Sunny Days in DC

Jack of All Trades, Master of 3-ish.

I don’t speak their language, and also I am now eating cheese. Lots of cheese.

I’ve moved to Ireland, which is a nice way of saying, “HOLY CRAP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” We were here about a week before we found an apartment (YAY!), and I was in the apartment about two weeks before I forced every mother, nanny, and random homeless woman on the playground to be my friend and show me where all the cool babies hang out. That’s right: when charm doesn’t work, I simply force you to be nice to me with my American/Jedi mind trick of offering cookies. Anyway, it worked, and Max and I hit up the local church (there’s GOBS of churches around here, you guys!) to get some quality toddler time in. Then Max pooped himself, we all sang songs (not about the poop, that would be weird), and Max passed out in a wee little toddler stupor on our way home. Mommy-win. HUZZAH! I am a stay at home mom who is no longer forced to actually STAY AT HOME.

But that’s not why you read this blog. You read it to hear the stories of the time I accidentally-on purpose flashed our tour-guide my nipples, and yelled at a half naked man on the street, and I’m not even sure why I yelled at him, because I can’t be entirely positive he was saying anything mean to me. So, let’s get into that, shall we?

After the aforementioned orgy of toddlers and toys and Barney (oh my!), Max took his afternoon nap. We had a lovely lunch of noodles and sardines (don’t judge me), and I was all, “F THIS! It’s a nice day out! We’re going to the park, kid!” and he was all, “Fuck yeah, mommy!!!” “kitty.” So I strapped him into the stroller/buggy/pram, and off we went to the park in what I can legit call some SERIOUS heat. I thought Ireland was supposed to have MILD weather! Whatever. As I turned a corner, there was this sunbathing beauty on his front lawn. And by that, I mean the man was easily in his 70’s with nipples the size of silver dollars. Since it was eleventy-billion degrees and I had burst into flames no fewer than four times since leaving the house, I had taken off my SWEATER that I had put on that morning when it was cold enough to see my breath. I was wearing a dress, so I’m not sure what the deal is, but I assume the sight of my pale flesh offended the man, although to be honest I have no idea what he yelled at me because I speak a language called ENGLISH and he yelled something at me that I can only assume was a dialect of fucking KLINGON.

“OH YEAH?!” I yelled back, because I’m a New Yorker so I do that, “Well why don’t you go slap a bra on those man-boobs?!”

Let’s all take a moment to wonder why the Diplomatic Corps refused my application, shall we?

Moving on, I located a cheese monger in Dublin. Yes, I WILL allow you a moment to giggle at the 21st century use of the word MONGER. I also have a FISH MONGER near me. I giggle constantly at that. Anyway, I went to my cheese monger and asked for Irish goat or sheep cheese.

Fact 1: Did you know Irish cheese is DELICIOUS?! Because: yes. So, SO much yes.

Fact 2: Did you know I have zero will power and the only reason I am not currently FINISHING off all the cheese I bought two days ago is because I need both hands to type? I am going to be ten thousand pounds when I leave this country. My husband and son will be able to ride me as a floatation device. If we sail home, I’ll have to worry about orcas trying to mate with me.

Also, I have to line-dry all my clothes like I’m in a Charles Dickens novel. DAMN YOU, EUROPE! YOU TAKE ALL THE GOOD CHOCOLATE, BUT YOU HAVE SHITTY LAUNDRY SERVICES!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY???

P.S. my posts will most likely, almost certainly, just maybe get better. Although they may not. No promises. Read at your own peril. I’m going to eat some cheese.



It’s been exactly 8 weeks. I know that, because pretty much every day I’ve said to myself, “I should blog. It would make me feel better.” but I don’t, because there was too much going on and I didn’t know how to put it all into words. 

First, let’s start with how this blog is going to have to be re-branded. For those of you who either know DC, love DC, live in DC, or are just fairly certain that those are letter which appear in the English alphabet (YAY EDUMACASHUN!), I can, after almost 8 years of living here, no longer call it “Sunny Days in DC”………….

………………………………because we’re moving to Ireland. 


So kids, let’s put our feet up and talk through our emotions, shall we? Excited? Check. Nervous? Check. Completely fucking terrified because from the time they made the job offer to my husband until the day we leave is about four months? HUGE. FUCKING. CHECK. 

