And then, the tidal wave of shit hit me in the face… like a… a shitty similie.

I’ve sat down to write this a dozen times, not because it’s emotional, but because I’m easily distracted and there’s been a lot to distract me lately, both good and bad.

If you’ve read all my posts, then you have a tremendous amount of spare time to devote to feeding my ego, and I thank you for it. But also you may have realized something: at one point, I was both unemployed, and pregnant. This was not a coincidence.

For anyone reading who is not in the US, please don’t think that what I’m about to write is par for the course here, but…. I was fired for being pregnant. I can say that, because MY CASE FINALLY SETTLED!!!! It was over a year of litigation and pushing through the rough times and the expenses, but finally, they blinked.

I don’t know if I can go into the details of my case, but suffice it to say, they were blatant about why they were letting me go. And the foolish woman that I was, I thought, ‘Surely, the man who owns this company is a man of honor, and once he finds out what happened, he’ll settle the case, and maybe even fire the people who did this!’ but I was wrong. What I DID get in return was 9 straight hours of a deposition, which is essentially being asked the same 5 or 6 questions in different ways. For 9 hours. But then, finally, two weeks ago, my lawyer called me and said that they were willing to settle.

I had won. I WON. I won’t be rich, but that was never really the point. The point was that they had broken the law, and they should be penalized for it. And I won’t tell you how LITTLE they are NOT being penalized, but hell, at least I won. And that’s not nothing.

Anyway, then work sucked my fucking will to live, and my boss is mad because I made two mistakes on a spreadsheet that no one looks at.

Did I mention this was a complain-y post? Well, it is.

On the bright side you guys, I wrote a short story and the first draft is almost done. Then I’ll edit that shit, and work toward getting published. Because while you sonsofbitches are amazing and you’re all each my special little snowflakes, mama needs to make some money off of writing. After all, winning your case isn’t like winning the lotto… sadly.

Whatcha been up to? Who’s pregnant? What did I miss??

I’m like the Agatha Christie of BDSM, you guys!

Not gonna lie, I totally had to look up how to spell that name. Also, was Agetha Christie someone who solved puzzles? Or did she hunt down criminals? Because I’m not actually hunting down criminals in leather…. although that sounds fun, too.

As you may or may not know, I’m FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIRLY comfortable with my sexuality. I feel like a lot of the world’s problems might be solved if the right people had a few more orgasms, or maybe just better ones. It’s like a modified version of the Quaker religious philosophy. Because I like Quakers. And they’re delicious, delicious oatmeal.

I should probably eat dinner before posting.

Anywho, I’m feeding Max when my friend Em calls:

Em: “Soo……. I wanna give my boyfriend a gift for his birthday…”

Me: “Yup, sounds nice. Whatcha thinkin?”

Em: “I was thinking of arranging a night at a swinger’s club.”

Me: “Uhhhhhhhhh……….. mkay.”

Em: “Can you figure out what the best one for me is?”

Me: “WHAT THE?!?!”

Only what I REALLY said was, “Okee dokee!” because I’m an idiot with not enough things to do with the few precious hours she has in the evenings!

So, now I have to go onto FetLife, which REALLY means I have to remember my password and login ID, and I have to drag my ass to the swinger’s group, and ask them, and then I have to have CONVERSATIONS with people (I do that shit ALL. DAY. LONG.) and find a good place for her. Why?

Em: “PLEASE!!!!!!!!!!!! Because when I think of kinky sex stuff, I think of YOUUUUU…”

I am entirely unsure of how to feel about this. Thanks?

We went to Florida. I’m fairly certain the entire state regrets it.

My dad has very bad asthma, which explains why he and my step-mom have a condo in Boca Raton, Florida, also known as the OTHER Jewish homeland. They invited us to come down for a long weekend, because they had clearly kicked puppies in a previous life, and felt the need to atone for it. Whatever… SUCKAS!!!

The husband and I packed up El Bebe, a few thousand of our most important baby accoutrements, and high-tailed it to the sunny south, where, ironically, it was overcast almost the entire time we were there. Of course, lack of sun was the LEAST of anyone’s concerns, because, and I’m setting the scene here for you: *I* was invited down to an Orthodox Jewish community. An ELDERLY Orthodox Jewish community. It went about as well as you would imagine.

