Sunny Days in DC

Jack of All Trades, Master of 3-ish.


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?



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?



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.
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!!!”*


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 don’t know the international sign for “Do my panties smell like rye?”

I HAD been writing a lovely post, which was then interrupted by my FB acquaintance who felt the need to post photos of her baby in pink tutus (UPDATE!: They bought her a leopard onesie, just in time for me to throw up on my laptop screen). Then, I spent a few days wondering what it was I was going to write, and sort of generally being flakey and thinking “This whole ‘WordPress’ thing; what’s THAT about?” And I got totally philosophical and started questioning my place in the world.

Then, I got writer’s block, which………. I thought you had to be a writer to have? I dunno.

But then, some friends came over tonight and we were talking about travel.

“Oh!” I said, “And I never leave the US without cream.”

“Whaaa…. what KIND of cream?” My friend asked hesitantly… because she’s my friend, and thus, knows exactly where this might go.

“Weeeeeeeeelllllllllllllll….” I started, “When my guy and I first started dating, we went on a trip to the Netherlands so that he could lecture. There was a small town where the university was, and we were staying there for a few days. And, you know, when you’re a young couple, things are all fresh and exciting, and, you know, STUFF is happening… and stuff happened a LOT for us, which was great, but then…..”

“Then WHAT?” she asked.

“Well, then I started, you know… ‘baking bread’….”


“You know… it got YEASTY all up in my Magical Lady Forrest.”


Now, you have to picture it, because (in retrospect) it’s pretty funny. I’m in this small town where almost nobody speaks English. I go to the local pharmacy, and behind the counter is a lovely young woman who probably thought that the most exciting thing that would happen with her day would be the new shipment of glow in the dark band-aids.

But then: me.

So now I’m like one of those chicks in the yeast infection commercials where they’re all sad and wearing sweats (which, I don’t understand, because being able to wear sweats makes me HAPPY, and these bitches are all mopey), except I’m in a country where the people speak Flemish, AAAAAAAAAAAND I have a feminine medical condition, because the universe hates me.

Back to the pharmacy, with the pharmacist who doesn’t speak English. From her perspective, I imagine the scene went as follows:

-Oh, here’s a nice young woman. She looks foreign. Huh. Don’t get many tourists here.

-Ahh, she’s approaching me. She must need something. I will try to do honor unto my people by being helpful and polite.

-Oh goodness. There appears to be some sort of language barrier! Ahh, the young woman is valiantly trying to overcome it via what I can only assume is some sort of interpretive dance/seizures. Her people are so brave.

-Ok, a lot of these gestures seem to be centered around her vag… she must need tampons!

-Oh. No. Not tampons. No, she seems a little disappointed…

-Why is she grunting and making scratching motions toward her pants? Oh my goodness! This woman must be mentally ILL! I will try to appease her by nodding my head vigorously, but darting my eyes toward the display of Swiss Army knives, in case she makes any sudden moves.

-I think she might be trying to tell me that her pants are full of angry, rabid ants.

… that part is actually not too far from the truth, when you think about it.

Anyway, it went on that way for some time, as I tried to mime “yeast infection.” I’m not even sure I could win a round of Pictionary if I pulled the “Yeast Infection” card. It seems so easy, but for some reason that just isn’t a common phrase in most travel books. Rarely do you see, “Good morning. I may have a yeast infection. Would you be so kind as to point me in the direction of your local witch doctor?’ in your “Lonely Planet Guides”.

Needless to say, I left there without cream. I suppose I could have gone to another pharmacy, but after the horrors of my initial attempt, and the ever worsening look of horror on the face of that poor pharmacist (who may or may not be scarred for life), I chose to wait until we got back state-side.


And THAT, folks, if the  bonus post for the night. Because I haven’t written in a while, and I’m too tired to edit. So, writing without editing. How’s it working out for me? Leave your hate mail below.



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.


That Time I was Attacked by a Phantom Hand That Was Actually MINE, But It Still Scared Me, So I Totally Ran Around My Living Room Screaming

This isn’t a long post, I don’t think. I haven’t written it yet, so it might be. I don’t know. It’s my blog, and you’re on it.

Anyway, I like to think I’m many things, but sometimes, smart is not one of them. Case in point: I can no longer watch movies in the dark. It’s not that it scares me, or that I could stand up and trip on my way to the bathroom (although, yes and yes). It’s because I’m incapable of watching tv in the dark like a normal fucking human being, without spazzing out.

One time, I think I was 22 or something (old enough to know better, young enough to still be stupid and pick up Swedish drummers in bars and try to make them talk to me like the Swedish Chef from The Muppets), my mom and I were watching a scary movie in our living room. She had turned out the lights because… I don’t know… do people still do that? She turned out the lights to make it more like a real movie, or maybe to be more scary, or maybe we just hadn’t paid the electric bill. I can’t be sure. Anyway, I was lounging on the couch for probably about thirty minutes. The movie had gotten to a really intense part, and both of us were riveted. I was watching the screen. Something was happening. Maybe our hero was facing off against the evil Snakefishhead (thank you, SciFy network, for such epic gems!), when I looked down. There, just underneath me, was a long, pale arm, sticking out from behind the pillows… Suddenly, it moved!



