Sunny Days in DC

Jack of All Trades, Master of 3-ish.

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 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.


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.


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!


Poly Dismorphic Disorder

Our evening went like this:

Hubs: “So, you’re heading out with Tim tonight?”

Me: “Yeah. His group is doing a class on the Poly lifestyle, and one of the things I want to find out is how they make that work. I mean, your communication skills have to be off the chart, right?! I can barely manage ONE relationship, and some of these people have FIVE!”

Hubs: “Maybe I’ll go with you.”

Me: “Oh jeez.”

Hubs: “Well! You don’t know! Maybe I’ll find another girlfriend there! How would you like that?! Then you can nap while someone else helps with the laundry!”

At this point, my husband thought he was UNBELIEVABLY clever. As thought all your problems could be solved by adding one more person to the mix. I tried to explain that I REALLY doubted that adding more people to a crazy situation actually helped stabilize it, but to no avail. My husband was pretty sure he was gonna start his own suburban harem. So I was all, “Right. We have a sitter, so let’s just go,” because when you have a child, you mostly just want to be out of the house. With or without said child. (Holy crap, I hope he never reads this!)

Let me say this: after having taken the class, I am now pretty darn sure that I could never be polyamorous (in multiple relationships), or even polyfidelous (in multiple COMMITTED relationships). Why? If you have to ask, you have no idea how much energy it takes with the ONE INSANE relationship I already have. Not my hubs, he was off in some crazy world where he had women falling over themselves to accomplish his every whim.

Ladies Man

*That’s right, ladies. These are original Dungeons and Dragons cards! OMG, PUSSY AVALANCHE!! – My husband’s brain*

The class started, and an average looking woman walked up to the front and started talking about what it takes to be in many poly relationships. AND THEN, she started talking about the difference between being Poly, and just being slutty. Surprise surprise, my hubs is a slut. As she was describing the difference I looking over at him and said (not too quietly either), “HEY!! THAT’S YOUUUUUUUUUU!!!” That went over REALLY well with everybody but him. Still, he is kinda slutty, so, you know: the spade is a spade.

The “instructor” talked about how vital communication is, and how many people think they want to be poly so that they can substitute whatever they’re not getting in their current relationship, by adding someone new. Doesn’t work, she says, because if you never confront and deal with problems in any relationship, you can keep meeting people but nothing will last. I thought that was just generally good advice.

“Are you coming next week?” Tim whispers in my ear as my husband sits flabbergasted at all the work he would have to do if he took on a new girlfriend… not to mention the bits of his pieces that he would have to hunt down in the middle of the night once I had cut them off.

“What’s next week?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the speaker who has somehow wandered into a conversation about talking monkeys and while I don’t know how that happened, I am enjoying it. Because TALKING MONKEYS.

“The board meeting. Politics. We’re going to outline the curriculum for the year, and discuss speakers and lesson plans.”


“Tim. When does your pervy group ever do anything, you know… PERVY?!”

“This is mostly an educational group.”

Figures I would fall in with the book-reading pervs.

The class ends and little chunks of people get up; 3 here, 4 there, and everyone starts saying goodnight. I look at the hubby, and he looks back at me.

“Not what you thought it would be, huh?”

“Not even close, babe.”

“No girlfriend for you?”

“The CLASS was exhausting enough!”

Poly Dismorphic Disorder: Thinking you can go poly until you find out what it is and realize, no, you’re just slutty.


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.



I’m The Reason You Can’t Have Nice Things

The thing is, I never really feel MORE Jewish than during the Christmas season. On the one hand, I totally love the lights, the music, the evergreen trees everywhere (but not having to deal with needles in my carpet, or cleaning up after them!), and the general festivities of the winter time. On the other hand, unlike most of the country, I will not be out spending insane amount of money on family and friends right now, because the only person who could want presents from me is six months old…

…and also I’m broke as hell. I don’t know if I can emphasize that last part enough. Though, after two months without a dime, Unemployment DID finally come through. I splurged, and bought groceries. WATCH OUT! BIG SPENDAH!

Anywho, it’s nice, because I do really get a feeling of happiness and goodwill toward people. It’s pervasive. It’s in the air. Like a nerve gas.

But I’m not Christian. So, while people are decorating their homes, I’m actively reminded of the fact that we will NOT be decorating. Which, let’s be honest, kinda sucks. I mean, you get used to it, but those twinkly lights are festive as FUCK, y’all! I want to throw potential fire hazards all over my house, and have people “Ooooh” and “Ahhhh” as they drive by.

You know what my options are? I get a giant menorah to put out front, if I’m SUPER religious. Which, if you haven’t really picked up on it by now: I am not.


*”Shmuli! Get me the EXTRA long marshmellow roaster! Dammit, these things are a bitch to make s’mores with!”*

Don’t get me wrong; I am SUPER proud to be Jewish. And I encourage everyone to be proud of what and who they are. You don’t have to resent someone else to be proud of yourself. I can be thrilled to be Jewish, without thinking there’s anything wrong with Christianity. But let’s be fair: when it comes to decorations, gifts, and a general monopoly on this upcoming month, Christians take the cake.

The delicious, delicious, possibly fruit cake.

So, getting to the point, the husbinator and I have been invited to a Hannukkah party tomorrow night at Chabad, which I guess is like the “hippy-dippy, love-everyone, come join us and sing along,” group of Jews.

To which I replied: thnx.

“Why not?!” asked my ever-patient husband.

“Look, seriously, I don’t want to sit around with a bunch of super religious people, eating fried latkes (potato pancakes), and socializing with ONLY women, because the men are too busy ONLY socializing with men. I always feel like it’s the 1950’s up in there.” This part is totally true. The women chat with the women, and the men chat with the men, and that’s just not me. I don’t MIND chatting with other chicks, but I don’t like being pigeonholed into one group, simply because my genitalia are internal. Honestly, it seems almost as arbitrary a line to me, as if you said “everyone with green eyes sits at this table, and everyone with brown eyes goes over there. We don’t mix.” Like, what?

“We don’t have a lot of options around here, hun.”

“There are the Chinese.”

“I…. what?!”

This is probably why my husband and I don’t have conversations about religion anymore. I feel like Hindus and Buddhists and those folks can relate. We could totally start our own group, and just hang out with a bunch of cool, non-Christian folks this time of year, and I won’t have to put on a skirt.

Not that all of this is a push-back so that I don’t have to put on a skirt.

…all of this might be a push-back so I don’t have to wear a skirt.

Jesus, I make my own life hard!!



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.*


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