It’s not that I don’t want to move to Dublin…


*This is what my son will look like in six months*

…it’s that we have next to NO time to plan all of this. So, take an international move with a now-1-year-old, no current job in my new country, a refinance with my less-than-stellar credit after this last year of unemployment, and two cats that have to go through the process of getting (and I am completely NOT shitting you here) “kitty passports,” and you essentially have the recipe for a nervous break down a la Hannah. Naturally, I am coping the only way I know how: I ate enough chocolate and sugar over this past weekend to make me sick. Then I went through a bout of self-loathing (like you do), and now I am recommitting to writing. Sort of. Cuz I’m gonna go to bed after this. 

Also, I photoshop pictures of my son. 

So. I’m moving to Dublin, Ireland. What have you been doing with the last 8 weeks? 


I Will Devour Your Soul…. and make you clean it out of my diaper.

Max is teething. Hmmm… how do I explain what this is like to people who may not have children. Well, a baby, delightful, full of joy, is supposed to look like this:


My Max looks more like this:


*I will haunt your motherfucking DREAMS*

We, geniuses that my husband and I are, figured this out yesterday after Max spent an entire day screaming, sleeping, and then his fever spiked to 102. He wouldn’t eat, and as much as he wanted to play, all he could manage to do was nurse in between fitful bouts of sleeping in my arms.

It was really sad. My poor angel!

…and then, nighttime came.

On Thursday mornings, I have an 8:30am meeting, because the US government fucking HATES it when I sleep. So, naturally, last night Max was up until 3:30am SCREAMING. My husband tried to be the loving father and helpful husband, and took Max downstairs to soothe him, while I tried to get some rest.

I’ll give you a minute to ponder exactly how well that went.

And the WORST part is that you can’t even BITCH about it (that’s right… this isn’t even CLOSE to me in full-on bitch-mode!), because he’s SUFFERING…

Let me tell you a little something about suffering, ok? Sleep deprivation is a form of TORTURE; teething is NOT. Mama’s not cute when she’s a hot mess, all tired and can’t even fucking BLOG properly. And what kind of fucking evolution comes up with the idea of, “oh! I know! JUST as the baby starts sleeping through the night, JAGGED PIECES OF BONE WILL COME *BURSTING* THROUGH HIS GUMS! Yeah…. I’m so awesome right now…”

I hate you, evolution. Go fuck yourself.

So, he’s asleep now. I want to do some writing, I want to read other peoples’ blogs, and I want to eat the entire box of oreos my husband brought home as our “emergency supplies” prior to the Snow-Storm-We-Didn’t-Get.

………………………and in the middle of my meeting, I realized my sweater was on backwards.

Whatever. At least I had my pants on. 


I Do Our Budget While Eating Ice Cream and Heating Up Pizza

I realized tonight as I stood in the kitchen, eating ice cream and waiting for our “organic microwave” pizza to heat up, that I am a pretty disgusting person. Who does this? ON A NUMBER OF LEVELS, WHO DOES THIS? Let’s break it down together.

1) I am eating ice cream. While waiting for my pizza to heat up.

2) I don’t do drugs, so this is how I take the edge off of doing our family budget. WTF?!

3) I should just fucking do drugs and be skinny.

I had a tough day at work… but it’s ok. The further I get from being unemployed, the more I realize what a bad head space it put me in. I don’t know if I’ll ever fully grasp just how much it messed with me, but as I find my groove in the new role, and yes even when I flounder, I look back at my life over the past year and realize how hard it was. 2012 was not my year.

The only good thing about it, was that my son was born…

…he makes it all worth it.



I was in the middle of writing a really nice post about my vagina, but you’re all going to have to wait on that, because OMFG!!!!!!!!

I went onto FaceBook, because I can’t do that at work, so I’m a little obsessed when I get home. So, here’s me, la dee dah, all checking out my feed and shit, when I see this girl I went to college with.

Oh. Hello person who used to obsess over older, married men. Well, I’m glad you’re married and happy now… and oh look! You just had a baby! *Genuine happiness for you, even though you feel the need to post to my feed EVERY TIME YOUR BABY POOPS OR SNEEZES!* Hey man, congrats! I know the first few months are SUPER tough but I’m here for you. We can talk about the time I ran away in a restaurant and cried in the bathroom, or…

FB UPDATE:”I am SO in love with my baby! She’s just the BEST!”…


Fuck. Just…. just FUCK. Look, I get that each person experiences parenthood, and life in general, from their own perspective. And maybe your baby is sleeping through the night already (doubtful), or maybe she just loves to laugh (still too young)… but we need to have a fucking conversation. And by “conversation,” I mean I’m going to tell you what to do, and you’re going to do it, or I will reach through my computer and slap the silly shit out of you.

