Sunny Days in DC

Jack of All Trades, Master of 3-ish.

Get in the kitchen and make me a sammich!… please?

OMG I’m totally hungry right now!!

As a part of our ongoing attempt to cleave to socially approved gender roles, my husband is cooking dinner. He does all the cooking because OMFG HE IS A GOOD COOK!

I was raised in Brooklyn. My mom makes the BEST reservations you’ve ever had. But cooking? Not so much. Her idea of a Friday night dinner was a heated can of refried beans, with a cut up hotdog mixed in. Was that standard fare? Was I the only one who ate that? Honestly, though…. that shit was kinda good…

Also, one time, I burned water. Exactly. Mull that over for a bit.

I do the household repairs. My dad is a handyman. When I was 8 months pregnant, we went to the local botanical gardens. When I used the bathroom, I realized they had a toilet that was running and wasting water. I fixed it. My dad said he’d never been more proud. It wasn’t that he wanted a BOY, he just wanted a girl who could take care of herself. Hence: Me. Kinda. I still hate spiders. Nothing needs that many legs!!!


*Fuck you. DIE!*

Frankly, I’m completely ok with the husbinator doing all the cooking. He enjoys it, and it appeals to his obsessive side of having things “just-so.” That’s why I do the cleaning; it appeals to *my* obsessive side of completely-not-giving-a-shit-so-long-as-we’re-not-on-America’s-messiest-homes-show. We all have our fortes.

I find it funny when I tell people that my husband does the cooking, and they give us a strange look. Why should I stop him? He enjoys it, I hate it, and I’m more than happy to reap the rewards of his culinary experiments. Plus, it’s 2012, almost 2013 (unless the Aztecs do us in), so why stick to the old-guard?

I birthed the child. That’s as far as I go with the whole “Susie Homemaker” routine. The rest is up to my guy.


*Like this, but with a penis.*


I Didn’t Get The Job…

I wanted to post something funny tonight, but I’m just not in the mood. After searching for almost a year, I’m still having trouble finding a job. My son is now 6 months old, so I can’t really blame him anymore…

I was aiming for a great position recently. I mean, awful location, terrible commute, reasonable pay, and probably some pretty cool coworkers, but the recruiter called today to let me know that while they liked me very much, they liked someone else just a *little bit* more.

I’ve tried explaining to my friends why this is so upsetting for me. That, having a child, I feel like the stakes are that much higher. When you have to scrimp and save to buy a cold weather hat… you die a little inside knowing that you are barely making ends meet, and sometimes, they don’t.

I don’t mean to be a downer, and I’ll probably return to my regularly scheduled self tomorrow. But for tonight, I didn’t get the job. I’m dodging calls from creditors. I’m going to have to work something out with the mortgage company.

Because I didn’t get the job.

Welcome to my pity party. We’re serving chocolate cake.


*Someone put a fucking candle in my muffin. And that’s not even a euphimism for something good.*


These are my Whore-Pants

You know what’s nice about being a part of a sub-culture? You can kinda walk between the dominant culture, and still make fun of your own culture.

That’s the experience I had this past weekend when my husband and I took Max to visit my dad and step-mom. They’re orthodox Jews. From Brooklyn. That’s like, Heart of Darkness shit right there.

Now, as many know, moms actually use our kids as ice breakers (whatever! Don’t judge me! I’m socially awkward!), by basically taking our mute children up to each other and having pretend conversations.

“Awww, and what’s YOUR name? I’m Max, and I’m five months oooooold….”

“Hi! I’m Bobby-Jim, and I’m three months ooooooooold…”

Then someone throws up. D’awww.

But when we met my dad and step-mom for lunch in a kosher restaurant, I was treated to a reminder that I may be Jewish, but not as Jewish as…

There sat a woman, her (shot in the dark, here) husband, and three boys. The youngest looked to be about Max’s age, so I went over to do the customary “allow me to waggle my child in your child’s face.”

“D’awww! How old is your boy?” I asked, pretending to be interested, but let’s be fair, most kids kinda piss me off except for my own and a select few others.

“Eight months,” she said, without making eye contact.

