Sunny Days in DC

Jack of All Trades, Master of 3-ish.


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?


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!!!”*


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!


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