Let’s get started, shall we?

1. Seriously. Stop putting your daughter in I get it. There’s a lot of societal pressure to “girlie” girl shit up. Pink and purple EVERYWHERE. But your three week old CAN wear something other than a pink tutu, and those pink garter/cancer-patient headbands they put on girl babies without hair. Stop it. Just… stop it. Put her in a fucking onesie.

2. Stop pretending your life is full of unicorns farting rainbows. Do you know what my FB status updates looked like when I had Max? 9 out of 10 were along the lines of “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK…. SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP…” with an occassional, “Oh wow! He just learned how to roll over! That’s kinda cool…” thrown in.

3. Why is your profile photo of you during your C-Section? I…. I can’t. WHO IS TAKING A PHOTO OF YOU WHILE YOU’RE STRAPPED DOWN, AND BEING SLICED & DICED?! Guess what? I had a C, too. I STILL don’t want to see that. Did you have a photographer in there? You will never know how many precious minutes I spent pondering WHO FUCKING TAKES PHOTOS DURING MAJOR ABDOMINAL SURGERY?!?!?!

Is that a “thing”? Now I feel badly that I didn’t have an album put together for that time I had my appendix out. #MissedOpportunities #NextYearsChristmasCards

4. You have a fluffy white cat? Of COURSE you do…

5. Stop taking pictures of your baby on/near/staring at/drooling on your fluffy white cat. While you’re at it… why is that cat always on a fluffy white pillow?

…is that cat even REAL?



…..fuck it. I need a drink.


And then I screamed “HUZZAH!” and jumped off a cliff.

Babies are wonderful, joyous, tiny little assholes. And if you ever say that in public, people are like, “Oh, you’re a TERRIBLE mother! How can you say that?! Babies are our reason for BEING!” and then they walk away, and you have to take the tiny, screaming, poop-covered jerk to a bathroom where you wrestle with them to strip them naked, clean them, change them, and hope they don’t reward you by peeing on your clothes, or projectile pooping across the room. Cuz guess what? That’s totally a thing.

The nice part is, though, sometimes you get another parent in the room, and you’re like, “OMFG MY BABY IS BEING A TINY DONKEY DICK!” and they’re all, “I KNOW! I’m thinking of selling mine to passing Gypsies. Your thoughts?” And you bond over visions of running away to some warm, tropical island, and letting your child run naked across a beach, because that’s natural. And nature doesn’t wear diapers. Or poop itself.

No, I DON’T care if that’s wrong. Leave me to my beautiful world…

Anyway, that’s what I did this weekend… not poop myself. The Husband’s family was in from New York, and of his three female cousins, one has a baby Max’s age, one is pregnant, and one just got married. It was all very “Circle of Life.”

The One With The Baby, her husband, and I sat around and discussed the fact that I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in 9 months. If you’re not sure what that feels like, try backing up about ten feet, then run repeatedly into a parked car for about 15 minutes while listening to the dulcet tones of cats in heat.

It’s like that.

Oh, and everyone says, “Wow. You look like shit.”

Thank you. I’m raising a tiny human who burst forth from my womb, but I DID forget my mascara today, so you should TOTALLY FEEL FREE TO JUMP UP MY BUTT ABOUT THAT.

Anyway, She Who Has El Bebe and I were discussing sleep.

“We’re going to Ferberize him.” she said.

me: “That’s… kinky?”

Her: “It’s like a progressive Cry it Out thing. How old is Max? Six months? He should be sleeping for twelve hours straight…”

At this point, I lost all control of my brain and may have blacked out. I knew she kept talking, but a part of me went into shock at the thought of twelve hours straight. Of sleep. That I wasn’t getting…

…because every two hours, Max likes to wake me up.

“Are you… don’t… DON’T LIE TO ME!!! TWELVE HOURS?!?!” I may have gotten a little scary at this point, and I may or may not have run across the room, and pinned her to the wall like some kind of scene out Kill Bill.

Here’s the kicker though. At six months, babies learn that they can manipulate you with their cries. Why? I have a theory that at some point, all babies get together and agree that FUCK SLEEP. FUCK EVERY THING ABOUT SLEEP. AND FUCK YOU FOR WANTING SLEEP. So they’re going to fight you. And the only thing you can do is ignore them.