“Oh. Uhhh. Cute! And what’s his name?”


“Um….. ok. Well, HI Yitz! This is Max!”


“Uhhh…. right.” And I walked away.

“What did you expect?” my husband asked. “She’s religious! She could be chastised for even associating with you.”

“But we’re both BREEDERS! We both have bebes! We should bond over that. FEEL THE LOVE!!!! I’M EVERY WOMAN!! DRINK COKE!!!”

“She didn’t like you because of your whore-pants,” my friend added, later.


“You were wearing pants, right? That’s enough for them!”

So there you have it. My whore-y pants came between me, and a possible friendship that will never get the chance to blossom. Max and Yitz will never play together because… I don’t know. Something about G-D and long skirts.


*Not pictured: all the whoring this woman does on her off-time*

Shit like that makes me want to ask her what her favorite brand of nipple clamps is. You know, just to break the ice.


Guess what? I’m still a 5 year old girl.

There are three floors to my house: the top floor, where the bedrooms are, the main floor, which has our living room and kitchen, and then there’s the basement. Since my birthday was on Tuesday, I am now, technically speaking, a 33 year old woman. And guess what? When it comes to going down into my basement when I am alone in the house: HELL NO.


*Fuck every last second of this.*

Is there seriously someone out there who is not at all creeped out by a basement at night? There must be SOMEONE. I feel like, at some point, we were all supposed to get together in class, and our teachers would have said, “Ok kids, I know you’ve been scared, but all those terrifying stories you’ve read? All made up. You’re cool to head down into the basement alone in the dark, because there is NOTHING down there.”

If that happened, I was sick that day.

I still run up the wood stairs in my house in Brooklyn, which creek just one second after you, so it sounds like someone is climbing the stairs right behind you.

I have a clear shower curtain at home, too. Not for anything kinky or fun (I know, tragic!), but because THAT SERIAL KILLER WHO KILLS YOU IN THE SHOWER IS NOT GETTING THE DROP ON ME (thanks Psycho & Stephen King for ruining any relaxing bathing experience, ever).

Honestly. That’s seriously why I have that.

Thankfully, I can admit to all of this on the interwebs, because none of you know me…

…but don’t tell anyone anyway… k?

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Love means never having to say, “Don’t put that in your mouth.”

My mother recently asked me how I’m “finding” motherhood. When people ask me open-ended questions like that, I have a hard time determining what sort of answer they hope to get from me. “It’s…err…. well, there’s poop…” I tried.


*Pictured above: someone pooping.*

“No, I mean, do you think it’s hard?”

“Do I….? Is there someone out there who sails through this?”

I realize there are women out there who just ADORE being moms, and have arts & crafts ready for every age and stage of development… but my mom was more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants-and-use-a-lot-of-hyphens kind of gal. I don’t see myself being all that different.

For example, it wasn’t until I went to college that I realized some people have homes where each room has a color or theme. Do you know what my mom’s theme to her house would have been? “LOOK! COLORS!” She has art and antiques and a whole host of things that nobody has any business raising a child around… and yet, I don’t think I ever broke anything as a small child.

This past weekend, the hubs and I brought Max up to my mom’s house. While he was playing in her living room, I saw him reach for something… that would be a furniture staple that could, oh I don’t know, KILL MY CHILD.

I might be exaggerating. I can’t be sure. But legit, nothing good could possibly come from your child swallowing a staple. A super-powered spider, maybe, but even then you really just want to be BITTEN by one, not swallow it. Also, a super spider baby seems like he would be really tough to discipline; he’s just be shooting webs all over the damn house and swinging away from you while you’re trying to feed him boiled peas or something… I don’t know. My train of thought may have derailed and hit a small village there, but you get my point.

So, as I sit here in the chaos that is my living room, with papers strewn across my floor and a lazy cat peering up at me, I have to wonder, am I a bad mom for not keeping a neater house with color schemes, and for turning the tv on during the day, and for drinking hot chocolate while breast feeding? I mean, there are kids in India right now who are playing on giant piles of garbage, but some days you kinda feel like a failure for not ensuring that his onesie and socks are coordinated.