The best flight we could get was a Friday (shabbat), so we fucked the rules and flew out on the sabbath. Max was actually BEAUTIFUL on the flight down; he fell asleep during take off, and woke up just as we started to land, and stared happily out the window as daddy held him to watch the city lights at night. Of course, this was 10PM, a full three hours past his bed time, but we’ll get to that in a minute.

We grab our bags, with Max smiling and flirting at every.single.woman in sight, which is basically fate’s way of saying, “invest in hair dye, bitch, you’re gonna be dodging a LOT of pregnancy scares in about 16 years.” My dad and step-mom can’t drive on shabbat because….. I don’t know. It has something to do with G-D, and not lighting a spark, but then also not wiping your ass with proper toilet paper because Jesus favors bidets. It’s all very confusing when you don’t really care. My parents had told us to keep an eye out for a driver who would meet us and pick us up. A white ford Taurus. Sounds legit! Then, a dude smelling like cigarettes, pungent body, and a thousand other things I don’t even want to GUESS at pulls up. Fine. Your car, I don’t care if you smoke cigarettes when I’m not in it. He helps my husband pack the things in the trunk, and I carefully load Max into his car seat. Then, with all three of them safely in the car…… he pulled away.

Seriously.

That motherfucker LEFT ME STANDING AT THE GATE.

“HEY ASSHOLE!!” I yelled, but I’m fairly certain is was my husband in the care saying, “Uhhh…. so… that’s my WIFE back there…” that actually got the guy to stop. I ran after them, hopped in, and chose to ignore the fact that HOLY SHIT, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?! And that’s when I saw it… the toupe. If you washed a cat’s fur with lye, shaved the cat, then crazy glued that shit to a base, you would get this dude’s toupe. And it just stared at me from where I sat behind him, for the entirety of our ride (approximately 45 minutes). Max, thankfully, fell asleep, and the guy driving seemed partially deaf, so my husband did the heavy lifting of the EXTREMELY awkward conversation.

Him: “I had to go to a special minyan to get permission from the Rabbi to drive on shabbat.”

Husband: “Oh…. ok…. thank you?”

Him: “………….”

Me, in the only actual EFFORT you will witness during this entire trip: “So….errr… are you from Florida?”

Him: “No. I’m a lawyer.”

Me: “Ahh…”

Whatever. We got to my parents’ place, tucked in the wee little Peanut, and got ourselves to bed. Huzzah!

The next day was the ACTUAL sabbath, which meant that we couldn’t turn the tv on or off, couldn’t turn on lights, and just sorta hung out and went on walks. It’s actually LOVELY in the summer, when the days are long and you can hang out and chat and be outside. But then dinner rolled around. My step mom had made a BEAUTIFUL dinner with all the trimmings and had food galore for Max who, in his very first statement to the group on exactly HOW he was related to mommy, proceeded to strip off his pants, stand in his pack-n-play, and sing to the group.

My son: celebrating the holy sabbath the way G-D intended, without pants.

The husband and I laughed, and I’m pretty sure my parents thought it was hilarious, but deep down inside thanked G-D that their friends weren’t there to spot the little kosher shmeckel that had made its debut.

The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful, except that I learned my stepmother has an ENTIRE table that can only ever have meat placed on it. Like, you can’t pour yourself a bowl of cereal and be all, “I’m just gonna have me a bowl of my cheerios right the fuck here…” NO ASSHOLE!! THAT’S MY GADDAMN MEAT TABLE YOU PIECE OF SHIT!!!

I don’t even know how you make a table a “meat table,” but if you have any theories, I saw we hash this out in the comments section. WORK THE PROBLEM, PEOPLE!!

In case you were worried, there was a dairy table too, so we survived just fine.

I’m kidding. My parents were awesome, as one must be when dealing with me, as I am under medicated a delight. Finally our day of departure came, and we said our goodbyes and gave lots of kisses, and packed my son onto the plane…. where he pooped himself as soon as the golfcarts of food came down the aisles, so I was stuck with him until a flight attendant took pity on me and told me to take him to first class.

Interesting story: they let you take a baby to first class, but they wont let him buy mommy a couple of drinks. Frigid jerks.

But, long story short, we’re home now. Which is good, because I couldn’t shlep my computer with me to blog, but I also felt awkward writing words like “motherfucker” on my dad’s computer.

….because that’s technically true…….

HEY, RODRIGUEZ!!