But not too much, because then that’s neglect (so Law & Order tells me). And not too little, because then you’re a “helicopter” parent, which sounds awesome because think of all the time and money you’d save on your commute if you were part helicopter.


*And think of how much time you could spend popping all the bubbles on this kid! I mean, jesus, you could just punch him for FUN! Not that I would… cause that’s… bad?*

So, we’re Crying it Out. Kinda. I’m sitting here typing while I hear Max complain upstairs. If he really starts losing it, I’ll go up and snuggle him, and hate myself for it in the morning. But for now, I need to get on this “sleep” thing I hear so much about.

Because right now, I’m so tired, that I my kidneys feel like I have tiny cats dancing in them, and I need to commit to some kind of plan of action to get a good night’s rest. So, huzzah! Here we go merrily jumping off the cliff of SLEEP TRAINING!


Thou Art G-D.

Twenty points if you know the reference.

I’m feeling beat down and exhausted. Not necessarily in a bad way, just in that, “I could really use a week long vacation” sort of way. Some place warm. With sun. And umbrellas because I’m fucking pasty as hell and burst into flames in direct sunlight. True story.

Anyway, the hubs and I are at something of an impasse. For the past two years,we’ve had these friends who have been sliding down what I consider to be the very slippery slope of religion.

This won’t be a long post because, again, I’m completely done in, but suffice it to say that while I consider myself a relatively “religious” person (I… you know…. no, ok, maybe not), I don’t trust other “religious” people.That’s a terrible thing to say… but I’m ok with it.

These friends have begun putting more and more pressure on us to join them, and their merry cult of faithful. I have zero interest. I don’t mind Friday night dinners, and I don’t mind celebrating holidays, but when you start telling me that G-D has a vested interest in whether or not I wear a skirt, you’ve lost me.

Until now, however, the hubs and I have had a detente of sorts, where I just don’t attend the more religious services, and he goes, but just hangs out with our friends.

Enter: The Peanut.

However, now with our son, I’d like to go to services as a family. That presents a problem, because as our friends continue their descent into the abyss of graceless obedience, I’m left standing on the edge, and feeling like a party pooper.



Why can’t I be ok with going to a “Women’s Section” of the synagogue, while my husband hangs out with the men? Why can’t I just wear skirts, cover my hair, keep a kosher home, and obsess over not using electrical appliances after sundown on Friday night? I think, in so many ways, my life would be easier if I could stop fighting against the river of Faithful that surrounds me, and float along, buoyed by apathy and compliance.

But then, that isn’t me. I don’t like being sidelined. And as much as my husband thinks he likes these people, let any one of them have a gay child, and we can all sit back and watch just how “welcoming” the community is then. Or a transgendered child. Or even just a kid who’s different.

And I LIKE being different. I like wearing pants, and I like cursing, and I’m going to tell my son that masturbation and sex are ok, and hanging out with non-Jews is not only perfectly ok, but he SHOULD. Because the world isn’t made up entirely of our community, and there’s a richness to different perspectives.

And it’s sad to me that some people neglect to throw themselves into the world and experience it from as many angles as possible, choosing instead to withdraw into a community of exclusively like-minded folk.

At the end of the day, and in all honesty, I believe each person really has a responsibility to themselves to learn, and do, and see as much as possible. You can’t grow every aspect of yourself if you shut down everything that doesn’t fit in with a group. And how sad is that? To not live up to your potential as a human being. To not do everything you can, when the possibility is there?

Wow. I’m pretty fucking tired.

Forget I said all that.


And That’s How My Nipples Stopped the Mayan Apocalypse.

A couple of months ago, I went up to NYC to visit my mom. Naturally, I brought my son, as Child Protective Services seems to look down on placing your children in crates, like some folks do with dogs.

Fucking nanny state!

Anyway, while on a walk around Prospect Park with my mom, my son decided he was hungry, and now was a good time to eat. Whatever. After you’ve perched in a backless gown on the end of a bed as an anesthesiologist shoots a needle into your spine and tells you the latest jokes he heard from his eight-year-old, while your body is wracked with the wondrous joys of burgeoning motherhood, you really don’t give a shit if someone sees your boob.