*Why is there a fucking arm after me? AND WHAT THE FUCK IS IN THIS BOWL?*

My mom sat on the couch laughing hysterically, waiting for me to figure out that the arm that was following me (and sometimes coming right at my face!) was, in fact, my own. I had been laying on my arm in the dark, and so distracted by the movie that I hadn’t noticed when it had fallen asleep. When I looked down, the arm had moved, and I freaked and ran around like a chicken without a head (remind me to tell you the time I was chased around a yard by a chicken without a head. It traumatized me, and now I consider every trip to KFC as my own personal act of revenge. FUCK YOU, CHICKENS OF THE ENTIRE DAMN WORLD!!).

And that, in sum, is why I don’t trust either of my arms. Because I believe that given half a chance, they will turn on me again. One night. In the dark.

…it’s just a matter of time, people.


Let’s never be best friends.

I am a horribly offensive person. But at least I’m up front about that.

One of my husband’s friends, who is also a friend of mine, posted a quote onto Facebook, along the lines of:

“The Day You Were Born, Was The Day G-D Decided That The World Couldn’t Do Without You.”

…really? REALLY? Look buddy, you CAN’T leave an opening line like that out, and expect me NOT to take it. The fact that none of your other friends have made snarky comments yet, just shows me that you need better friends.

Of course I had to make a comment. Because I’m me.

“So, I guess that means that for every wasted sperm, G-D was all, “NOPE! It’s the tissue for you, SUCKAH!!!”

Fuck you, that’s some comedy GOLD PLATINUM funny shit right there.

He deleted it. It was “embarrassing.”

Seriously? NUT. UP. WHY would you even be friends with me, then? I MADE A VOODOO DOLL FOR MY UNBORN CHILD WHILE NESTING DURING MY PREGNANCY. You should be aware by now that I am not an appropriate person.


*I call him “Sammy the Skeleton.” I snuggle with him every night.*

I kinda wanna screen cap that and put it up as my status on Facebook… but I’m pretty sure that would end the friendship.



In which I learn that I have a hard time with boundaries.

I’m kind of like one of those Labrador Retrievers, in that I like to lick myself make new friends everywhere I go. Part of it is innate, but another big part I get from a friend of mine. I used to be her manager, and on our first day together, I took her out to lunch to get to know her better. She started off lunch by saying:

“I just want you to know: I know I have a hole in my crotch.”


Of course, she was just referring to her pants, but I choose to ignore that, and believe that she just knew how to sweet talk me with awkwardness.

HER side of the story is that she liked me, and forced me to be her friend by telling me about her crotch, and also “inadvertently” grabbing my boob when our train stopped short one day. That happened, too.

Our friendship is built on accidental sexual harassment.

Anyway, today I went to Ikea with my husband and El Bebe. Ikea is what I do when I need pretty in my life, and Target just won’t fucking cut it anymore. Ikea makes me feel like I could be someplace foreign and exotic, but where everything is clean, in English, and they have delicious meatballs.

Interestingly enough, they don’t like when you go to sleep on one of their beds.

Ask me how I know this.

My husband walked away with Max for a couple of minutes and… ok, I’m not proud of this part, but I ran away.

HEY HEY HEY!! I DIDN’T TOTALLY LEAVE MY HUSBAND AND SON… you know, not for long. I just went to the bedding section when they weren’t looking. I also might have knocked over some KVELLERs or whatever those cabinets are called to make it harder for them to follow by accident. There, I spied a lovely bed that didn’t have a screaming baby near it, and figured I would test the firmness of the mattress.

I fell the fuck asleep in Ikea. A chick in a yellow shirt was all, “Umm… Ma’am… you can’t sleep in the display.”

Agree to disagree… because I totally am right now.


*Her, too. I’mma find this woman, and make her be my friend. We’ll start a club. JOIN US.*

“Ma’am? Ma’am. Do you have any questions about the display?”

Yes… how do I turn the light off, and where do I get a fourth wall?

Eventually, I had to get up, because I’m too pretty for prison. And also because my husband found me. He says that most people don’t actually get horizontal in Ikea, but I think he’s just jealous that I thought of it first.

As we argued, I saw another exhausted looking mom walking around with a small baby. So, because I’m me, I asked her, “You have a baby; if you could take a nap in Ikea for a few hours, wouldn’t you?”

“Totally” she said without batting an eye.

I got her number. I’m going to make her be my best friend, and we’re going to have sleepovers in IKEA.

And eat meatballs in bed. Class, all the way.


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