I stood outside the FAA building in DC, waiting for my friend to come out of the garage and pick me up on the corner.

“HEY! RODRIGUEZ!” a guy yells at me from across the street. I don’t know who Rodriguez is, and I’m not feeling particularly rape-y tonight, so I try to type a WordPress post on my phone.

“FUCK!” I mutter under my breath, but probably not, because I’m kinda wasted. “Fucking POST!”

“Can I help you?” it’s a security guard. Act cool, you guys.

Crap…. you’re not even here. You’re in my head.

“Uhhhh….. waiting. Friend…. car….. drinks… NO! *I* had the drinks! She’s driving me home! It’s, uhhh… her birthday.”

“You should probably wait over there, ma’am.”

“Mkay….. uhhh…. why?”

“Uhh…. because if she pulls out of the garage, then you’re standing on the DRIVER’S side of the car.”

“OH! YES! BRILLIANT! Thanks so much!” I cross to the other side, where the passenger will sit.

Mama’s a little shwasty tonight… so I probably won’t read many more blogs. I have left random, drunken comments for several people.

My husband was annoyed I came home so late. Whatver. It’s my first night out in a LONG time, and I love this friend SO much. We rolled down the windows and sang to 90′s music at the top of our lungs all the way home.

And so, my parting words to you tonight, my sweet friends who put up with me without payment, sex, or payment for sex, is this:

HEY! RODRIGUEZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

…I think that about says it all, don’t you?

STOP POSTING SO MUCH!!

DAMMIT, PEOPLE! I have, like, two hours, THREE AT MOST, in the evenings to get all my shit done. I have eleventy BILLION awesome blogs to read, and you all keep posting cool shit. Ugh. I don’t have time to read everything. I have (I’m not even joking) 14 tabs open on my Firefox to read all the cool stuff I see.

You people are exhausting. I’m going to shower, and going to bed. I CAN’T EVEN FINISH MY ICE CREAM! DO YOU SEE WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO ME?! I hope you’re happy with yourselves.

I’m Cheating…

If you’ve read my blog, you know I love ice cream. If you haven‘t read my blog, you totally should. This shit’s hilarious. Moving on…

I love ice cream. Also pizza, and sometimes chocolate almond milk, but now we’re getting a little personal, and I like to get to know you before we’re sharing cups of chocolate almond milk in our IKEA bedroom set. ANYway, last week was Passover, and so our poor kitchen is still recovering from the cleansing of wheat and delicious bread-y products. As such, Chocolate Brownie Ice Cream was purged from our home, because Jews and suffering and something else that means that I can’t enjoy my life. But now all of that is over and we’re out of Egypt or something, so I get my motherfucking ice cream again.

HUZZAH!!

Except, when Passover ended and the final matzah was eaten, in my doorway stood a box from Brooklyn. It had arrived early, and so neither my husband nor I had opened it. We knew what was inside. It sung to us in the night like a siren, begging us to open it up and inspect the contents…. which, I don’t think Sirens actually did. I don’t think they were all about the exploratory surgery, but pretend that metaphor made sense, because I’m a little tired right now and totally half assing this post.

When Passover ended, we celebrated the return of gluten to our lives, not with ice cream, as we had initially thought, but with this tasty business right here:

*This is not a picture of my table… but it totally could be.*

THAT’S RIGHT!! IT’S GIRL SCOUT COOKIE SEASON!!!

I used to be a girl scout, so these cookies hold a very special place in my heart. Also, interesting story, that shit makes you fat as hell. I learned that one year, when my dad decided that the “competition” to see who could sell the most boxes was really a personal attack on his honor, and as such had to be met with strategic planning and a balls-to-the-wall attitude. My dad bought a folding table, and set me up right outside of our subway stop one hour before rush hour in the mornings and in the evenings. Do you know how many people will buy cookies from a little girl, especially when they’re hungry as hell because they haven’t eaten breakfast? People make a lot of bad choices early in the morning, y’all. Not the least of which was buying from ME.

I don’t know how many boxes I sold. It was a SERIOUS number though.

But just like that one time you took a piece of strange home from the bar, and didn’t realize what you had done until morning, I ended up with a lot of people who never actually picked up their boxes. I guess they forgot that in the wee hours of the morning, two months ago, they had purchased four boxes of Thin Mints from some small Jewish child in green…. like a magical leprechaun of deliciousness.

