgic tear when eight-year-old Boy cocked an eyebrow at me, and put finger quotes around the words "Easter Bunny" when we talked about our plans this weekend. We're never really sure what's going on in Girl's head, to tell the truth, but she is 12 now, so it's probably for the best we have a little talk with her before she gets beat up behind the gym.

You're so outta here, bunster.

And unlike the thousands of people who've lost jobs in the past couple of years through no fault of their own, you deserve every bit of pain and shame coming your way and I hope Mrs. Bunny shoves hard-boiled eggs down your throat till you choke when she tires of you sitting on her couch all day and hogging the remote.

OK, OK, that last might have been a little mean, but you know what? I have found you, at best, to be an uncooperative "employee," and frankly, I am just tired of holding the bag for you all these years.

Oh, sure. You say you're gonna do it, but when push comes to Good Friday, who is out there shopping and hiding stuff and picking that staticky fake grass crap out of the cracks in my floorboards so no one will suspect anything, and dealing with eggs and painting and class parties and regular life laundry and unpacking from vacation and planning a vacation and Easter is just not timed very well, now, is it?

Perhaps you should have thought of that, Bunny man. Of course, I don't know why I'd expect you to think of anything yourself. This whole gig of yours is on the backs of other people. And by other people, you know very well who I mean, right? The womenfolk, you anti-feminist, oppressor, bad Bunny man bent on keeping us all at home, cooking, cleaning, shopping for stupid outfits it's always too cold to actually wear on frigid Easter mornings in New England.

We do all the work, you get all the credit.

Yet there's no end to the number of new moms you're able to recruit to go lemming-like into your tyrannical regime, only to come out the other end in a few years, dazed, confused and feeling vaguely dirty from engaging in the mental contortions required to explain a bunny laying eggs that you have to find really, really fast because we have to get to church because...

I don't know, actually, how it's related, honey. No... uh, there's not a bunny in church. The bunny has nothing to do with church. But it's a very important day at church, so we have to go. Noooo, nooo... there's no eggs involved, really, either. Um... Yeah, I don't know, honey. Yeah. And chocolate, you're right... it is interesting, isn't it? Well, yeah... Hm.. I don't know. I do, know, that God probably will think it's OK if mommy has a quick mimosa on her way to church, 'cuz she has a really bad headache now. Just have some more chocolate and get dressed, OK, sweetie?

So, anyway, like I said: Good riddance, bud. It's been real. A real pain. Don't even think of coming to me for references. Your tyranny ends here.

Sincerely,
Mad, Mad

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The folks over at humor-blogs know a cranky, holiday-crazed, strung out mommy when they see one. But they wonder what exactly she's doing at the computer, when she should be vacuuming and cleaning dog snot off the windows for the guests who are due to arrive?

It's no NYC....

"So, what do you want to do with your day off Friday, honey?" (Because yes, heaven forbid I go a whole week without a child taking a vacation day.)

"I want to take you to the supermarket and show you where they keep the good cereal," Boy answers.

(Because apparently THAT was the problem, my not knowing where they kept the sugary stuff.)

The supermarket, though. He dreams big, that one.

Still, there is no way I'm going to into a grocery store two days before Easter, honey. Maybe that can be our April vacation plan. Take it slow, really enjoy the place. An-aisle-a-day kind of thing... Good times, good times.
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The folks over at humor-blogs don't make their kids eat Kashi for breakfast.

A mother's dream come true

It is difficult to describe, or even quantify, the many horrific thoughts that float through a mother's head as she rushes into a room to her child's shrieks of "Mom! Mom! I can feel the hairs! I can feel the hairs!"

It is equally difficult to describe her dismay when she finds that the reality was worse than her wildest dreams:



I swear, he's gonna kill me. If I don't kill him first.

And when is she gonna get here, already?

Happy Opening Day, baseball fans!

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The folks over at humor-blogs know very well I wouldn't know a baseball from a softball, or even, for that matter, a golf ball, and that it's all just a shameless plug.