Or maybe I’m just tired. I could just be tired.


Yay Feminism! I Eat Barbies….

A friend of mine turned me on to Jezebel. Every mom I know has their trick for staying up all night with a screaming baby. Mine used to be Cracked, and it still is, but there’s only so many dick jokes you can read (I know, I was surprised, too) before you think to yourself, “I wonder how kids in London would go about setting up BDSM dens and selling African slaves?” Am I right? Yeah, I totally am…

So, on to Jezebel I went.

And it’s a great mix of actual news, with some snark feminist-y wit. I really enjoy it! Except for the parts that seem like they connect with everyone else in the room, except for me.

Do you ever get that feeling? You know, where everyone else in a crowded room seems to understand the context of some speech, or maybe you missed a class in college one day and the next time you came in, everyone else seemed to know what was going on and you had absolutely no idea what your professor was talking about? I feel that way about body politics.

I SO want to be like, “Yeah! My body is beautiful! Magazine covers can’t make me feel like crap!!” But the fact is… they really don’t. Growing up, I never actually looked at these women on the covers of magazines and thought, “my body should look that way,” or, “if only I was skinny like that, my problems would be solved!” It’s not that I KNEW they were airbrushed, because 15 years ago, I don’t know if anyone outside of that industry even knew the term “airbrush.” It was more like…. I mean… who walks into a museum, sees a Picasso, and thinks, “Gosh, if only I had two eyes on one side of my head, and my nose was under my chin… I would TOTALLY have my shit together!!!”

Fucking no one. That’s insane. It’s a drawing, and not real.

And I think that’s how I always felt about these magazine covers. They have so much makeup on, you could press a dip stick against their cheeks, and see if they need their oil changed. It’s not real.

Which is what confused me about Barbies. I’m completely fascinated (and in a strangely NON-judgmental way) that some little girls out there looked at a Barbie doll and thought, “hard plastic tits, and sharp, pointy hands that you can use to pick your dog’s nose… WHY NOT ME, G-D?!?!?!” I mean, I also had a Rainbow Brite doll, but nobody really walks around in multicolored clothing like that, fighting crime, right?


<<Holy shit, you guys!!!>>

I also used to chew on the rubbery legs of my Barbies. In retrospect, I begin to see signs of concern…


Santa’s not an antisemite… probably…

When I was little, I was raised in an entirely Jewish neighborhood. So much so, that I spent several weeks as a small child looking for the large stone houses with other letters on top of them, before my mom explained to me that, no, the people with the lower case letter “t” on their buildings were called “Christians,” and that was a “cross.”

It was all very confusing.

Anyway, as a part of this education, it was explained to me that Christian kids got gifts on Christmas, because an obese geriatric man would enter their homes, and LEAVE gifts. In Brooklyn, we had gates and alarms to prevent people from breaking in, but they weren’t generally there to leave things for you.

I was excited! TOYS!!! I would be getting TOYS!! HELLS YEAH!!!!!!

In retrospect, I think my mother’s second mistake was explaining this entire situation to me in a public place. Her first might have been actually taking me to a public place. Because now she had to explain to me that *I* didn’t get toys, no Jewish kid did. Santa only brought toys to Christian children. 

From all accounts, I flew into a five year old fury, and started shouting that Santa was an anti-Semite. In the middle of Toys R Us. Because that how we rolled back in the 80’s. 

Yeah, thug life. 

My mom had to think fast and quiet down her child who was now calling attention to the fact that: A) Why does your 5 year old know words like “anti-Semite”? and 

B) Most people were big fans of Santa, and you just can’t make a scene like that in Toys R Us, or…. I don’t know… his elves get mad? I’m not sure. I’m pretty sure nothing good can come from a scene like that, though. 

To my mom’s everlasting credit, she thought fast and explained that, no, Santa was unionized with Rabbi Eleazar, and they just split up the gift-giving. Santa handled Christian kids, and R. Eleazar managed all the good little yiddishe kinder. I imagine this appeased me, because for the next five years, Rabbi Eleazar brought presents for me each night of hannukkah.