Guess where that leaves a young girl with almost zero will power and a legit sweet tooth…

*I will fucking CAGE-MATCH fight you for that Tagalong, bitch!*

When I tell you that we had boxes lining the wall in my living room…. it was a sight. How I managed to NOT develop diabetes is still beyond me.

And so, it is with no small amount of nostalgia that I recall those halcyon days of refined sugar and peanut butter-topped awesome, via consuming the ever loving SHIT outta two boxes of tagalongs and a sleeve of thin mints. The saddest thing about Girl Scout Cookie Season, is that it doesn’t last long enough.

……………………I need to start ordering enough to get me through the summer!!

FUCK A BOX! I WANT A PILLOW FORT!!!

So, first I was sick, then Passover, which meant that I didn’t have a lot of time to blog. The world was a little sadder for it, no? (Hint: Yes.)

Anyway, while I was away, a brand new realm of fuckery emerged, and called itself the ridiculous debate over the Jew in a Box exhibit. During my lunch hour, my coworker and I went to our cafeteria, and I was subjected to a FULL HOUR of images being flashed at me from CNN debating exactly how offensive this exhibit is. You know how offensive?

Zero. Zero motherfucking offense should be taken by this shit.

Guess what my blog is? It’s a box. Guess what every Black student who goes to a predominantly White school is in: a box. When you are different, when you come from a subculture or just a different culture, and you expose yourself to the majority and allow them to poke and prod at you, you are in a motherfucking box; it’s only that the borders are harder to see.

For example: I am KEENLY aware that many people I will meet during my life down here in Maryland may never have met another Jew. So… if I’m a bitchy little cunt (well, if I act that way AWAY from my blog), then it’s possible that someone who has never met another Jew will think, “Wow. All Jews are bitchy!” So, yes. Fucking put someone in a box, have people ask questions, and have the Jew answer. Why not? We do the same thing with animals at the zoo, and people learn a SHIT ton. I’m not entirely sure what the fucking problem here is, OTHER than the fact that it’s a lame ass box. I mean, seriously, look at this nonsense:

*”Why do all Joos look like Uncle Fester, mommy?”*

Right. Your box offends me! I want something better! Something bolder! Don’t oppress me with your lame ass clear plastic shit! Just compare that with THIS:

YES. YES, DO THIS!!! The worst part about that exhibit is WHY ISN’T THE JEW IN A GIANT PILLOW FORT?! OMG! Don’t even lie and tell me that you wouldn’t COMPLETELY respect a group of people who were like, “You wanna learn about us? Cool. But you gotta crawl through the floppy tunnel, and hang a left at the orange bed sheet.” YES YOU WOULD!! It would be a JEW-FORT. A “Jort”? (Yup, Jort is a word now, people. Catch the fever.) 

Fuck this noise; I am writing to the Smithsonian here in DC and telling them to one-up Germany. EDUCATION!!!!!!!

Anyway, so that happened while I was gone. What’s going on with you? What did I miss?

It’s 6:45 AM

It’s 6:45AM and I’m blogging, because there’s only three things you should be doing this early on a saturday morning: blogging, sleeping, or making sweet, sweet lurve. My mom is awake in her bedroom, watching QVC. I’m in Brooklyn visiting for Passover/why not? So, in addition to being exhausted, I’m trying to blog with a QVC salesman screaming about “that deep, rich forest green” of some Russian stone ring, which, bee-tee-dubs, is a great companion to the pendant. TELL ME MORE! I WANT TO BE ON THE NEXT EPISODE OF HOARDERS!!

It’s been over a week since I blogged, in part because I’ve been super busy, but also because, honestly, I’ve had a lot to think about and I wasn’t sure how to write it out. At first I was like, “maybe I should just poll the audience!” because I have a question, and I want your input. But the flip side is, what if you say something that I don’t want to hear? What if the answer isn’t what I want? What I want to do is sit here, have you stroke my hair (not too much! it’s curly, and I don’t need the frizz!), and tell me it’ll all be ok. But…. that might not be true.