Let me clarify: I am completely discrete. You don’t need to see my nipples, and I don’t necessarily WANT you to see my nipples. That being said, my mother’s reaction was a little frustrating.

“OH MY G-D!!!” she shouted, and threw her body in front of me like she was blocking a pass during a game of English Premier League soccer.

“HOLY SHIT, WHAT?!?!” I got all pissed. CLEARLY, she was blocking my view of something awesome/terrifying that was happening just out of my line of sight.

“You’re EXPOSING yourself! Oh… I hope we don’t get arrested!”

“Don’t get…. what?!” I looked at her in surprise. This is the woman who chained herself to the White House gate. This is the woman who went down to Alabama to support integration in schools… and this… this was just… my boob.

“But… mom… it’s just a boob. Look. Look at my boob, mom. LOOK AT MY BOOB!”

Ok, admittedly, this is where things took a turn for the weird. When you’ve been out of work as long as I have, and you enjoy making people as uncomfortable as I do, you sorta just gotta make your own entertainment in life…



*Like this, but with more…. no, exactly like this.*

As many people know, not much makes New Yorkers stop and take notice anymore. Most of us are able to glance at a situation, quickly assess what’s going on, and continue with our lives. But when you have a young woman, sitting on a park bench nursing a baby, shouting,


I feel like some people are just going to stop and look. And let’s be fair, I sustain a person ENTIRELY off of muh boobs. Respect, yo.

But in all seriousness, is that really the worst thing I could be doing in public? I mean, you can’t SEE anything. I’m subtle, because I recognize that not everyone wants to see my lovely lady lumps, and that’s cool. I respect that, and I would hope that other people respect that I need to feed my baby. We’ll all agree to look the other way, and pretend nothing is happening, and everyone can have a delightful day in the park.

But if you’re going to make a big deal out of the fact that I have just whipped out my fully operational glamor guns, then I’m going to have to publicly humiliate you by launching into a dissertation as to how my nipples are not only fantastic at sustaining small humans, but also have the potential of averting global catastrophes.


*Not if MY boobs have anything to say about it, asshole.*


…in which I fall in love with Wil Wheaton, and my vagina turns into the Sahara.

Two things of note happened to me this week:

1) I discovered Wil Wheaton’s tumblr page. I won’t say he’s “king” of the nerds, but he’s probably a pretty-high-up-there Duke. Or Baron. Which one is higher? He’s THAT.



2) In MORE exciting My-Body-Just-Loves-Having-Babies news, I found out that you go into a state of quasi-Menopause when you breast feed. Did you know that? Uh huh, guess how I figured that one out….

Hubs: “Hey honey…. I love you….”

Me: “Babe, I’m ummm… I’m uhhh…. I seem to be having some trouble…”

And then a tumbleweed fell out of my vagina, and we heard the distinct sounds of a camel train. We went to the OB for my appointment on Friday.

“Oh yeah,” my doctor says, like I’ve brought up the fact that your hair continues to grow after you cut it, “Totally normal.”

Uhhh, agree to disagree on that. Things should be HAPPENING when my hubby and I get down to business. Things that are NOT happening, and I would like SOMEONE TO FIX IT! Or at least have had the decency to WARN me about this! How did I not know this would happen?! This is serious bologna right here.

“You can use an estrogen cream, or maybe some KY…” I know he kept talking, but honestly, it was hard to hear him over the nomadic tribes that had set up camp on my labia.

So to summarize: men have sex. Women then swell, bloat, get nauseous, possibly throw up, get exhausted, continue to bloat, get kicked in various internal organs by a tiny human who then BURSTS THE FUCK FREE FROM YOUR BODY LIKE A DELETED SCENE OUT OF ALIEN, THEN you have to feed it from your boobs (assuming that works out for you, and a nod to the ladies out there who have a tough time, or who never get the chance), which-btw-hurts like a mofo, then you recover from childbirth as best you can on 30 minutes of sleep at a time, THEN – the kid starts teething, and there’s THAT whole mess to deal with…

And on top of it all, it becomes near fucking impossible to have an orgasm, because your body thinks you’re 60.

HOW have we continued on as a species? I feel like, two generations in, our ancestors must have thought to themselves, “You know, this is just a whole lotta work. Ugg, you go invent the condom. Lugg, get started on the pill. This shit is bananas.”

And we would have died out.

And no civilization.

And then there never would have been Wil Wheaton.

…nicely played, Universe. Nicely played.



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.


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