And now, as a new mom, I’m faced with this same challenge. Eventually, Max will ask why all his little Christian friends will be getting toys, and why Santa doesn’t visit our house. I’m sorely tempted to let out a muffled “Jew-hater” under my breath at the mall every time a Santa passes by, but I’m pretty sure that when you’re the only one who gets a joke, it’s not quite as funny.

Also, I’d prefer not to get smacked down by angry fat men in sweaty red suits. Gross.


Guilty pleasures


I’m torn on a lot of things: to bra, or not to bra? Sweat pants or jeans? Peanut butter & chocolate, or chocolate & peanut butter? These are the essential questions that plague philosophy majors long after they’ve given up hope of doing… whatever the hell philosophy majors think they’re going to do with their degrees, and actually end up in HR. But the one question that plagues me the most?

My fantasies.

I was raised with ZERO guilt around sex and sexuality. Not that I was raised to believe that sex with strangers and outside of a committed relationship was a GOOD thing, but that sex in and of itself was no different than eating. Eating is fine. Eating is HEALTHY. But you don’t constantly eat (unless you have that brain disorder that I saw on CSI, where the dude TOTALLY ate himself to death. That was sad). Instead, you figure out when it’s appropriate, and where, and even then, sometimes you indulge.

But sometimes, your eye inadvertently wanders to the triple layer chocolate cake with dark chocolate covered cherries and strawberries, and you wonder if it really IS possible to have “Death by Chocolate” inscribed on your headstone. That chocolate deliciousness, for me, is one Mister Alexander Skarsgard.

Now, here’s my conundrum. Let’s say that one day, you could suddenly read the minds of every person you met, and you knew all the dirty thoughts they had about you, and everyone else they met. I feel like, to some degree, that’s how it must be if you’re a “sex symbol.” You must know there are millions of men and woman who think dirty things about you each night before they go to bed, while they’re in bed, while they’re in the shower, on their way to work, while they’re picking out cucumbers (let’s be honest), and just in the general course of their every day.

I mean, on the one hand, flattering!! People are lusting after YOU. They dream about YOU. But on the other hand, to KNOW that people are taking images of you in their heads and making you do certain things… and like weird shit too, if we’re judging just by MY friends, and what they like.

So I feel a little guilty about thinking dirty thoughts and making Mr. Skarsgard, you know… enjoy my company. I mean, fair enough, I’m fucking DELIGHTFUL, but morally is it right to MAKE someone do dirty/fun/illegal-in-twenty-states things to you without their consent?


….I really need to stop blogging on NyQuil.


A Very Merry Unbirthday…

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Poverty Makes Me Morally Superior to You


Ahh, the holiday season. A time when most people are engaging in the kind of bad decision making that’s generally reserved for late nights at bars, and post beer-pong flirting in frat houses… but now they’re using their credit cards! If I were in the same position I was in last year, I would probably be pouring over all the sales at Target, searching for just the right developmentally appropriate toys for my new son. I’d weigh the use of plastic versus traditional wood toys, and discuss which were more environmentally friendly, and what message *does* bringing home a squeaky stuffed dolphin made in China send to our son? However, it’s not last year, and I’m broke as hell.

Being unemployed doesn’t come with a lot of perks. There’s… ummm….

So, at the very least this year, be prepared for my scorn, oh mighty wheel of consumerism, that we call America! Yeah! Take THAT! Scornage! Comin atcha!

What’s nice about being completely, flat on your ass broke, is that my purchasing options are limited. I saved up some cash, and got my son the Ring Stacker, which will just have to do him until I can save up for something else. Thankfully, with a five month old, you just pretty much look excited every time he reaches for a toy, and he gets excited, too. Parenting: So far, I’m winning.

So now, when someone asks me what my son will be getting for Christmas or Hannukkah, I can smugly say, “Oh, we only bought him ONE toy. We’re not into all that buy-for-the-sake-of-buying crap!” and I can look all smug, or sound all smug, or smugly wipe the ever-present baby vomit off of me.

Because if I’m going to be poor as hell, I might as well get some perks.

Happy holidays… if you’re into that kind of thing.


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