The hubs and I had a fight. Not a little squabble like all couples have, but if you’ve read this blog, you may know that we’ve had a couple of fights that have brought us very, very, dangerously close to divorce. We pull ourselves back every time so far, but there are some fights that we both get close to throwing in the towel; this was one of those weeks. Wait, keep reading (if you want) because I do still need advice…

We went back to therapy because we value our marriage and we feel it’s worth the work. We went in, and my husband finally admitted it: he resents me. He resents me because I suggested we buy our house four years ago, and we made some mistakes, and then I lost my job, and we went from having a savings to being in debt. So, he resents me. I “didn’t do [my] due diligence.” And yes, sometimes, he “punishes” me for it. Not physically, but he says things he knows can be hurtful… I don’t know how to describe it. But until he openly admitted it, I had wondered, I had suspected.

The thing is, if you pick apart a marriage, or any relationship, there are dozens, maybe hundreds of things that you can find to resent your partner over. But you have to work together, or on your own, to move past it, to forgive, because otherwise you lose the relationship. Are there things I can resent my guy over? Yeah… let’s not even start listing that.

And, by the fucking way, two things: 1) You can make mistakes in life, and still expect your partner to forgive/understand. I’m not talking about cheating, that’s a whole different sack of potatoes. But I’m sorry, you should be able to say, “Wow, if I had it to do all over again, maybe I would do it differently, but here’s where we are now…” and 2) What’s a different word to describe “punishing” your partner?….

…I’ve started to think another word for this is “abuse.” Does he call me names? Does he call me “stupid” or “ugly”? No, of course not. Does he hit me? No, he’s never put a hand on me, and I know he never would. But….. you can’t, in one breath, tell me I have anxiety and I should get it treated, but then in another breath tell me you resent me for “forcing” you to get a house (really? how fucking old are you that you were FORCED to do anything?!)?

So, here’s my question: is this abuse? Am I in an abusive relationship? And, if I am, do I stay after eight years and try to work this out with him in therapy, or do I put myself and my son first, and say that I don’t want this as an example for him? I’m inclined to draw a line in the sand, and say that if he doesn’t get his act together in another year, I’m cutting my losses. But could I do it? Could I walk away from the man I love because his baggage has started to drown us both?

 

And why the fuck isn’t there ice cream in my mom’s house?! THIS IS AN ICE CREAM MOMENT IF EVER THERE WAS ONE!! Fuck Passover…. I need a pizza……

POST SCROTUM

OMG YOU GUYS! I’M GONNA BE RICH!!! Yeah, I’ll remember all the little people… NOT!!! (Is yelling “not!” still a thing? I want that to be a thing.) Anyway, my ship finally came in, when I got the following letter:

Dear friend,

Forgive my indignation if this message comes to you as a surprise. I got your contact When i was searching for a foreign reliable partner

I am (Toure Ibrahim) the Head of file Department in African development bank (A.D.B). In my department we discovered an abandoned sum of $15 million U.S.A dollars. In an account that belongs to one of our foreign customer who died along with all his family in the Asia Earth Quake Disaster (TSUNAMI DISASTER INDONESIA / INDIA.
Since we got information about his death, unfortunately i learn that all his supposed next of kin or relation died along side leaving nobody behind for the claim. In respect to the provision of a foreign account ($6 million dollars) for you and ($9 million dollars) for me. There after i will visit your country for disbursement according to the percentages indicated.
(FILL THIS FORM BELLOW PLEASE AND RESEND IT TO ME).
1) Your Full Name
2) Your Age
3) Marital Status
4) Your Cell Phone Number
5) Your Fax Number
6) Your Country
7) Your Occupation
8) Sex
9) Your Religion

POST SCROTUM: You have to keep everything secret as to enable the transfer to move very smoothly in to the account you will prove to the bank. I am waiting for your immediate response as you receive this mail. Extend my sincere greetings to your entire family. God bless you and bye for now.
Yours faithfully,

Toure Ibrahim.

Well, Mr. Ibrahim, you will be HAPPY to know that I fully intend to answer this note (also, your indignation has been excused, in case that was a lingering concern). I would very much like to be the recipient of this vast fortune, and as such, I will endeavor to work with you.

……however, what you do with your scrotum needs to be on your own time. I don’t want to hear about that nasty shit.  

 

 

 

Hannah Has a Haiku

So many other people on here write poetry. Here’s my try tonight. Hope you enjoy:

 

The ice cream, looking

Questionable, but fuck it

Ate it anyway.

 

I’m a national treasure, people.

*”Hannah, I think there was something wrong with that ice cream.” “DAMMIT, STFU! I’M FUCKING EMOTING over here!!!”*